Field Day

This is my 8th year volunteering at Field Day and I still love it.  Next year, both of my older two boys will be done with Field Day, and I'll only have this sweet one left to volunteer for.  I love the look on his face as he races his buddies - especially the one where he's peeking to the side to see who's in front!  

As I look through the photos from the day, I experience some sort of brain malfunction, where I understand the concept of time but not the reality of it.  I know full well that there are 60 minute in every hour and 24 hours in every day.  I understand that 12 months make a year and the clock never stops ticking.  But somehow, I can't comprehend that my babies are so big so fast.  That my first is heading to middle school next year stops me cold.  Field Day disappeared for him two years ago.  That my second loses Field Day next year makes my brain foggy.  Wasn't he just 2?  And now this one, this last little guy finally has a Field Day to call his own.  No longer a helper on the sideline, shagging balls and handing the big boys water.  His turn has finally come, and baby, he's running his heart out.

Every Three Minutes

My mom faced breast cancer like the trouper she is.  She squared her shoulders, took the chemical beatings, and shouldered on.  Did she falter?  Did she cry?  I’m sure she did.  But as she has for all of my life, she kept her sorrow private, wiped her tears, and put the fighting gloves on for the rest of it.

Because my mom is like this, I knew she’d go in fighting.  But I didn’t know how hard it would be to watch her fight.  I didn’t know what it would feel like to see her lose her hair, select her scarves, draw on her eyebrows, and still make it to the grocery store.  I didn’t know that even if she beat the cancer, the after-effects of the poison that killed it would linger, reminding us all of the silent stalker that came after her.

And it’s not just her.  My mother-in-law’s dear, dear friend lost her battle recently, with my mother-in-law by her side.  My friend Janet’s mom fought breast cancer over 10 years ago.  Last year it returned, and she’s fighting again.  Another friend – a mom of 4 young boys – is battling breast cancer right now.  She’s not even 40. 

Is it surprising that every 3 minutes someone in the United States is diagnosed with breast cancer?  You know someone, right?  Sure you do.  We all do.  It’s that scary.  And yet in the midst of the fear, there’s hope.  Hope remains because—like my mom, and Janet’s mom, and my mother-in-law’s friend, and my young girlfriend—there are a lot of fighters in this world, and some of them are doctors who are working hard to find a cure. As they fight that fight, they need our help.  They need our funds.

There are a million different ways to contribute.  You might recall that last year some friends and I walked in the Race for the Cure, with their pretty pink port-a-potties. 

We walked our 5 miles and made our donations, and I hope we do it again next year.  

And recently, I heard from my old college friend, Amy, whom I met when we were just 18 and full of certainty, and with whom I spent a semester of college trolling around Europe.  Amy was planning to walk in Avon’s Walk for Breast Cancer in Boston and she sent out an e-mail letting friends and family know they could contribute.  And my, oh my, did they!

On May 16 & 17, Amy joined 2,500 others who walked 39.3 miles to raise money for this fight.  Her friends and family contributed over $3000—part of the more than $5.6 million raised and given as grants to Boston area organizations.  Amy said that the most moving part of the experience came when she was randomly chosen, as one walker was every three minutes, and “draped with a large pink ribbon banner that read, ‘Every Three Minutes.’”  As she continued her walk, Amy said that she “thought about the woman who had just learned of her battle ahead.  I walked with new purpose for her,” she said, “and for all of the other fighters.”

Forget about trolling around Europe.  This is my new memory of my friend, and I thank her from the bottom of my heart.

Respecting Your Spouse

R-E-S-P-E-C-T.  Does that word have you singing the old Aretha song?  That one little word has resonated with fans throughout the years in part, I think, because we get it.  We all get it.  Is there anyone who doesn’t desire a healthy dose of respect from others – from our friends, family, and even strangers? When it comes to marriage, it’s the same story:  we deeply desire the respect of our spouse.  And, in the beginning, it seems pretty simple.  It seems easy, even.  Because when you’ve recently fallen in love, there’s no end to the things you admire and respect about your beloved and he admires and respects about you.  Easy as pie.

Flash forward.  Add pets, a house, yard work, and jobs.  Throw in a couple of kids, housework, chores, chores and a few more chores.  Add different interests and new friendships.  Mix in a healthy dose of difficult parenting choices, less and less time together as a couple, and there you have it: A Full-Blown Recipe for Disaster. 

What's a girl to do?  See my post over at Wedded Bliss today for more.

If You Find A Tiny Piece of Rotten Wood...

I took the day off from blogging yesterday, but Heather said what I would’ve said anyway.  With two words, and two images, she said it all.  Thanks, Heather.

And because I am a girl who likes to relax on her holidays, a girl who really believes in life balance and taking time off, I spent yesterday lounging by the pool, watching my kids frolic, and enjoying the frosty beverage in my hand.  Ahhh, the peace.

Oh wait, no, that’s not right.  What I meant was that I spent the day scraping and mixing and painting and sweating.

I did enjoy watching my kids, but they weren’t frolicking so much as moaning about the injustice of having to dig and pull weeds all afternoon.  

At one point, my eldest claimed a stomachache.  It’s fair to say that his paint-covered, suspicious parents didn’t show much empathy for the shirker.  Get back to work, buddy, and here—take this barf bag with you, just in case.  Funny how he recovered so quickly.

Since we were planning such a big workday yesterday, you might think we took it easy when my mom and dad came into town last week.  Well, you’d think.  Also, you might think we’d consider their long drive, that we’d wonder if they were tired, or wanted to do something fun.  Or, you might think I’m the kind of daughter that says, “Hey dad, can you help me repair this tiny little rotten wood around our door frame?”

If you thought the latter, you’d be right.

And if you’ve ever had a tiny little rotten piece of wood around your door frame, you know the rest of the story, right?  There is NEVER a tiny little rotten piece of wood.  It’s ALWAYS hiding a bigger problem.  My suggestion?  Ignore it.  Paint over it.  Look the other way.  But, dear Lord, don’t ask your dad to take it out, because you will end up with this.

And then this.

The good news is that in the end both the door frame and the paint job look good.  But I am definitely ignoring that other tiny little piece of rotting wood.  Definitely.

Friday Haiku: A Faithful Pup

You ate food so fast,

When you were a tiny pup.

Now you pick and choose.

You jumped in the air,

Chased every Frisbee and ball,

You lived to play hard.

You’re slowing down now.

Still as faithful as ever,

The boys love you so.

How Being A Mean Mom Fosters Friendship

When you have 18+ 12-year old boys coming to your house for a pizza party & movie night, you need to think a few things through before they arrive.

So I did.

I thought about the weather. I thought about how we were doomed if it rained, and I spent an inordinate amount of time thinking about how on earth I would entertain a million 12-year old boys inside for 4 endless hours.

I thought about the friendships. With a group that large, there are bound to be smaller groups of closer friends. I thought hard about how to make sure everyone was included without looming over the party treating them like they were 4-year olds.

I thought about food. Everything I don’t buy during the rest of the year was included: Flamin’ Hot Cheetos, Doritos of every flavor, orange soda, grape soda…the list of poisons was endless. One boy actually requested an apple. An apple! I would’ve given him ten, or ten dollars, but he was happy with one Granny Smith apple. God bless him.

I thought about a lot of things, but I didn’t think of everything. I forgot about their phones.

One friend came early to help us get ready. He was here for about 4 minutes, when I realized my error. He’d already sent 4 text messages, and had looked at his phone more often that he’d looked at any of us. And you know what? He’s not my son, so if that’s okay with his mom and dad at his house, more power to them. He’s a nice kid & I’m glad he’s friends with my son. But I can add.

And I can multiply. And there was no way I was having 18 cell phones whipped out every other second so kids could converse with someone other than the 17 friends standing right next to them.

In that moment, I decided to make the announcement.

After the boys had all arrived, and before they took off to start the best two-hand touch football game I’ve seen for quite some time, I gathered them for the news.

“Boys,” I said sweetly, “Welcome to our house. I forgot to let you all know that this is a CELL PHONE FREE PARTY. You can call or text your mom or dad, of course, but otherwise, I’d prefer if you left your phones alone during the party.”

Deep breath.

“Okay."

"Sure."

"That’s fine.”

And one by one, they put them back into their pockets without a second thought.

Except for one boy. The one with the ear buds still dangling. He dared to challenge, but I held my ground. After all, you never have to accept an invitation to our house, but if you do, you gotta follow our rules.

I’m mean like that.

The 4 hours flew by, the rain held off until we started the movie, and no one else complained about the phones. I loved watching the boys with their silly jokes and their wild behavior and their hearty laughter. I loved that they were fully present, not half there, not distracted by something funnier or cooler or much more important than the event at hand. I loved watching them connect with one another.

And to that end--to helping kids foster-friendships, live in the present, and enjoy the life that's right there in front of them--to that end, I’ll be a meany any day.

My Favorite Flip Flops

I can't be sure, but I suspect it was my southern upbringing that completely ruined me for shoes.  I'd rather not wear them.  Yes, that's right.  I still don't want to wear them, Mom. I understand that I'm a grown-up, that I'm a responsible mother of 3, but I'd prefer to be barefoot any day of the week.  Since that's not entirely socially acceptable, my next choice is sandals, my casual fave being flip-flops, of course.

Since the season of open toes is finally upon us, I thought I'd share some of my faves.

El numero uno, the #1 best flip-flop EVA, the one I that I absolutely love--and the one that carries an absolutely ridiculous pricetag--is the timeless Jack Roger.  I have eked years of wear out of a black monogrammed pair like the one above, and this snazzy pink pair.  I will almost always accept your summer party invitation if I can come barefoot or in my Jack Rogers.

Other days, when I'm heading for the pool or beach, I like something more casual.  But fun.  Always fun.  It's summertime, so forget about function.

How about these cuties, from LL Bean for only $19.95?

I defy anyone to tell me that pink flip flops with green lobsters don't rock.  La-la-la, I can't hear you.  I loooove these.

Or check out these starfish sweeties from J. Crew for a sweet $26.50.

And we can't forget our faithful friend Target, who comes through for us with the most reasonably priced flip flops in the world.  At $9.99, they're practically FREE!   

So there you have it.  A few fun choices with about a million more I'd post if I had time.  Here's a hint:  pink, green, blue, red, whales, lobsters, plaids and monograms:  I'll take a pair, thanks. 

But I'd still rather be barefoot.

So That’s What Friends Are For

There are so many things I treasure about my close friends that it’s hard to name just a few.  Women around the world know this, I think.  They understand that time spent with girlfriends has an un-nameable quality.  There's something we can’t quite put our manicured fingers on.  (I know, I know, mine aren’t manicured, but most of theirs are!)  These elements are nearly univeral.  Laughter.  Wine.  Honesty.  Wine.  Soul Bearing Conversation.  Light-Hearted Companionship.  Understanding.  Wine.  Affirmation.  Assurance that we are definitely right and that other person is definitely wrong.  And, we look fine.  Skinny even.  With good hair.  Whatever it is that happens there, when girlfriends gather, it touches our souls. 

Men, on the other hand, well, I can’t really speak to that.  My husband is never, ever going to give a lengthy discourse about bromance and the importance of manly friendships; nor will he mention the touching of souls; it's very safe to say he won't ever publish any kind of touchy-feely men’s book.  He loves his friends.  I know this.  But he’s never gonna say it.

As a sort-of related aside, I recently listened to someone, very unlike my husband, pitch a book idea to an editor.  Both the author and editor were men – and the conversation went something like this: 

“So, what I’m thinking is this.  I’m thinking that as men we need to get in touch with our feminine side.  We’ve really lost the ability to share deeply with one another in a really real way.

“Oh, right, I’m with you.  Sounds like a good idea.  Tell me more.”

“Well, my book will address how we men fail each other regularly because we don’t open ourselves up to those woman-like feelings and share them with each other.”

“That sounds like a great concept.  I’d like to see more.”

Huh?  Seriously.  This really happened.  And I sat there thinking, “What?  What?”  Don’t get me wrong.  I’m all for men sharing feelings and sending flowers, and possibly even buying me a convertible one day, but that?  That’s a great book idea?  Lord give me strength.  Help me persevere through the wilderness, the impossible-to-understand world that is publishing.  Amen.

Okay, back to the story.

Although my husband won’t be writing a book like that anytime soon, or ever, he does have a close-knit group of friends.  Some of these guys gave up their weekend—time they could've spent with their families, or golfing, or taking a really long nap—to repair a leak in the roof of our carriage house.  In the beginning, it was a leaking, rotting, termite-filled hazard.

And then they did this.

And this.

 And now it looks like this.

 Without ever saying a word about feelings or authenticity or the importance of sharing, these guys stepped up and said it all. 

Fred, Brent, Brad & Kurt:  Thank you.  I'll say it on my husband's behalf:  You guys ROCK!

I Thought I Could Live A Lot Of Places. Here, Wasn't One Of Them

When I was younger and more naïve, when I was attending college in the Northeast and considering how I’d make my way in the world, and when I was much more certain about how things ought to be done, I often said this to my friends:  “I could live a lot of places.  I’d live on either coast, or even in Texas.  I just wouldn’t want to live in the middle.  I mean, why would you?”

You can all pause now, and have a nice, hearty laugh at my expense.

To read more about what's happened since I left Connecticut, San Francisco, and Seattle--and to see a photo of me from those young and naïve days--click on over to Midwest Parents for the full story.

How to Entertain 11-year Old Boys (and Survive)

Step 1:  Pray for sunshine.  

photo credit: Deigosaurius Rex

Step 2: Buy plenty of snacks, like carrots, of course.

3.  Add some football.

4.  And some soccer.

5.  Throw in a little baseball for good measure.

6.  Order LOTS of pizza.

7. Include a game of foosball.

8.  Don't forget the big screen.

9.  Top it off with a movie.

10. Then send them all home.

Wordless Wednesday: Which Ones Are The Wild Animals?

More Wordless Wednesday here and here.