The Pool Rules

In the last two days, my children have spent 6 hours in a swimming pool. We do not have a pool in our back yard. Part of me wishes we did, because, oh how summer would ROCK. But, I also know that pools require a bit of upkeep. I don't do well with upkeep. There can only be one high maintenance being in a family, and while a pool isn't actually a being, it would vie for that spot with my almost-teenage daughter. I love her, but bless her heart, sometimes she makes me understand why some animals eat their young. So instead of a back yard pool, it was either become very good friends with people who already have a pool, or join the neighborhood pool. Since we just moved here in October and apparently haven't made the best impression on some people, well, neighborhood pool it is!

Unlike our last neighborhood, the HOA fees don't cover pool dues. Here, if you want to swim, you have to pay. And rather than walk two blocks to the pool like we did in our previous neighborhood, we must drive to this pool. It's not far, but there is an extremely busy street to cross and it's a good stretch of the legs from our house. Rather than listen to the children (and my husband) whine, we drive. Yes, you may blame the state of the environment upon us.

I really like this pool. It's larger, which is great. The shallow end seems to go on forever and while it's not a zero clearance entry, it starts out really shallow, so my youngest feels like she is Michael Phelps. They have a basketball goal. There are a bazillion and two (that's the official count) lounge chairs. We have not one, but two baby pools. The bathrooms are clean and nicely finished. There is a swim team. They offer swim lessons. There is a concession stand. (Not that we have partaken of that little bit of Nirvana, as I pack a cooler with snacks.) The lifeguards, while vigilant, have no problem with people having a good time. In short, it's a pretty sweet deal. It wasn't cheap, but when you compare it to joining a pool somewhere else and driving even farther, or *gulp* putting in your own pool, well, I think we're getting a pretty good value.

When I compare it with the pool from our old neighborhood the pros beat out the cons. Our old neighborhood pool was just for our neighborhood, while this one is for several, so there might have been fewer people on the weekends, but joining here is optional. If you didn't pay your HOA fees at the old neighborhood, you weren't supposed to be able to use the pool. But the guards didn't check tags, so this wasn't enforced. Hence (I love that I just used the word "hence") people who didn't pay, got to play anyway. Our old pool was smaller. The lifeguards at our old pool could sometimes act as if they were given the Keys to the Kingdom. As a former lifeguard, I understand the need to keep things safe and under control, but, well, there's control and then there's control. Our old pool had a designated snacking area. A pro when you've stepped on soggy Cheezits, but a con when the pool is crowded. Also, our old pool's guest fee policy was an extremely frugal-friendly $1 per guest. Nice. And it was rarely enforced. Even nicer! (Even more nice? Um, nicer yet? Yes, I got A's in English.) At this pool, they give you a measly two guest passes per season and the guest fee is $5 dollars per guest. And it is strictly enforced. Great for keeping the Riffraff out. Except when the Riffraff is you and your friends and family. Ahem.

We paid the Early Bird dues and didn't have the opportunity (due to baseball and weather) to try out the new pool until Sunday. I just have this to say: whoever discovered the effects of chlorination upon water should be canonized. Ahhhh, St. Chlorine. I would worship at her altar Every. Day. There are not enough words to explain what a gift it is to have children who are so tired that come bedtime, they actually go to bed. We haven't had such quiet around here at 9 p.m. since school let out! I love it. I cannot enumerate the many ways that I love this particular thing. Swimming is good. Swimming should be a compulsory subject every day that children will be sleeping at home. FOREVER AND EVER WORLD WITHOUT END AMEN!

So, while I may not be able to convince my beloved that in the long run a back yard pool would be a good investment, he knows enough to commit to paying to join a neighborhood pool.

Pool dues: $xxx
Hours spent at the pool in the summer: approximately 168.
Hours of quiet, blissful bedtime where parents can sip adult beverages and make out: approximately 252.
Price of said bedtime: PRICELESS!

The Good, The Bad, And The (No Longer) Ugly

Hey! I can say that this has been an interesting weekend. It involved hitting garage sales and going to the ER. The inexpensive and the exorbitantly expensive all wrapped up in one! Two great tastes that go great together. Kinda like a Reese's peanut butter cup. Except not at all. Mmmmkay, then!

Friday is a black hole for me. It is all smooshed together and fuzzy in my memory. You know why? Because of drugs, people. Good drugs. And just why is it that hospitals get all the good drugs and only share if you come in clutching the left side of your head like your brain is going to ooze out of your eyeball while you try not to hork up your stomach, intestines, and kidneys??? The answer to that question is "because they can." Oh and probably some malarkey about giving health care to people that need it and not letting Riffraff raid their pharmacies just to get their jollies. Whatever. They shared some good stuff with me on Friday. And all I have to say about that is "thank goodness" and "hey that was fun in a 60's Woodstock kinda way, but I don't wanna do that again, 'kay?"

Yes, this is the Ugly part. I woke up Friday with a migraine from hell. The medication didn't work. Know why? Because when my meds hit my stomach, my stomach was all "Hey! Back up, there, cowboy. We don't like strangers 'round these here parts. You best be on your way." And sent the medicine back up. Over and over again. Finally, the pain was so bad that I wanted someone to take one of the pillows I was lying on and put it over my face and put me out of my misery. (I'm fairly certain my children would have fought over the privilege to smother me.) I did what any grown woman in my situation should do. I called my mommy. She told me to call my doctor who then told me to go to the ER. Then I felt like a big ol' sissy and thought maybe I should suck it up, that eventually the pain would go away. I might be a madwoman when it left, but eventually it would leave right? Because hey, I'm many things, but I'm not a sissy. So then, I called my mommy again. (Who's a sissy?) She told me to go. So my husband drove me, in all of my bedheaded, palefaced, clammy-skinned glory.

My blood pressure was so high that medical professionals were looking at the numbers like they must be wrong. Then I got questions about if my blood pressure was normally so high, because the high blood pressure and migraines could be related. I guess my sarcasm fell on deaf ears. Or maybe people just don't expect someone who looks like the undead to be sarcastic, because when I said "hmmm....it's surprising that those numbers are so high, given the fact that I've been fighting horrific pain for 8 hours." The nurse looked at me and said, "Actually that's not surprising at all." Well then.

The teenage young doctor, let's call him Doogie Howser, who came in was super sympathetic. (What does it say about my age when the doctors are resembling whippersnappers? Are they letting middle school kids into med school these days? Yes, I am old. Shut it.) He didn't mock me at all for keeping my sunglasses on in the glaring lights. He chuckled when I told him that people often mistook me for Angelina Jolie. He spoke softly when doing the neurological exam. And most importantly, he ordered goooood drugs for me. When he returned later to check on me, he called me "Hollywood." I might have the weensiest crush on him. I might need to arrange a marriage between him and my eldest daughter. The fact that I could hit him up for the good stuff would just be a nice little fringe benefit, right?

Several hours later, pain free and vomit free and still rockin' the bedhead and shades, we went home. I slept some more. Then I had a little to eat, then I slept again. And after that? I slept. So Friday? Kind of a blank spot on my calendar.

But Saturday! That's where the good comes in because that, my friends, was garage sale day. Several neighborhoods surrounding ours were having sales this weekend. In fact, our neighborhood was having a sale this weekend. There were only about three houses that actually had a sale, but whatever. I moved on. And I didn't come home empty handed. On my first trip, I found a headboard for Mary's bed and a couple of lawn chairs for the yard.

We were in need of lawn chairs because we left our old ones at our old house. The blame totally falls on me. We had packed everything under the sun and were going to be living with friends for a month. When we were all packed up and doing a final walk-through, one of the kids mentioned the white plastic lawn chairs. I was over those lawn chairs, people, and I certainly wasn't going to find room to pack them or haul them to our friends' house and try to find a place to store them there. As far as I was concerned, the new owners could have them. Yea! Happy Housewarming, new owners!

Except. We got here and the only chairs we had were heavy, hard-to-move lawn furniture. It's all very nice, but as it's heavy and inconvenient to move, it sits on the patio. If we wanted to enjoy the shade of the willow or sit on our front lawn, well, that would involve much shin-banging and whispered cursing.

Awhile back, I bought a couple of plastic Adirondack chairs and found Fusion spray paint made for plastic and painted the boring tan chairs red. Nice, but only good for two booties. We have six booties that need a place to rest, so I was on the hunt. I scored two ugly, banged up but sturdy white plastic chairs for $2 right off the bat Saturday morning. I knew that I would paint them and they'd be good as new.

Then, cruising by another sale, I found a pair of headboards. They were asking $10 each or the pair for $15. I couldn't figure any way to use two, so I bought one. I headed to the hardware store and bought some spray paint and then went home to turn the ugly into pretty.

See? Regular white chairs. Blah. Ugly.

See? Dirty pink colored headboard. Ugly.

But my no-fail lovah spray paint made it all good in no time.

Hello beautiful!

What's cookin' gorgeous?

My neighbor came over and chatted with me a bit and as I was spraying and chatting I realized that I had made a mistake. I had passed by two more white chairs and I should have bought the other headboard, because I had an idea for it. I checked my watch and luck was with me, as there were about 15 minutes before the sales would be winding down. I said goodbye to my neighbor, jumped in the van and made a quick circuit.

Boy howdy was I lucky! Both chairs and the other headboard were still there. I snagged them both, headed back to the hardware store and loaded up with more spray paint.

We now have six chairs under the willow, waiting for four small and two much larger derrieres to fill them. And the second headboard is awaiting a date with the spray paint and a drill. It will be made over into a towel rack for the kids' bathroom to replace the plastic over-the-door-much-too-high-for-little-people towel rack that is there now.

So lets sum up: Garage sales--good!
Migraines---so very, very bad!
Drugs from Doogie Howser--really quite good.
White resin chairs--good, but ugly.
Dirty pink headboards--also good, but ugly.
Spray paint--luuuurve!
No longer ugly chairs and headboards--well, not exactly worth having a mig-
raine from hell, but a very nice follow up to the misery.

Photo Friday: Joy

"Learning to live in the present moment is part of the path of joy."
Sarah Ban Breathnach


Gerbera daisy, photographed with a Canon Rebel xti 18-55mm lens.

Love Thursday: Love Notes

I found this on my washer on Tuesday. It was from my eldest. She placed it there because she "knew for sure that I'd see it." (Perhaps she does appreciate how much time I spend on the laundry, after all.) It was a very sweet note, full of encouragement and love. The kind of note that a mother saves forever because of the encouragement it brings. The kind she goes back to when she feels like she's failed her children yet again, to be reminded that they don't think she's a failure. The type of note she goes back to when she feels alone in the parenting world to remember that she's not. She goes back to the note when she wants to remember the warm arms around her telling her she's the best mom in the world. In short, she keeps it to remember how short her time with these precious children really is and that even though sometimes she doesn't feel like it, she truly is having an impact upon their lives.

When I went in to wake my youngest son that morning, this was on his bed. It, too, was from my eldest, his big sister. They are very much alike and so, tend to know exactly what to do to annoy the everlovin' stuffing out of each other. Sometimes they are like oil and water, which is strange when you think about how often like follows like. Or maybe not so much when you consider that. But following his tough game on Sunday, she wanted to encourage him for his game on Tuesday night. She wanted him to know that she was in his corner, rooting for him.

I just might have to keep that note for myself, too.

Happy Love Thursday, everyone! May you be blessed with encouraging words of love this week.

To find more love in its many forms, head on over to Karen's blog. I guarantee you will come away feeling uplifted.

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Another Post About The Dog

One of the things Tilly loves is chasing a tennis ball. She'll run after it in the house. She'll drop it out of her mouth, let it bounce and catch it. If she wants you to play, she'll walk up and plop a tennis ball soggy with dog spit right onto your lap--or your face if you're lying down and that's quite a wake up call, I must say. If she can't guilt you into playing with her, she is quite content to careen around the house chasing after the ball like a doggy version of the ball in a pinball machine. What I'm getting at is the dog is a wee bit obsessed with chasing a tennis ball.

The only time these days that she gets off the leash outside is when I'm throwing the tennis ball to her. She has her game face on the minute she hits the patio step. She walks forward, but is looking back at me, intently focused on the ball in my hand. She is single-minded. When I throw it, she is off like a shot after it. Sometimes she anticipates the throw and beats the ball to its destination and then turns around in tight little circles looking for it. She is fast, y'all. Now, the shelter put her down as a Lab mix. (Better than half the dogs we saw in the listings were listed as part Lab. Either those Labs are really gettin' around and gettin' their freak on, or the shelter people are just looking at a dog and saying "Put Lab mix on there. Everybody likes Labs! It'll move the dogs out quicker if we say part Lab.") I can see a bit of it in her coloring and her ears, but I don't know, she's mostly mutt, I think. After watching her run and looking at her body shape, however, I'm inclined to think that there is Whippet somewhere in her (quite shallow) gene pool. So mutt+Whippet=?? Yup. I've taken to calling her a Muppet. Somehow it fits.




Anyway, Tilly the Muppet Dog chases the balls, catches them and promptly returns them to me. Every time. Then she waits, tensed, for me to throw again. There is very little that distracts her when she is playing tennis ball outside. She has never run off while we were playing ball. Uh-huh. You all know where this is leading, right?

Saturday, I was playing tennis ball in the back yard with her and she had just dropped the ball at my feet for the umpteenth time and was ready to run again, when all of a sudden, she cocked her head and ran! And of course, her favorite place to run to is the one neighbor that can't stand her. Fortunately, the Fates were smiling on us. No children were outside to chase after her, Patrick was on a ladder in the front yard painting the trim, and I had not only the precious tennis ball, but several treats in my pocket.

Pat saw her running and from the top of the ladder just started calling "Tilly, Tilly, Tilly," in his soft and silly Let's Play voice. Meanwhile, I squatted down at the upper edge of our driveway, calling Tilly and waving the tennis ball. She was stopped on the sidewalk two houses down and the look on her face was comical. She was all "Wait a minute, this isn't how we play this game! What's going on? Why aren't people running after me? And what's that in Crazy Bag Lady's hand? A tennis ball!? Oh, I am so torn! I want to run and prance merrily all over the neighborhood with a parade of people behind me, but--tennis ball!!"

And then, a bona fide miracle occurred, folks. I mean, the heavens opened, angels sang, little white doves where flying madly about. She came back! On her own. She started running for the tennis ball that I held out in my open hand. When she got to me, I gave her a treat and petted and praised her. And then I threw the tennis ball eleventy bajillion more times as a reward. Seriously. I am sitting here typing this one-handed because my arm fell off from all the ball flinging. Totally worth it too. Shoot, I'd let her fetch my arm if it would keep her coming back. (I wrote that to gross out my mother. I know it did too, because that's how she's wired. I shall be receiving a phone call later and hear about it. Heh.)

Now if this is any indicator of what the future with this dumb dog will be like, then I'd say, let the celebrating begin. Let's start by taking her out to "do her business" without a leash. But I'd like to think that my IQ is at least a point or two above the dog's, so she'll be staying on the leash for everything but playing tennis ball. But at least now I know to take a ball with me if when she runs away again.

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Plans

Every year for the past several years, my kids have gone to my parents' house for a week in the summer. They go to attend Vacation Bible School. It's not that they can't attend here, they could, but it gives them a chance to see their grandparents, fish, swim, eat ice cream, have special breakfasts with Papa and just generally be spoiled. Ask them, they'll tell you it's way better than anything I ever thought of doing with them in their whole entire lives. Even if I did all those things with them and more, it wouldn't be nearly as good, because their grandparents are much cooler than I could ever be.

The rule (instituted by my parents) is that you must be 5 years old by the date of VBS in order to spend the week. Since Mary's birthday falls in July, she doesn't make the cutoff. When I mentioned to my mom that Patrick and I were looking forward to next year when all of the kids will be spending the week away, she said she might be rethinking that rule. (CHEATER!) Since Mary can't go, I usually sign her up for a camp at her preschool so that she's not bored and trying to climb in my skin (have I mentioned that her nickname is "Tick"?) and possibly so that I might have a few hours to read trashy novels and eat bonbons get some work done around here. Her camp is from 9-1 for three days. I get 12 hours alone. 12 whole hours.

I have big plans for my 12 hours of freedom. They involve paint, spray paint, and a few other things. I need to finish the desk that I'm refurbishing for Maggie's room. I'd like to paint my laundry room so that it is some other color than Builder's White--you know, the color that is a dull, chalky white and flakes off and makes a mark every time it is touched or bumped. There are some things I've picked up at Goodwill and garage sales that need to meet my lovah, my sweet, sweet spray paint. I need to make a few of the favors I've planned for Mary's birthday party. I need to plan Sean's birthday party. I need to buy presents for them. I need to plan for my entire family's visit to our home over the Fourth of July weekend. I need to make a low fence for my sugar snap peas to climb. I need to get a couple more chairs to go out under the willow and paint them. I need to find something to give my impossible-to-buy-for husband for our upcoming anniversary. And those are the things at the top of the list.

Whattaya think? Will I ever come close in my 12 tiny little hours of unencumbered time? I don't think so either, but if I get at least the first two done, then I'll feel like I've accomplished a lot.

Meanwhile, Mary will see some friends, learn some things, and have fun. Maggie will enjoy her first year of being a "big kid"--too old to participate in VBS--and volunteering at the preschool VBS at my folks' church. James and Sean will enjoy VBS as well, even though they protest right now that they hate it. I know better. I will hear all about the fun things they did and the crazy stunts they saw and hopefully, they'll learn a little more about Jesus, too. Maggie, James, and Sean will eat ice cream, swim in a couple different pools, visit their other grandma and their aunts, eat Angelo's pizza, go to the park, have breakfast with the old men who are Papa's friends, catch and eat fish, and maybe even see a movie. They will come home tired and happy and glad to see me. I will be overjoyed to see them and it will seem like they've all grown 6 inches in a week. They will be happy to see "Tick" even if she is "annoying". She will be delighted to see them. That will all last about 2 minutes, and then the eye-rolling and bickering will start. But that will be fine, because that is my normal and I will have lived for a week without anything close to my normal. I will have been in withdrawal and ready for re-entry into the craziness that is life as a mother of four.

It will be a summer's worth of living in all crammed into a week. So even if nothing else gets accomplished this summer, if no other plans get crossed off the list, I think it'll be all right.

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There Really Is Crying In Baseball

Last night, at about 9:15 p.m. Sean's team finished their ballgame. It was the third game of the tournament--our third in two days. This tourney is double elimination, so if you lose, you play again until you lose. Their first game on Saturday, was against a team they had beat in a come-from-behind win. I think they went in to that game a little cocky. They had beat the Muckdogs before quite handily, but in that game, the other team had a really shallow bench. On Saturday, they came out swinging for the fences and showed our boys that they had some pretty good fielders. Within three innings, our fellas were looking at the lead from the other side--they were down by 8.

The fans on both teams were loud and in it to win it. You really could feel the tension. I had to keep reminding myself that this was a Little League game. I could see myself becoming "That Mom." You know the one...yelling and hooting and hollering--not negative things, always positive, and even complimenting the other team on good plays and hits, but still, when Sean gave his dad and I the "zip your lip" sign, I knew that wasn't a good sign.

We have friends whose son was on the Muckdogs, so I went over during the game to say hi and visit a bit. I sat in their stands and cheered for both teams for a few minutes. Then as I was leaving, I told my friend, "Oh, by the way, the moms on our side are totally brawling with the moms from your side after the game. Have your husbands hold your purses." The moms all laughed and I felt the tension slide away. I returned to our bleachers and watched our boys come back and win by 8. It was all very exciting.

Sean told me after that game his coaches came into the dugout and asked them if they were having fun. The boys said no. The coaches reminded them that they were supposed to be there learning skills, playing their best and having fun. Sean said that once the boys remembered to have fun, they started playing better and then they won. I was pleased and grateful that our coaches had that perspective, because above all, it should be fun, right? Of course, it's always more fun when you're winning, but even if you're winning and you're not enjoying yourself, that takes away from the shine of the victory.

So yesterday, the Bulls had a game at 3p.m. and if they won that they would play at 7. They won their 3 o'clock game by a large margin and by the time the game was over, it was 5p.m. The boys had about an hour and fifteen minutes before they needed to be back to the field to warm up for the next game. Enough time to get some dinner out, but not enough for everyone to head back to the house. We divided up, Patrick took Sean and Maggie out and I took James and Mary home to get some dinner and let the dog out to stretch her legs.

By this time, Sean was drooping. He'd had a busy weekend and had racked up some serious sleep-debt. Friday night my kids took advantage of a moment of reckless parenting on my part and each got to invite a friend to sleep over. (Not Mary, much to her disappointment. The rule in our house is you have to be in first grade before you can host or attend a sleep over.) You know that "sleep over" is an oxymoron, right? Because in my experience very little sleeping is done and that only comes after some serious persuasion on the part of the parents. Then Sean played hard in the heat on Saturday. Saturday night, he was up late due to side effects of a sunburn. He had that horrible itching that comes after a burn where it feels like your nerve endings have gone berserk and you get no relief. (Yes, we use sunscreen on our children. Sean especially. He's so white he's almost blue. Unfortunately, he was out playing on an overcast day and in and out of water and we lost track of time and didn't reapply enough. So there you go.) We gave him Benadryl, put him in a cool bath, and gave him ice packs to relieve the itching, but he was still nearly hysterical for an hour and then even when it eased, it kept him awake longer. It was almost 11:30 before he was able to sleep. It took even longer for me to find sleep, as I went to bed with crushing guilt for letting that happen.

So the 7 o'clock game time rolled around and we still hadn't started. We were waiting on an umpire. In regular games, the coaches make the calls and it's official but all very casual. In tournament games, losing coaches are the umps. This seems like a harsh bit of penance to me. "I'm sorry, loser, but you must now stay later and make fair calls in the game of at least one team that beat yours. Oh, by the way, did I mention you're a loser?" So we waited for a losing coach an umpire until almost 7:30. Our boys were all looking tired. I joked that some of them should be heading to bed in the next half hour. They are 7 and 8 year olds, after all. The coaches made them do some slow jogs around the fences to "wake them up."

Finally the game got underway. We were playing the Knights, a team we had beat once and had lost to once. They were a strong team with some good hitters and a couple of good coaches. (They had one coach however, whose reputation preceded him and he made me a little nervous about what his behavior might be like.) The Bulls were getting excited. They took the field first, giving us the ever-advantageous "last ups." The Knights came out swinging for the fences and the 6 run rule was quickly enforced. Our boys, who usually have hot bats, whose batting is better than their fielding, never got ahead in the game. Mistakes were made that really affected the outcome. It happens. That's what it's about at this stage, learning the rules. So it was all okay.

Sean has been having a hard time with his batting lately. At the beginning of the season, he had a lot of singles and doubles, but in the last several games, he's been swinging but not making contact. Those strike-outs were affecting his confidence which was affecting his batting which was affecting his confidence. Vicious, vicious circle. You could see his shoulders slump. It was heartbreaking for me to watch. I was starting to feel like Steve Martin in the movie "Parenthood." I did go over to the dugout at one point and told him to just have fun. That was what mattered most. His coaches and teammates and the parents were all supportive. No one ever said anything to him that wasn't positive. Until last night.

As luck would have it, in the last inning, Sean was at bat when there were two outs. We were still down by 6. It was not meant to be. He struck out. The parents and coaches all clapped. There were a lot of "That's okays!" and "Good game boys!" I know he felt bad. But, I know he tried his best, because I asked him. He was going to be okay.

But that one kid, that one kid! (Why is there always that ONE KID?!?!) He told Sean that it was his fault they had lost the game. And yes, technically speaking, his strike-out did cause the game to be over, but it alone did not lose the game for the team. His father and I explained this to him as he was crying. I told him that even the big guys, the major league players struck out more than they hit. That sometimes they struck out and then the ball game was over, but that when a team loses, it's the team that loses, not an individual, because it's not just one person making the outs or not bringing in the runs. And that it's the same with wins. It's the team. We explained that it's hard being disappointed after a game. It's hard to lose, and their team certainly hadn't had much experience with it this season, but even through the disappointment, the team should still stick together. We also told him that unfortunately, he would probably always have someone like that on any team he ever plays on. The one person who can't take the loss gracefully, the one person who has to throw blame around, the one person who can't keep his mouth closed. That one kid... We told him we never wanted him to be that kid. We told him we'd always be proud of him--even if he never ever got a hit again, even if all of the games he ever played were losing games. But, we told him, you know how this feels. Don't say something that will make someone else feel how you are feeling now. Don't be that one kid.

I think he got it. He was able to talk about some of the good things he did in the game. He mentioned how some of the better players struck out or were thrown out. In short, he learned something important about sportsmanship and that's part of the reason we wanted him to participate in team sports. He went to bed happy and that's all I can ask for.

But, if I ever hear That One Kid open his mouth to say something like that to my kid again? They might want to hide the bats.

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