There Still Wasn't Any Lightening

This soccer league is going to kill me. I already missed Jack's violin recital to participate in the parent meeting for this most recent addition to my over-scheduled life.  My husband naturally attended the recital instead and got to hear all about Jack's ear and uncanny ability. The one chance I would have to enjoy the fruits of my labor (hours spent overseeing practice) defaulted to Joe. So while I'm at a meeting about water bottles and cleats,  Joe is heralded by the local school community as the great supporter of the arts. The man can't even tell you what a treble clef is. It just figures.

I probably should offer up some selfless notion that the boys' successes belong to them and not me. I call B.S. on that. This child-rearing thing is a lot of work, and if the kids end up as criminals, the mother always gets the blame. So if I am to be charged with their failures, then shouldn't I also be allocated some credit in their successes?   Noble mother complex?  I failed that course along with cooking and sewing. 

Then there was this past Sunday. As many of you have already read, I woke the kids to go paint field soccer lines at 8:15 am. When I arrived, nobody was there and I later discovered that the work had been completed the day before. That evening (when I finally read the requirements to play), I was forced to make an emergency visit to Dick's Sporting Goods to buy shin guards. I did have a $10 off coupon, so perhaps there is some sunshine in this story.

After weeks of preparation, discussion, and misfires, we reached game day in fever pitch. Let's just hope it wasn't due to another round of strep(t).

For 38 yrs., I thought your shins were part of your foot until I bought these shin guards. Biology was never my strong suit.

I looked out the window as game time drew near and watched wave after wave of rain storm rip through the area. No worries. The soccer league people assured the parents several times over that games would be played in rain or shine. Muddy fields were no impediment to the indomitable spirit of 5-7 year olds. If there was no lightening, all games were a go. I suited up the kids in their shiny new shin guards and off we headed to the Dan Ryan Woods.

For the second time in less than a week, I was the only person in the parking lot.  Actually, the parking lot was roped off and I was the only person in the little blacktop area right before the parking lot.  Why did this keep happening to me?  Why was I again feeling like the last kid picked during junior high dodge-ball selection? 

As I drove home in a fit cursing out soccer and all team sports for that matter, I got angrier and angrier:

They said if there was no lightening the kids would play.  Well, there was no lightening.  I didn't see any lightening?  Boys, did you see any lightening? No?  I'll show them lightening.  Just wait until they hear from thunderstorm Marianne.  Stupid stupid stupid soccer.  You kids aren't playing any more organized sports.  We're sticking to chess and your instruments.  Do you hear me?  This whole thing was probably Joe's idea.  Stupid idea.  Stupid stupid stupid...

Let's just say I'm not known for maintaining any semblance of reason while angry.
 
When we got home it was raining again and I could hear our alarm system going off.  I quickly stepped over a box at our front door to deactivate the alarm.  I spent 10 minutes trying to figure out why it wouldn't go off before I realized there was a message on it saying "SEEK COVER IMMEDIATELY....TORNADO WARNING IN EFFECT...."

Oops.  Maybe that's why they cancelled soccer?  Regardless. There still wasn't any lightening. 

If you think my indignity knows no bounds, you would be correct.
I'll gloss over the next hour or so of the children in hysterics and me trying turn off the alarm. Plus, our basement is gross.

After things settled down, I remembered that box I had stepped over on my way in earlier. I went outside to collect it, and thankfully it was dry and intact.

Do you remember that briefcase in the movie Pulp Fiction that glowed?  Everyone coveted it and was willing to kill people to get their hands on it.  Welcome to my gold-lit briefcase:

That's right. In the midst of cancelled soccer practices, tornado warnings, and blaring alarm systems, My Fairy Godmother (Aunt Susie) delivered a care package of coffee. And not just regular coffee, it was the good stuff.   Starbucks.   Along with their standard brews, there was also some of the new VIA instant coffee.  I use those when Joe has already loaded the kids in the car and thinks I'll be right out (which I will be as soon as my water boils).   

Once again I had hit my limit of stress and aggravation. Once again the universe (and Aunt Susie) provided comfort and aid.

Irrefutable evidence that there is a God as far as I'm concerned. If you want to stop by and discuss it over a cup of coffee,  I'm STOCKED.

House Arrest in the Age of Supernanny

I did it again.  In a fit of anger and frustration, I handed down a punishment that neither the offender nor I found suitable: 2 weeks of house arrest.  With only a week left of school and a sports camp on the horizon for next week, I had just undermined my own parenting by acting too hastily.  Yet after replaying it in my mind, I don't think I was that far off base in blowing a gasket.  A transcript of the moments leading up to swift and severe justice:

As a family of five drives along in their powder blue minivan, a certain obsessive-compulsive 3-year-old drops his favorite toy car and starts wailing....

Marianne: Daniel, can you please hand Joey his car?

Daniel: GOD...why do I always have to do everything around here?  It's not fair.

And then a few minutes later...

Marianne:  Who wants a piece of candy?  I have mints & butterscotch.

Daniel:  I want chocolate.

Marianne:  I don't have chocolate.

Daniel:  Fine.  Then I don't want any.  You never buy what I like.  You're mean.

Marianne:  Did you finish your homework today?

Daniel (throwing himself dramatically back in his seat):  It is SO unfair that I get way more homework than Jack.  I shouldn't even have to do my homework.  I know all the answers anyway. It's, like, so easy.

The family stops to buy over-priced gas.

Marianne:  When we get home, everybody needs to practice their piano and violin.

Daniel:  I am not practicing.  You can just send me to bed.  Without dinner.  That's fine.  I don't even care.  I'm sick of oatmeal.

Marianne (blood pressure rising):  Daniel, can I say one thing without you arguing with me?

Daniel (laughing): You can say a million things and I'll argue with you. It's fun.

That did it.  I instantly found that shrill, high-pitched, fast-talking, yappy speech pattern that most moms and children recognize.  I banished him to 2 weeks of house arrest (no playdates, nobody coming over, no parties, etc.). My husband looked at me from the corner of his eye as if to ask are you sure you want to do this?  But I kept going. With flourish.

Danny started to put forth a flurry of objections, so I added a new caveat.  For every ten things he said that were disagreeable, I'd add another day to his sentence.  Well let's just say by the time we got to the next stop sign, his term was now 15 days.  My husband gave me another look, but this time it was along the lines of I am married to you? Forever? Doh!

As the dust settled, I cringed when I remembered I had committed Daniel already to two upcoming birthday parties.  If there's one thing that drives me crazy, it's people who don't RSVP to parties, or say they're coming and then don't.  Chuck E. Cheese is like $13/head. It adds up quickly.  I racked my brain for a solution.  Then I remembered all those nanny shows Joe and I used to watch when our children were very small (Nanny 911, Supernanny). They used to make us feel better because our kids were just so well-behaved (comparatively speaking).  Yet as the boys got older and their behavior sometimes resembled that of the "bad kids" on those shows, we somehow lost interest.

I recalled that Nanny Jo liked charts.  She was always making charts to reward behavior and the kids responded well to them.  Danny loved charts!  After all, he'd been making them from the time he was 3 to track how many times a week mommy made oatmeal for dinner.

Excitedly, I altered the terms of his imprisonment to encourage positive reactions instead of the amped-up, over-dramatic displays I'd been seeing lately.  Every time Daniel could respond to one of my requests with an unprompted "yes, mom," he'd get a star. For every ten stars, I would wipe one day off his sentence.  If he could achieve consecutive 10-star days, then he would be allowed to attend the birthday parties. If he started up with the arguments, I'd rip a star off.  Here's how we're doing so far:

Over the last several days, I have heard more "yes, moms" than I can remember hearing from Daniel in 7 years.  I suppose I can't fault his nature in wanting to argue every point. He is named after his grandfather who was an attorney who always won his battles.  Dan has the same desire to participate in verbal sparring.  I do not.  I would be deficient in my parenting by not teaching him to respect authority.  Plus, the kid is going to be bigger than me in like 2 years.  I must rein him in now.

So let's keep our fingers crossed that he cuts his sentence in half, or I will have just paid way too much for a camp that only Jack will be attending.  And we all know how much I hate wasting money.

Except on shoes.

The Food Network Would Have Stopped Filming

Trying to keep order in a house of boys is no easy task. It is made worse by my husband's endless note-taking on various dining establishments he has seen on cable television that he wishes to try for himself. I have found receipts, gum wrappers, and napkins all over my house with the names of restaurants scribbled across them.

Once Joe retires, his dream in life is to drive around the entire country and eat at all the places highlighted on The Food Network.  Perhaps this is my punishment for never cooking the man a decent meal.  We had a talk once about his dream:

Me:  This is what you want to do after working 2 jobs for 20 plus years?  You want to drive around and eat?

Joe:  Yup.

Me:  We'll each weigh 600 pounds.  Have you thought of that?

Joe:  Yup.

Me:  And?

Joe:  We'll play golf between lunch and dinner.

I'm not sure what kind of aerobic, fat-burning golf Joe plays, but my style usually involves a cart and a cocktail.  Still, I had to give the man credit.  He had a vision and a plan. 

Since there are still quite a few years before Joe retires, I try to be the supportive wife by going with him in search of local restaurants featured on The Food Network.  On Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives, a northside Mexican restaurant called Cemitas Puebla was highlighted.  Joe took special note of host Guy Fieri.  Because my husband watches these food shows so often, he insists he can tell the difference between Guy just faking an enthusiastic bite of local fare and when Guy really seems to find the food exceptional.  When he watched the Cemitas Puebla show, he told me that it was the happiest he'd ever seen Guy while eating food.  I took his word for it.

With the older boys at school one sunny afternoon, we packed up Joey and aimed our minivan north.  Upon arrival, the apparent manager greeted us warmly and explained the menu.  Our food was delivered quickly and I immediately began to value Joe's vision.  The food made my eyes water - it was just that good.  Yet before I had a chance to take a second bite, Joey started choking on his steak taco - the kind of choking where absolutely no air is getting through and a kid's eyes start bulging out of his head.

To provide some context to our reaction that day, my husband and I are very used to choking kids.  Danny had sensory issues which led him to choke on his food at least twice a week from ages 1-4.  We became very adept at the baby Heimlich maneuver and could do it with perfect precision every time (as shown by Danny still being alive).  We also knew not to beat on Danny's back when he was still passing air (partial choke vs. full choke) because kids will usually be able to work those kind out.  Waiters and waitresses became appalled by our disinterested reaction to a partial choke and would often start pounding Danny on the back.  Joe would become furious.  You're lodging it deeper.  You're lodging it DEEPER! The waitresses would cry and the waiters got far away from Joe.  Of course my husband would still leave a 20% tip and tell me that at least now they'll remember not to pat a partial-choke.  Lesson learned.

So back to our Mexican food.  To us, it was no big deal that Joey was choking on his taco.  But the poor manager looked stricken.  He ran over in a panic while Joe, still chewing his food, lifted little Joey and worked on the tilted position and hard, upward blows.  Then I held my hands out calmly to catch the culprit as it flew out.   Seeing what my plan was, the manager shoved my food basket at me...with the fantastic carne asada still inside.  I pushed it away and asked "Are you crazy? That stuff is awesome. I'm not wasting that."

And with that, Joey's chunk was dislodged into my waiting palms.  I headed to the bathroom to wash my hands as the manager stared after me shaking his head. 

The three of us continued our delightful lunch and even ordered a few more dishes to share with the boys for dinner that night. 

Although I can't be sure, I'm pretty sure the manager didn't say "come again" as we walked out.  It won't stop me from heading back up to Cemitas Puebla soon with my husband.  We have no shame when it comes to good grub.

High Crimes and Misdemeanors

When I was a kid, some of my favorite memories involved running through our old yellow sprinkler. It whirled around like a wobbly drunkard and kids could never predict its erratic pattern. I loved it so much that when Joe and I bought our first real house together, it was given to me by my mother. Of course being one of the last of her kids to buy an actual house, I missed out on the lawn mower, snow blower, shovels, patio furniture, and lawn equipment that had already been given away. But somehow, an old yellow sprinkler made up for it all.

Fast forward to our first summer in the house. It was a hot one and I couldn't find my beloved grass waterer anywhere. Then I noticed my neighbor's sprinkler. Eureka. Same faded yellow color, same rust pattern. Yet how did it get over there? Did my neighbors pinch my favorite sprinkler? Did Danny toss it over the fence? Would I ever be able to look at my neighbors without suspicion and distrust?

When I shared my thoughts with Joe, he of course told me I was nuts and to go find something real to worry about.  Not a chance. This was my childhood we were talking about.

I hatched a plan to send Danny over to get it back. He was only 3 at the time, so I figured the cops wouldn't nab him. I'd plead ignorance. Danny willingly agreed to be my accomplice in misdemeanor theft. I would just have to wait patiently for the right moment when there was a limited audience to view our criminal activities.

Yet every time the antique sprinkler made an appearance on my neighbor's lawn, there were dozens of kids playing outside who could finger us. I continued to stew even when my husband showed up with several new sprinklers. Not only did he not understand the emblem of my youth, he paid full price and lost the receipt for the new sprinklers. Salt in the wounds if you ask me.

After months of barely acknowledging my next door neighbors, I finally got around to unpacking the last few boxes from our move. And wouldn't you know what was in the last package with other sentimental valuables like our wedding album and the kids' newborn hospital bracelets? Yellow sprinkler. I felt like the biggest loser on the planet.

Today I saw my sprinkler's twin again whirling away. I decided to snap a picture of the pair together. Notice the striking similarities. What were the odds of two couples living next door to each other having the exact same rusty yellow sprinkler from 1975? Astronomical.

I regret the time I spent thinking ill of my wonderful neighbors who are probably two of the kindest people you could meet. The husband even came over once when I arrived home one night with the kids and discovered the back door ajar. He went from room to room for me checking for the Boogie Man. The wife is wonderful to my boys and lends me eggs whenever I actually cook. I am so ashamed.

Of course, if anyone saw me turning off their water supply to snap pictures on their front lawn, I'm sure I'll have some explaining to do.

Aren't you glad I'm not your neighbor?

Falling in Puddles

There is nothing like a weekend morning when the kids sleep in. It's as though the universe is finally rewarding me for being a benign dictator.  Then the universe laughs at me and calls me fat. Why? Because these rare occurrences are almost always synced directly to the days where we have to be up and out early. After a grand time was had by all on Saturday night, the troops were done in and sleeping soundly at 8:15 am. Yet soccer lines had to be drawn at the Dan Ryan woods for the boys' summer program! Up up and away!

It took shaking, yelling, and physically dragging little boys out of bed to get them moving. Somebody may have even been promised a pony. I didn't bother brushing their teeth or combing their hair. We needed to be there at 8:30 am sharp. We ran out of the house in mismatched clothes with bedhead and a vague purpose. I had never painted soccer lines before. Were they like football lines? He's at the 40, the 30, the 20...he's...going.... all...the...way!  Do they even say stuff like that in soccer? Where was my husband on this morning? You remember Joe? The guy who actually played soccer in high school and might know a thing or two about these flippin' lines?  He was at work. Probably laughing at me. I raced down Western Avenue wishing aloud that I had time to stop at Starbucks. That was a mistake. The boys began clamouring for $20 Starbucks danish. Now I was really crabby.

We screeched into the parking lot with a jolting force. But when I opened the doors, all I heard were birds chirping away. I looked around for my fellow soccer artisans. We saw nada:

I looked again at the sheet I was given with required volunteer dates.  Perhaps I had gotten it wrong?  It wouldn't be that abnormal for me to mess up dates, but no. June 11 & 12 were clearly marked. So I tried to call the phone number listed for the league.  It was disconnected. I located some Chicago Park District workers who told me there was nothing on the calendar about lining the fields. Could I be experiencing late-onset schizophrenia? Wasn't I just talking to myself in the car and hearing Joe's laughter? Ooooh. Maybe they'd put me in one of those nice facilities where I could make paper flowers with really dull scissors and get lots of rest.

Instead of indulging my mental-illness fantasy, we decided to wait at the soccer fields to see if we were merely more prompt than others. Joey immediately fell in a huge puddle and started screaming. Once I got him calmed down, he agreed to be photographed:

That pretty much did it for us trying to wait around. I drove home feeling that it shouldn't be this easy to find material for the blog. While it's great for the mom who likes to write, it's not so wonderful for the mom who likes to sleep in every now and then.

(Follow-up: I received an email from the league later on Sunday that indicated work on the fields is mostly done on the Saturday with Sunday being held for anything incomplete.  Apparently, everything was done on Day 1. They apologized and advised that they will make this clearer to new parents going forward. I do not in fact have late-onset schizophrenia. No paper flowers for me.).

The Return of Hanukkah Coolie

There aren't too many places in the world that can throw a graduation party like the Southside of Chicago.  Sure, New York might offer swanky affairs at The Plaza and there are plenty of  honky hoe-downs in the Southwest, but Beverly celebrates with gusto. As a gaggle of neighborhood kids on the same block graduated from local schools, cousin Peg's street got together and decided to throw a block party style graduation.  There were bands, tents, basketball nets, and cuisine to die for (the Mexican food bar...mmmm).  A real barn burner.  Except there weren't any real barns.  Chicago has been a tad sensitive about those since 1871.  Mrs. O'Leary's cow and all.

As our minivan pulled down a street that was a few blocks from cousin Peg's house, my kids instantly went into overdrive.  They can smell a block party from 1,000 feet.  They know the freedom that is allocated at these events.  Their tightly-wound mother loosens the reins and a world of scooters, bikes, and bouncies opens up to them.  Joe and I didn't see the children for most of the party. 

There was one instance though when Joe had to reprimand some kids for throwing some pop and watching them explode.  For those who have never met Joe, I am finding his response rather hard to explain.  When Joe yells, there is a certain element in his voice, a certain cadence, that causes kids and grown-ups alike to wet themselves.  It's like getting yelled at by a father, a policeman, and an executioner all in one.

The kids immediately dispersed.  Probably to go find new pants.  Danny came running over and grabbed his father. Conspiratorially, he whispered into his Joe's ear:

"I warned them about you, Dad.  I warned them."

Which now brings us to a joyous moment of discovery.  As the temperature began to dip, people would come inside the house and go directly to a specially-designated drawer in the dining room.  And inside that drawer?  Beer coolies!  By the dozens!  It was like the mothership had landed in Peg's dining room.  Peg's husband, Steve, began to merrily dole them out:

Who needs Christmas?  I got Kwanzaa here.  Oooh...an Elvis one!  And what about Hanukkah?

Did he say Hanukkah? Before Steve could even identify the next coolie, I raced over and grabbed an exact replica of the extremely rare Hanukkah coolie.  It was all I could do to fight back tears of joy.  We had missed this one so.  Not that the others weren't loved, it was just that Hanukkah coolie was....how do you say....the chosen one?

I told Steve about my quest to replace our departed coolie and he told me to keep it.  I  promised he'd receive the reward posted on this blog of a case of beer.  It's the least I can do.

I left the party early with Joey to get Hanukkah coolie situated in his new home.  While I am certainly grateful for this near-perfect replacement, there's something slightly off with our Hanukkah coolie.  He's just a little cooler than the rest.  More distant.  It's like he knows he's our favorite.  What do you think?

Those would be kosher Cheerios he's enjoying.