Luck Be A Lady

Punishment is always a sticky subject to say the least. I could delve into some major muddy waters if we got involved with the long standing debates on what is appropriate punishments and what crosses the line. I will admit, I lean more old school than I do the new age touchy feely style. I strongly believe there are consequences to ones actions and I also believe that you must take your punishment without whining or crying. That applies to both children and adults by the way. While we are on the subject, I also believe there are winners and losers. No, not everyone deserves a medal, trophy or award just for showing up. Rewards are for the winners and if you want a reward then try harder to win. I will admit if one of my kids did give a great effort and still didn't win I will reward them for their effort, but I sure as heck don't expect the event sponsors to give them one of the awards just for showing up.

In our house the kids punishments are becoming a little harder to enforce. Between our busy schedule and team/school commitments some of the old stand by punishments don't work. There are many days my kids don't have time to watch TV, play Wii, or even go outside. I can't take away what they don't have time for anyway. Grounding them to their rooms or the house is a death sentence for me. They inevitably make huge messes and are constantly under my feet so that I can't get a thing done. Not to mention the barrage of questions, comments and conversations that they expect me to be interested in. I already have to fake interest in some of my husband's rants I really don't have the energy to do so for a 7 year old.

So imagine my complete excitement when a fellow swim mom shared her solution with me this weekend and it is absolutely brilliant! We all have chores around the house that need to be done and we all know we don't want to do them. I am talking about the things that you always say you are going to get to but never do...like the baseboards and blinds! But if we ask our family to help or assign the tasks, it is met with the aforementioned whining and crying which doesn't help anyone. So, instead of her telling the kids their punishment, they have to roll the dice! Lady Luck is the bearer of the bad news and you are then just an Innocent bystander that can empathize with them when they roll the dreaded #10...picking up the dog poop.

Oh how I wish I could lay claim to this idea but alas, it is not mine but by God I took it and ran with it! I talked to the kids about it and together we assigned the tasks to the numbers they could roll. Even though there are some really bummer tasks included on the list, there is also the coveted Snake Eyes which is your get out of punishment free roll. Roll those Snake Eye and you can walk away without any punishment, not even a warning, completely Scott free! There are days that I want to roll snake eyes! Please?

I had already informed the kids that we would be cleaning the house today so we decided to put our Lady Luck to the test. We each rolled the dice and whatever numbers we rolled those would be the chores we would do. IT WAS AWESOME! I didn't assign anyone chores, Lady Luck did and not a single complaint was heard. They understood that once their chores were done they could go outside and play so how quickly that happened was up to them. Cleaning the house has never been so down right pleasant. I wasn't the bad guy. I didn't hand out the chores/punishments. This is going to be great!

It even worked so well that my normally prickly pre-teen happily did her chores and some of mine too! She has her favorite numbers picked out and says that she will gladly accept her punishment the next time she has to rolls the dice. She even went so far as to say that her goal is to never have to roll the dice. Yeah, we all know where good intentions lead and I can assure you she will be a dice rolling princess here soon. In fact, if she makes it through the day I will be shocked.

But for now, Luck be a Lady and today I am the lucky one!

Sparky the Fish

Recently we experienced what I thought was going to be tough life lesson for my kids. We had our first pet death. Sparky the Fish was a beta fish that was given to my daughter by her swim coach this past June. In that short time Sparky went through 3 or 4 new bowl changes (how does a small fish keep cracking the dang bowl?), survived numerous bowl cleanings and was getting used to me fishing him out with the net. We even had friends stress over him while we were out of town because nobody wanted Sparky to die on their watch.

Well, Sparky died on my watch.  I had taken the kids to school and was alone in the house when the feeling came over me that something just wasn't right. I grabbed his food and threw the 7 or 8 pellets that I usually tossed in each morning and waited for him to rise to the top to capture his reward. Nothing. I tapped on the bowl thinking he was sleeping. This was not my first time thinking he had bit the big one just to be surprised when I jolted him awake and away he would swim. I anxiously tapped the bowl thinking he was playing his little game with me, but this time was different. Nothing. I moved the bowl to get a better look and let me tell you people, it wasn't pretty.

Our beautiful little flame colored beta was now the color of a burnt out piece of charcoal. His little gills were gaping open like he had died in the midst of taking the largest gulp of air possible. Although he was still on the bottom of the bowl he had assumed the belly up position and I knew it was only a matter of time and we would have a floater.

While I was glad that the kids had not discovered Sparky in this less than flattering position the daunting task of explaining what had happened was placed squarely on my shoulders. They would be home from school shortly and I had to weigh my options and fast. Obviously I had to dispose of our friend, but did I wait until the kids were home and make a big deal about it or just manage the task on my own. I hate to admit, but I took the cowards way out and sent Sparky down the road on the septic highway before anyone could argue otherwise. The last thing I wanted to do was to dig a little grave in our garden and lay to rest our beloved fish. I have seen Pet Cemetery and there was no way I would of been able to walk outside knowing his little fish carcase was decomposing under the rose bush waiting for the day he could rise again.

So with Sparky's funeral taken care of I just had to break the news to the little people. While Sparky was our pet, I wasn't sure how traumatic the news of his passing was going to be. The kids loved Sparky in their own way even though they only asked to feed him about once a week and all other maintenance duties were left to me. As I mulled over my options, I cleaned up his bowl, put everything away and seriously considered not saying a darn thing until someone else brought it up. I know, I know...yes, at times I am a real coward! Then the guilt and nagging feeling that if I were a good mother I would take this opportunity to ease my children into the concept of mortality. Where is the raising kids manual when you really need it?

So when the kids returned from their day of education, I began my hard knock life lesson with them. "Kids, I have some sad news. Sparky passed away today." Blink, blink, blank stare. "What I mean to say is that Sparky died". A little glimmer of understanding passed over their faces. I quickly dove into what a good little fish he was and that we actually had him for much longer than we ever thought we would and that all the other fish from the banquet give-a-way had already died months ago. It was just Sparky's time and I was so sorry for them. As I prepared myself for the tears and soul searching questions I was met with complete understanding and dare I say, a tad bit of indifference. OK, so maybe it was only me that was a little attached to Sparky the Fish.

But then they asked a question I knew would come, "Mom, what did you do with Sparky?" Well Kids, I gave Sparky a fitting burial at sea. "Mom, what does that mean?" "Well, I flushed him down the toilet." "Oh Mom, that is so gross. I will never be able to use that toilet again. EWWWWW." "Oh come on, you guys have seen Nemo...all drains lead to the ocean, I just sent Sparky home." Somehow, that made it all better. Sparky was home and they were OK with it. What I thought was going to be a tough discussion with mind altering questions about mortality and what happens in the ever after ended up being just a blip on the radar of my kid's day.

On the other hand, I couldn't get to sleep for 3 days.

Rest in peace, Sparky.

Talking With Myself

I talk to myself. Actually, since I came to this realization and started paying attention, I am amazed at how often I converse out loud. Now, I am including everything from the disgusted mumbling under my breath to the all out conversations I occasionally have with myself and everything in-between. Before you ask, yes, I do answer myself on occasion and I give myself some really good advice and most of the time I am brutally honest. I have caught myself in a few little white lies, but we have talked about it and I think that little issue is getting much better. 

My favorite is when I have conversations in the car with other drivers. Because of the communication barrier large metal vehicles pose, I find myself filling in their portion of the conversation for them as well. I am amazed at how nice and apologetic they can be even though I have just cussed them out at the top of my lungs. Unfortunately, their driving abilities rarely improve even though I have offered many constructive suggestions as to what they have done wrong and what would make future situations more tolerable for all parties involved. Maybe I need to work on my telepathy skills a little more in order for the conversations to be truly valuable.

Just yesterday I was in the store and couldn't help myself for exclaiming out loud my sheer amazement at the cost of patio cushions.  Really, $25 for one chair cushion that goes OUTSIDE, to be destroyed by the elements and replaced within 2 years. For our outdoor table with 6 chairs that would be $150 in cushions and I bought the entire set for $198. So essentially, I bought the table and chairs for $48 and the rest was to have the 6 cushions. Come on, I can't buy a single cushion because I know I am being royally screwed and after discussing it with myself, out loud, I left the store without any cushions.  I am sure that if anyone listened in on my conversation with myself they would have completely agreed with my rant, but alas, the fact I was ranting to myself might have stopped them from actually listening to the words. On the bright side, my little conversation saved me a boat load of money!

Occasionally, my conversations aren't received very well even in my own home. You would think that after this many years living with me they would all be used to it. Sometimes my family overhears conversations that might unintentionally offend them or cause a little discomfort. I have noticed this usually occurs when I am cleaning the house and I am conversing with myself about my sheer amazement that they are completely incapable of picking up after themselves. Once in a while I might raise my voice a little if I stumble upon a 3 day old food plate or half drank milk glass shoved under the sofa, but  again, I am only talking to myself during these discoveries.  If my cleaning up conversations makes them that uncomfortable they might try to avoid the entire situation by putting a little effort into preventing my rant inducing discoveries, just a thought.

As far as I am concerned, I think my little conversations are completely within the acceptable behavior category. After all, I am not hurting anyone. Occasionally, I help myself to save money although some conversations have been known to convince myself that a certain purse or pair of shoes was a vital purchase regardless of the seemingly outrageous price tag. My family seems to become extremely motivated following their occasional eavesdropping sessions and a side bonus is that my house gets cleaned much faster. So really, I just see a tremendous amount of win win situations resulting from conversations with myself. My self must be a pretty smart girl.

Moving On

I spent a good portion of today helping a dear friend pack up her kitchen for her upcoming move. Most people would say I am nuts for volunteering, but for me it was a day well spent for many reasons. I truly enjoy my friend's company and I benefited from having a few hours to chat and laugh with her. Organization is a trait that I have in abundance and to lend that to someone for a few hours is a reward as well. Also, the circumstances surrounding their move aren't the most ideal and if I can offer any assistance that can ease their burden then it is a gift to me that they allow me to share this time with them.

My own family are no strangers to moving. My husband and I have lived in 8 different houses since we have been married almost 12 years ago. Add 4 more to that if you want to include the 2 years we dated before we were wed. I have packed many a box, lugged many books, heaved my share of furniture and I would do every single move again in a heartbeat. Each home we have shared has brought us our fair share of happiness and sorrow. We have made life long friends in some places and have let go of others because of the distance that separates us. Some moves we anxiously planned and waited for while others were thrust upon us because of circumstances. Some moves have yet to happen, but we hope some day they will.

Moving can be a cleansing experience as well, both literally and figuratively. While you pack away your life you have the opportunity to purge the material objects that might be holding you back. Letting go of some memories is the only way to move forward so that you may make new ones. Moving away can also take you out of situations or away from people that aren't good for you. You might not even realize that those things are toxic until you gain the distance to see a bit clearer. In fact, I know there is one move we made that I can honestly tell you saved my marriage. If we would of stayed I am not sure we would of survived so for that move I am eternally grateful.

We are lucky that our kids are extremely adaptable to all of our nomadic travels. Most kids would put up a fight, lay on the guilt or refuse to budge from their home. Not our kids. Luckily, they look at every move as an adventure and the possibility of new friends and greater opportunities. I hope that is a reflection of my husband and I but I have always known our kids are far smarter than we are so I don't really think we can take the credit for their awesome spin on moving. More than likely, we have thrust them into enough moves that they recognize the inevitable and make the best out of it. That is one trait I hope they never grow out of.

But you can never escape the pure torture that is the actual move. The hours of labor packing the boxes. Trying to fit your entire life in a truck that is always just a smidgen too short. The frustration, exhaustion and the inevitable anger at anyone or anything that doesn't cooperate. I don't think there is a move we have done that my husband and I are actually speaking at the end of it. For a good week after a move we are usually only exchanging a terse "fine" or "whatever" with one another, and yes, that is the PG version but know that I am an R type of girl, you can imagine the rest.

So to my friend, I hope your move is smooth, your belongings escape unscathed and your family settles into your new home quickly. Whatever trauma might befall you in the next couple of days is truly temporary and together you will make it to the other side. But if all else fails, throw an R rated tantrum, have a stiff martini and call me...I know which boxes the martini glasses are packed in!

Building with my Pop Pop

My Pop Pop and TuTu

It is no secret that I have been on a home improvement quest lately and some of my projects have included concrete, power tools and immense amounts of manual labor. One of the rewards for all this hard work is the ability to invite friends over to entertain in our modestly upgraded surroundings. So we did. Last night some dear friends of ours joined us for dinner and s'mores and before the festivities got underway we proudly showed off our recent additions and works in progress.

The work in progress is my Pinterest inspired wooden benches. Construction of the four solid wood benches is complete and they are in the process of being sanded and prepped for paint. The husband was impressed that once he sat down on a bench he found it remarkable sturdy. The wife on the other hand was in awe that I had accomplished the planning, purchasing, construction and assembly all on my own. Her amazement only increased when I told her that I didn’t use any plans or how to web sites, just a piece of paper, a measuring tape and a love of power tools. What seemed a reasonable task to me was something she could never fathom doing, which got me to thinking...why wasn't there ever a moment of hesitation or a doubt in my mind that I could pull this off? The answer was surprisingly simple, my Pop Pop.

My grandfather has always been called Pop Pop, a name given to him by his oldest grandchild...me. My perception of Pop Pop has changed drastically over the years. Some were gradual changes while others I can pinpoint to specific events in our lives. I am not sure if it was him changing or me growing up that enabled our relationship to evolve. I can tell you that I am pretty sure that I have experienced just about every human emotion available when it comes to my Pop Pop.

When I was a small child I spent my summers with my grandparents. My mom would drop me off on Sunday night and return to pick me up the following Friday. Those summers are the foundation of some of my earliest memories. I developed a lifelong friendship that I cherish with my grandmother and she became not only my TuTu, but one of my best friends. My grandfather worked during the days but I remember having dinner together every night. He was a large man of few words. To me he ate the strangest things, like peppers and red beat eggs. He put massive amounts of salt and pepper on everything that passed through his lips. He was the only man in a house of four women...five if you include Sandy, the dog. During those summers I can honestly tell you that the man scared the crap out of me. He didn't yell often but when he was angry you knew it and feared it. I don't ever recall him raising more that his voice to any of us, but that voice was scarier than the boogie man.

During my early adolescent years was the first time I viewed him as a man. I will never forget the summer that my grandparents were going through a rough spot. My grandmother was often visibly upset and my grandfather began having more than a couple night caps in the evening. I was old enough to understand what divorce was but naive enough to think things like that didn't happen to grandparents. It was a hard realization that these people were after all, only human. They experienced the same grief, anger and frustration that the rest of us dealt with. They were not above those things; they hadn't earned a get out of grief card. They hurt and that was when I learned that no one was immune to the pains of life. The invaluable lesson my grandparents taught me that summer was you don't give up on marriage. I watched them fight, cry, talk and weather days of silence but they did it together and remain married to this day.

During my teenage years my family moved a great distance away from our home town. My mother had remarried and a fresh start was in the cards. I wasn't around my grandparents that much during that time but they were there for the important stuff. They made the 2000 plus mile drive to attend my high school graduation which meant the world to me. My mother had divorced again and we were about to move even farther away. To say the least, emotions were at a high and my mother and I were constantly at each other's throat. One remarkably rough evening she and I were waging World War 3 and I was attempting to storm out when I was stopped by my Pop Pop. He was still larger than life to me so out of either fear or respect I stopped. He then proceeded to make a quick little speech to me which I am sure was insightful and poignant, but for the life of me I couldn't tell you what he said. I was so overwhelmed that he had spoken a complete sentence to me the actual words were a complete blur. As I said before, he was always a man of few words and this was honestly the first time he had ever spoken a complete sentence TO me. I was so excited by this revelation that I rushed to tell my mom and we laughed over this turn of events and remarkably, World War 3 experienced a cease fire. Not sure if Pop ever knew what he did for me that night or if he knows how he did it, but he showed me his love, understanding and compassion that night and I will forever be grateful.

Fast forward another 10 years to my wedding. I wasn't the first to be married in our family, but I was the first to have a destination wedding. We had chosen to get married in Hawaii knowing full well that some family and friends might not be able to make it. It was important for us to keep it small and intimate and we knew Hawaii would afford us that. There was only one glitch in our plan, my Pop Pop doesn't fly. My Grandmother loves to travel and they have always had an RV and driven everywhere they wanted to go, but there isn't a bridge or ferry that could get that RV to Hawaii. I wanted these two people that have been the most constant thing in my life to be there. I don't know who did what, what back room negotiation were made, but my Pop Pop took his first and only flights of his life to attend my wedding. He loved me more than his fear. I have never felt more cherished and for that he will always be my hero.

Through all these changes my Pop Pop has built everything in our lives. When my Grandmother wanted a family room added to their home, my Pop built it. When she wanted a porch for the house he poured the concrete patio for the front and built a sprawling deck for the back. He was constantly tinkering and building things. Of course, he didn't do it all on his own and usually my father was his faithful sidekick. Pop was constantly ordering him around and somehow my dad would be the one bruised and battered while Pop escaped injury free. Some projects were so big that everyone was pulled in to play a role, but Pop was always the master mind and site supervisor. Over the years, Pop Pop taught us all that anything could be built with time, patience and usually a little bloodshed. In some ways I think that is how Pop showed us all that he loved us. He put up pools and built swing sets for us. He built room additions for TuTu; he created picnic tables so our family had a place to gather. Although I doubt any of us realized it at the time, Pop was building the threads of our lives.

So because of my Pop Pop I believe I can build anything. I can envision projects, plans and creations and I never doubt I can do it. The joy I get from building these things has always amazed me. There has always been a sense of pride, but it went deeper and I could never pinpoint what that was. It is love. Building things is a way to show love. My Pop Pop taught me that and my Pop Pop has built a lot of things for many people. My Pop is a pretty amazing man, he must be because he helped build a woman out of a little girl, and that little girl is a woman that loves to build.

Football is OUR Sport?

My boy is everything a wonderful 7 year old boy should be. I know I am biased, but he is cute and charming, rough and tough, silly and fun and has the attention span of a mentally retarded knat. This shortened attention span coupled with his exceptional stamina make his involvement with sports not an option but utterly necessary if we are to retain any sanity as his parents. As we have traveled down the road of organized sports with our son, there have been a few bumps along the way. We have tried almost every sport with him and while he likes them all none of them have captured his heart and therefore he doesn't stick with them very long. Baseball was a trial on all of our patience. There is just to much time hanging out for him...remember, very short attention span. Swimming was great to wear him out, but going back and forth in a pool for an hour every day bored him to the the point of hatred. Soccer is fun for him but the sport requires skills and that dreaded ability to pay attention. We are rapidly running out of options except the one option we have been resisting for years...football.

Football is not my son's sport. I have told myself this for at least 2 years now as he has begged me to sign him up season after season. He is my baby boy and I just can't bring myself to put him in the middle of a field and watch him become the target of a well placed tackle. He will get hurt. This is not a guess or prediction, this is a fact. The other fact, the one that has probably stopped me more than anything else from signing him up, he will hurt someone. You see, even though I can say out loud that football is not my son's sport, I know in my hearts of hearts that it is and at some point of his football career he is going to probably dominate.

You see, for my boy, life is a full contact sport and always has been. In fact, one of my tactics for not signing him up for football before was because it was a flag football league. When I explained how it would work my boy was disgusted and disappointed that they would consider having a football game without tackling. "What's the point, Mom?" Apparently, that argument has ceased to exist because while they won't let a 6 year old play tackle football, reaching the magical age of 7 is all it takes to be able to successfully beat the living crap out of someone and call it sport! It is eerily reminiscent to the days of Gladiators and true blood sports.

My little Gladiator happily took to the field a few weeks ago and has never been happier. I begrudgingly admit that he is doing well, having fun and even learning about the game. He wants to make his Coach happy and although he has no idea yet who the running back is, he tackles every kid in his field of vision until his coach rewards him with a hit on his helmet and a "good tackle". They practice for 2 hours a night, 3 nights a week and let me tell you, it is cold! As the "football" parent (because my husband is across town sitting on a pool deck for 2 1/2 hours 5 nights a week) the consolation of enduring the long cold evening is the sheer entertainment factor these little gladiators provide. Just imagine a group of little boys, most of them not even weighing 50 pounds soaking wet, running around with 10 pound ginormous helmets on their heads and no pads. It's like watching Revenge of the Bobble Heads.

But these Bobble Heads are fierce and they are coming together rather nicely. They can successfully tackle each other, sack the quarterback (as soon as they figure out which one he is) and even make some pass completions. Of course, for many the simple fact of successfully catching the ball is a little overwhelming which essentially stops any further forward motion on the play. They run around like mad men, do push ups, high knees, and various other drills in their quest for greatness. They are going to be unstoppable when they hit the field against an opposing bobble head team when the time comes!

So begrudgingly but proudly I can now say I am a football mom. I sit on the sideline and root for my little boy to pummel the crap out of other kids. I have given him permission to "knock him down until he can't get back up again". He is committed to staying in the game no matter what. Just last night he came home with blood on his jersey and he was a little disappointed to realize it wasn't his own. I reassured him it was only a matter of time and it would be his blood that would be shed. He is a football player. Watch out bobble heads, my boy is coming to a field near you!