Scattered

A few random thoughts...

Teachers should receive combat pay. 

Since we don't our place in heaven is assured.

Technology makes life easier, but when it doesn't work it's a pain in the butt.

Whoever thought sponges should wear square pants is a comic genius, but the sponge's laugh has got to go.

Recently I noticed  boys have very strange eating habits.

Little does not eat vegetables. Not a one, unless it comes in the form of ketchup or tomato sauce. He will however eat fruit, but only if it is apple sauce, apple slices or strawberries. It's a wonder he has grown past the 21" he was born with. 

Medium and Large on the other hand, love broccoli, turnip, carrots, corn, peas, and green beans. Go figure.

Medium at 15, drinks out of a glass, but still occasionally makes that sucking noise that three-year-olds do when they drink from their sippy cups.

Medium, Large and The Dad would rather eat standing at the kitchen counter than at the kitchen table. 

Large will eat a full dinner, then make himself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, and then a half hour later tell me "I'm hungry and there's no food in the house."

The boys in my class would rather crush their cheezits, gold fish, ritz bits, and teddy grahams into crumbs than eat them. 

Kids think the words "underwear" and

 "toilet" are wildly funny.

I thought I was in trouble the other day when Little asked me, "Mom, what is a period?"

Oh, no, here we go. It's time for the talk.

"What?" I asked, stalling for time.

"What's a period?"

"Oh! You know what that is, it's that little dot at the end of a sentence."

Nice recovery, go mom!

"No, not that kind of period."

Damn it. 

"Well what kind of period do you mean?"

"The kind you have in high school."

"Huh?"

" You know, first period, second period..."

"Oh! that kind of period!"

PHEW! We'll just save that talk for another day.

Having Little 6 1/2 years after Medium has presented itself with some challenges. Some things he learns from his big brothers are not always good or age appropriate.

For example, occasionally words will come out of his mouth that might be okay for a high school kid to say, but not so okay when they come out of the mouth of an 8 year-old.

Like "this sucks", or "what the hell", or "damn it!"

But today I heard this from the back seat just after pulling out of the McDonald's drive-thru...

"Oh man!"

"What's the matter ?"

"They gave  me a frickin' girl toy."

I couldn't help but laugh, but then had to give the obligatory speech about good words and not so good words.

All the good things his brothers do have to rub off on him eventually right? 

Maybe we should start with the vegetables.

S is for Soccer

I admit it, I'm a gasp! Soccer mom. Before that I was a soccer groupie, a soccer girlfriend, soccer fiance, and soccer wife so the mom thing was pretty much inevitable. I knew what I was getting into when I married hubby. We met in college where he played on the school's soccer team. When we left college he played for various men's leagues, my friends were girlfriends of other soccer players and it was actually a really good time.Then we had kids, three boys all soccer players. Now in my defense, I do not drive a forest green mini van (at least not anymore) I do not bring anything but my chair and my Dunkin' Donuts iced coffee to games. No picnic lunch, no cooler full of orange slices, nothing. 

What's up with the orange slices anyway? If a kid can't go for more than 90 minutes without eating he probably shouldn't be out there in the first place. Water they need, orange slices they don't. 

So I'm not your typical soccer mom. I supply the transportation and the "good game" when they're done. I cheer their accomplishments, and I provide the hug when they've had a bad game. They are responsible for bringing their own water and remembering their equipment. It's my little way of turning them into self-sufficient, independent men.

Now, with my entire family all playing, you might think I'd get the inclination to participate myself. Yesterday I tried to do just that. Little asked me if I'd take shots on him while he stood in an empty net. "Sure, why not?" I reply.

So I get my butt out of my standard-issue-soccer-mom-fold-up-captain's-chair and took the field. Ball at my feet, I suddenly feel like Mia Hamm.

There was no way this kid was keeping this ball from getting in that net. If I'm nothing else, I'm competitive!! So I take shot after shot. Maybe 10 or more. One-went-in One! Yes One!

"Okay mom, my turn to shoot."

So, with the score 1-nil (nil is soccer talk for zero, zilch, nada), I am hopeful but not very optimistic that I will come away with sweet V-I-C-T-O-R-Y.

He takes shot after shot and I save them all. Until the last. I don't save the ball, I step on it, my foot rolls off of it and I not so gracefully, fall to the ground as a sickening "pop" is heard from my knee. The pop is followed by instant pain. The kind of pain that hurts like a muthah for an instant but then slowly dissipates. 

"I win!" I hear Little say as tears of pain fall from my eyes onto the turf. "You're brilliant" I tell him, "Now help mom to her chair."

So I'll happily leave the glory to my family and I'll just be content to sit in my chair and be the "wind beneath their wings". Bend it Like Beckham? Not for this girl...

I'll wear the soccer mom label proudly! Now pass the ice pack!