Photo Per Day #19: Frozen Ropes

Yesterday was Son #2's last indoor baseball game for the season. With the exception of the other team's coach loudly and continually criticizing (er, I mean coaching) his team, Frozen Ropes is eerily quiet. The sound of the ball hitting the metal bat echoes off the walls. And since it's shrowded in nets to keep the bystanders safe, the rules are somewhat bizarre. Hit the nets on the ceiling directly above the pitcher? Assumed catch. You're out.

Son #2 up to bat and, later, on second base.

Photo Per Day #10: Plum House

Last weekend, TGI Fridays. This weekend, Plum House. More urban. Less gentrified. Tastier. Well worth it. All's fair in the game to remind the kids that there's more to life than Crapplebee's.

Photo Per Day #8: Thursday Night Football

I sometimes wonder: 1) Is everyone else's entire house one giant playground? 2) Do other moms come home at night and relax?

Photo per Day #2: TGIF

Literally. After driving around the city, trying to find parking spaces to no avail last night, the kids decided that they wanted to go to Friday's instead. I caved.

Top Chef Junior

The other night, Son #2 and I were home alone. He asked if he could make dinner for me. Of course!

Spiral noodles, butter, black olives and fresh, grated Parmesan cheese. Simple. Delicious. Love.

While I had to help carry the heavy pot of boiling water to the colander in the sink, he did the rest. He set the table, picked out his favorite drummer candle (that my girlfriend Kim brought to him from Africa) and made me close my eyes while he was "plating" my meal. Surprise! 

Swoon. It's nice to feel so loved!

Canned . . . what?

"Mama, do you know what my favorite part of the day is? It's right when I get in bed to go to sleep. My arms are around monkey and he feels all warm and furry. And your arms are around me and you kiss me goodnight. It the best feeling in the world.

It's the greatest thing since canned bread."

Dishap Defined

We've been playing this game in the evenings lately where I repeatedly throw an inflatable ball toward the back door and the kids try to block it from hitting. Or I throw it into the air and the kids have to dive for the couch and catch it before it lands. Except when we knock a lamp over or cause items to fall from the mantle, there are usually a few funny plays that make us laugh.

In the midst of the mayhem the other night, Son #2 said, "Stop laughing at my dishaps." We asked him, "What's a dishap?" and he responded, "It's a mishap and a disability."

Puhlease. The only person in our house with any physical limitations is me. Just ask the ceiling fan/light fixture how it felt after I smashed it to pieces with the Shake Weight. Maybe I should only be allowed to play outdoors. Better yet, maybe I should stick to reading books; leave the activities to the pros.

Steve Madden NFL

And now for a new addition to the list of things that I never thought I'd have to say:
"Don't chase your brother while he's wearing high heels."

IHOP

Q: Is it strange that our son pulls his pants down, bends over, pretends his cute, little, naked butt is talking and calls said talking butt "Dr. Waffles"?

A: Not in our house. Nope, not strange at all.

Wrecking Ball

Did you ever wonder what nine year old boys dream about? No? Well, that's good 'cause I'm not allowed to tell you. Suffice it to say, their dreams are a bizarre mix of plunging roller coasters, being chased by chainsaw massacrers, priests wearing bear suits and fat giraffes being used as wrecking balls -- that last part being the worst part of all. "Giraffes should never be used as wrecking balls."

But you didn't read that here.

Welcome August

So long July. We hardly knew ye.

Our day in pictures . . .

Son #1 with Billy  Idol-styled hair courtesy of high speed tubing on choppy waters earlier this afternoon. We called it quits not after Son #1 was thrown from the tube but approximately 10 minute later when both kids flew roughly six feet in the air, landed with a thud but somehow, miraculously, remained in the inner tube. 

Son #2 gazing at the lake and wondering how, against all odds, did his two loose teeth remain in his jaw after taking a beating while tubing. Behind the lens, me (tooth fairy on standby), wondering how, against all odds, did we all forget to make them put on their life vests after stopping at the Pier House for lunch.

The well-decorated shed behind the cottage bearing my bro-in-law's name and, I'm guessing, remnants of a few of the herd he so mercilessly turned into venison chili. (Yum! Sorry Tim.)

A tribute to a (clearly much loved) dog, Pa Pa's Boy, who died almost 100 years ago, marking the entrance to the driveway to the cottage. Most weekends he's donning Mardi Gras beads or a sombrero or basically anything festive. Today, he was naked. For whatever the reason, I love him.

My Little Researcher

The hubby always makes jokes over the phone when I'm headed home about getting the strippers out of the house. Last night, Son #1 was following suit by pretending that daddy really does have hot chicks over in the afternoons. Anything for a laugh in our house.

He then started laughing really hard and said, "Nah, he'd probably rather see you stripping." I responded, "Good Lord, not a chance. What would make you think that?"

"I read a study in Redbook magazine which shows that men fantasize about naked women over 50."

Well, that explains the t-shirt idea. I think it's time to censor the smutty magazines that Grannie brings over! Really, I was just interested in the oh-so-interesting articles about how to make Fast, Delicious, 30 Minute Dinners . . . pinky swear.

Sorry Guys

A few years ago, I bought a t-shirt that read, "My kid is a genius." I wore it to a function at our preschool just to see everyone's reactions in our hyper-competitive town.

Around the same time, my girlfriend was dating a guy who went to Vegas and purchased for her a t-shirt in the hotel gift shop that was black and bejeweled with the acronym MILF. Funny (not to mention thoughtful and flattering) but not really wearable unless you're somewhat egomaniacal.

Today, Son #1 came up with his own concept and called me at work. "I just told dad that I wanted to get you a t-shirt that says, 'Sorry guys. I'm married.'"

What a cutie, right? And it's funny! I think there's a market for that shirt.

Big Audio Dynamite

A few weeks ago, the kids were surfing some auditory website and were testing the hubby's and my hearing loss.

Them, "Can you hear this?"

Me, "Are you really playing a sound?"

I discovered that, in addition to all of my other complaints on this blog, my ears are aging, as well. Anything above a certain frequency, I cannot hear. As you may expect with a musician, the hubby's hearing loss is worse.

Now, it's being used as a form of torture. I'll be driving along, minding my own business, when I hear the ever-annoying plea from the back seat, "Cut it out. Stop that. I said cut it out. Mom, make him STOP."

It's Son #1 playing some screeching noises on his iPod just to annoy his brother knowing full well that I can't hear 'em. I need a miracle ear. Maybe, just maybe, in this case, it's better that I can't hear. Otherwise, I need some snake oil.

When all around you seems like hell, just one sip will make you well . . .

I Love Annie

Son #1 and I went to a retro 50's diner for a cheeseburger the other night. (One word review: Yuck.)

We were just hanging out, waiting for our food when his eyes opened as wide as saucers. "Was Grannie an actress when she was younger?"

I turned to look at the TV screen behind me where "The Lucy Show" was showing. "No, that's Lucille Ball. She's a famous comedian."

"She looks exactly like Grannie!"

He then proceeded to point out every expression. "Did you see that one?!"

I had never noticed the similarities before but he was right. Grannie, who is also really funny (but more sarcastic than silly), missed her calling.

Ding Dong D'oh!

Last night, the doorbell rang and Son #1 opened the front door.

"What the . . . ?"

He just stood there so I got my lazy bones off the couch to see who was there. No one. Empty front porch. Silence.

I almost closed the door but immediately realized that there were a dozen or more people scattered across our front yard lying motionless. It was like a flash mob but eerily quiet. More like a flash mob that met instant death on our lawn. Dumped from a hovering UFO? Overtaken by sudden, mysterious mushroom cloud? I could see the headlines a la "100K fish found dead in Arkansas river," or "More Than 1,000 Dead Birds Fall From Sky In Arkansas."

12 Teens Found Dead on Local Lawn

A minute after we opened the door, they all jumped up, started hollering and ran down the street. When they were a few doors down, Son #1 yelled something fairly incoherent to them about "You better run" and they all stopped. They gathered into a tight bunch in the middle of the street and stood silently staring at us.

Seriously. What the . . . ?

I stared back for what felt like a really long time (but was probably less than a minute) until they started running away again. They then turned the corner never to be seen again.

It bears repeating: What the . . . ?

Kids these days. Engaging in harmless fun. My the world has changed.

HAGS

No, we don't have an elevator in our home. No, we don't have a boat. Or a pool.

And now, sleepovers at our house are more boring than at friends' homes. Why? Because other kids have go-kart tracks in their backyards.

Really.

But seriously, thank God for those friends because it really does sound like fun! I want to come!

******

In semi-related news, gone are the days when kids write a nice line or paragraph in each others' yearbooks. Today, it's all boiled down to one acronym: HAGS.

Have a great summer.

Not without a go-kart apparently.

Perfect in My Mind

No time to blog . . . well, maybe a minute.

At this point in time, after working the past 25 days straight with nary a weekend to myself, I am 99.9% certain that a) there's a jertain in the curtain and b) I have to work this weekend. Methinks me head may explode. However, the kids both have sleepovers tonight which means I may have a date with the hubby. Yikes! Will I be whisked off to Paris for the night? (Fingers crossed.)

Most notably: school's out for summer. Sing along with me.

Son #1 had his "moving up" ceremony this week. Instead of to a deluxe apartment in the sky, he has now officially entered middle school. I never understood the value of a graduation-like ceremony at such a young age but, 1.5 non-billable hours later, I'm glad I went. It was kind of sweet to see all of those cute kids on stage getting their fauxplomas. The eternal slideshow? Fun for the kids; a bit unbearable for the parents--especially those who needed to get back to work. (I think you may know who I mean.) Sentimental pop tunes. Picture after picture of children in everyday settings (e.g., on the playground, playing soccer/lacrosse/whatever) and not-so-everyday settings (e.g., on their family yacht, in Venice/Australia/wherever). It felt touching and inspiring yet somehow elitist and privileged. Damn kids have been more places than I . . .

Both kids got their annual summer haircuts (aka heads shaved). Now they can be nice and cool for summer sports even if they look like they are suffering from radiation poisoning. Son #2 coined the experience, "Long story short."

Son #1 received his class award for "best reader" and "most laid back."

Son #2 was nominated by his teacher for "safety patrol" and received the principal's award for "citizenship." In response to our stating, "wow, you're like a role model," he deadpanned, "yeah, right?!"

Lastly, Son #2 just became a karate green belt.

Love.

Adopting George

When we went to the Montgomery County Fair in Texas a couple of months ago, Son #2 wanted to win a giant stuffed banana with dreadlocks. Can you blame him? I let him try a couple of times until it dawned on me that idiot mama (i.e., me) would have to carry that thing through the airport or, worse yet, check it like luggage and pay an extra baggage fee. Nu-uh. Not me. He was crushed.

Fast forward to this past Friday night at our local carnival. The kids and I were casually meandering through the game tents when Son #2 shrieked and took off like a bat out of hell.

Yep, giant bananas (of the hairless variety). He tried to win one, as did Son #1 and I, but none of us won the game. (Hmmm. Odds stacked against us? At a carnival? Shocking.)

Later, we found a game where everyone is a winner. It was simply a giant bucket stationed approximately one foot away. The kids each got a fist-sized ball and threw it in. Unless you’re Michael J. Fox, you cannot lose. Both kids selected plastic, old west, cowboy style pistols with a bag of marble sized bullets. What better to shoot in my car on the drive home?

Needless to say, before leaving, and after many, many games (goodbye college funds), Son #2 looked a bit unhappy. He had to go back and get that banana; it had his name on it. So back we went. And, because everything that kid touches is gold, he won. Even the carnie did a bit of a double-take.

Son #2 immediately grabbed his new giant banana, hugged it and named it George. Then he grabbed his gun, pointed it at the banana’s forehead and said loudly to the watching crowd, “nobody move or I shoot the banana.”

As we walked through the carnival the remainder of the night, Son #2 was flogged by other aspiring banana-owners. “Dude, I spent like $50 trying to win that banana. How did you do it?” Son #2 nonchalantly played it totally cool, “It was easy.” The level of admiration received from other 8-15 year old boys was unreal. I felt like I was hanging with somebody famous.

We have now welcomed a new, highly coveted banana/scratching post into our family.

The ride home. (I hope George is old enough to ride in the front seat. He didn’t come with a birth certificate.)

Reenacting the dramatic hostage crisis in the driveway.

Surprising daddy, Godfather style, upon his arrival home after a late night gig.

And, not to overlook my first and other love, Son #1’s new killer, blowup baseball bat.

C Jam Blues

We went to the fifth grade band concert last night to hear Son #1 playing his saxophone in the midst of a sea of instruments. Beautiful sound. Impressive talent for a group of 10-11 year olds who just began playing together this year. Because I'm a ball of emotions and a music lover, I got all teary eyed. The rest of the audience? Not so much.

The kids played everything from a patriotic medley including America the Beautiful to the Star Wars theme. My favorite was the Duke Ellington improv to C Jam Blues. It made me appreciate even more the wonderful education my kids are receiving in the Pittsford School District. We didn't have exposure to such fabulous music at Catholic school when I was a kid unless you count my parents forcing us to watch the Lawrence Welk show every week -- gosh, thanks mom :)

As I watched their teacher, Eva Regan, skillfully conduct all of the moving parts, I wondered if it's intimidating to teach some of these kids whose parents are on the faculty of the Eastman School of Music. (How am I doing folks?) Two of our neighbors alone include a celebrated jazz studies and improvisation professor and an international conductor whose kid is in a band with Son #2. Wanna hear them (meaning the kids)? Stop by our basement any weekend.

What fun.