Bleacher Police (with diagrams!)

I don’t consider myself to be a confrontational person.  I’m no shrinking violet, but I need everyone to like me and part of having people like me is . . . well  . . . not making them mad at me. 

Sometimes I just can’t keep my yapper shut though.

Our son, Large, plays on a travel baseball team that has many different age levels.  Last weekend, Large’s team (11U) and the 9U team played in the same tournament.  Once our game was over, Large’s entire team decided to root, root, root for the 9U team at their game. 

While there are no written rules regarding where one should sit when watching 9-year-olds play baseball, generally spectators sit on the “side” that their team is on.  As we were waiting for the game to start, a woman, whose TONE I did not appreciate, asked me huffily, “are you watching this game?”

The game hadn’t started yet as the field crew was watering the infield, and my interaction with this woman was new, so I was not yet irritated with her.  I was confused about what she was asking me, however, because there was no game being played.  Was she seeing Angels in the Outfield?  Was Kevin Costner talking to Shoeless Joe in a cornfield and I just couldn’t see it? 

Artist (that's me!) rendering of field.

I looked at the field and said kindly, (because at this point I was still feeling kind,)

 “there’s no game going on right now.”

Clearly irritated, she asked, “do you have kids on this team?” 

I thought she was making idle chit chat, so I said, “no, we’re the 11U team and we just came to cheer on our 9U team.”  I might have even thrown in a smile. 

“Well, we came a LONG way to not be able to sit and watch our kids play,” she snapped.  “It would be nice if there was someplace for us to sit.  Why don't you go down there,” and she pointed to some spots down the way.

Oh, it’s on now.  Don’t you get snippy with me.

I asked our boys to move down so that they weren’t taking up as much space on the bleachers.  I noticed, however, that she and her daughter-in-law (who remained silent throughout the entirety of our interaction) were the only two people in the stands.  (Probably because she was sitting on OUR side, but alas . . . )  The rest of their team’s spectators had brought their own stadium chairs and were sitting in prime real estate behind the batter’s box.  Some of them had gone to a little patio area on the first base line on the opposite side of their team’s dugout, and none of them seemed put out that we were taking up space on our own bleachers. 

She got up to get an over-priced drink at the concession stand and was clearly disappointed to find me still sitting in the stands when she returned.  She slammed her foot down as she stepped on to the metal bleachers; I’m assuming it was to announce her arrival.

Whatevs, I thought.  The game started.  So did her passive-aggressive comments to her daughter-in-law, obviously for my benefit.

1.  Alex S. had a good hit.  Ryan S, his brother, is on our team.  I mistakenly yelled, “nice hit, Ryan,” and the kids playfully reminded me that ALEX was the one who got the hit.  “She doesn’t even know their names,” she WHISPERED to her companion. 

2.  A player on her team hit a ball way out into center field and our player was unable to catch it.  “Awwww,” she chirped sarcastically, “he didn’t catch it.”

3.  A mom from our team yelled, “nice try” to one of our players, to which she commented, “not good enough!”

Finally she said to her daughter-in-law, “at least they found a place to sit to watch the game,” referring to the spectators from her team. 

I had had enough.

“Is there someone who needs to sit here?” I asked.

“Don’t talk to me. . . . it’s just that we came a LONG way to see the kids play.  You didn’t.”

I didn’t take a road trip over the Bay Bridge on the Friday afternoon of Memorial Day weekend with a little detour through Annapolis on Naval Academy graduation day just to have some busybody question my motives.

“Excuse me?”  Oh, I’m irritated now.  “You have no idea where we traveled from.”  You see that?  I was so angry I ended a sentence with a preposition. 

“Stop talking to me.” 

That was the end of our conversation. 

Karma works mysteriously, however.

One of our moms, who had no idea that any of this had transpired, asked my nemesis if she could move one of her bags (which were sprawled all over her “area” of the stands) so that she could sit down.  The old lady obliged . .. by grabbing her bag dramatically and slamming it on the seat in front of her.

Then another mom, also unaware of the conversation, commented sweetly that she was unfamiliar with this rival team and she wondered where they were from.  Somewhere far, far away, no doubt.

And then our 9U team won the game.  So there’s that. 

If Facebook Posts were REAL.

Hubby and I were chatting last night about the plethora of happy family summer photos that are making their way onto Facebook.  Sure, I could post photos of my smiling children, frolicking at the pool with their dad (on that one random evening he got home before dark and was able to join us.)  Or a photo of them playing ball in the backyard (before Medium had a full-on temper tantrum, complete with hitting, ball spiking, and name-calling.)  Or a photo of the fish we caught (after I pulled the wayward hook from a screaming Small's shorts and untangled Medium's line from his "this-pole-is-SO-STUPID-I-am-the-WORST-at-fishing-the-stupid-fish-keep-eating-my-worms" fishing pole.)

When you know people well enough, you know that what they're posting online is not the full story.  But who wants to look at pictures of messy houses, petulent children, and household chores gone awry?

What's that you say? . . .

BoyMommy's Keepin' It Real Facebook Posts, Summer 2014:


1.  Swagga Wagon

2.  Laundry

3.  baseball cards

4.  Uh oh.

5.  Gratuituous Ninja photos

6.  Healthy Eating Habits

7.  My mad Housekeeping Skillz

8.  Christmas in July.  Because I haven't put that sh*t away.

9.  My boys are SUCH good little listeners

10.  AND they're charming!

You now how all those OTHER posts on Facebook make you feel just a teensy bit envious or a tiny bit bad about yourself/your looks/your parenting/your eating habits/your social circle?  (No?  Just me?)  Well this series of real life photos should make you feel better about your own life, because if you've put all your holiday decorations away, actually have dairy products in your fridge, and had a boogerless morning, you're doing better than I am!

The Value of the Dollar

Medium broke my computer.  Lucky for him,  I've done some research, and I think it's going to be a quick fix.  (For the sake of his survival, I certainly hope so since his daddy is reading about it here for the first time.)  It still works, just not to its full capacity.

I don't think Medium understands the value of a dollar.  He certainly doesn't understand the value of $3,000, which is about how much it would cost to replace my computer.

Or, I should say, he didn't understand it:

He does now.

The Summer of ER Visits

Lest you think I’ve been building my portfolio for the Mom of the Year contest, here’s what’s REALLY been happening in the BoyMommy household.

I had hoped that when Large broke his foot during the first week of summer “vacation” that that would be our only trip to Patient First. 

You know where this is headed, right?

We were heading to the car after a lovely afternoon at the movies and an early dinner.  (Truth be told, we were heading home because my boys were acting like spider monkeys who have been trapped in a cardboard box, so I told them I had had enough and we were going home and going straight to bed.  At 6:30.)  Small was running down the sidewalk at a local shopping center and apparently got a little overzealous.  As soon as I said, “slow down, Chief!” he fell head first into the leg of a metal bench. 

So much for early bed time and an early glass of wine.

I am generally pretty calm in situations that require emergency services, but as any mom will tell you, head injuries, no matter how minor, are often accompanied by a lot of blood.  Picture Carrie.  Spending the night on Elm Street.  With the guy from the Saw movies. 

Small sat up with a stunned look on his face, and within seconds he began to cry.  His head was bleeding profusely, so I picked him up and instructed Medium and Large to run ahead; there was a little mom & pop restaurant near where we had parked, so I told them to get ice and napkins.  All the while they were frantically asking me for reassurance that Small would be okay. 

Any other time they’re beating the crap out of each other, banging each others’ heads into the wall, and daring each other to see how far they can jump from the top bunk bed, but I guess the sight of blood makes them feel all lovey-dovey.

I hauled @ss over to the Patient First, praying that no one would recognize the Swagger Wagon and judge my erraticer than usual driving.  The staff took us back to the room immediately, and they began cleaning him up.  At this point he had blood all down his face, in his hair, and on his clothes.  He was a trooper, and it pained me to watch him flex his feet and toes back and forth, back and forth, in order to calm himself in lieu of crying. 

You can always tell how serious the injury is by judging the reaction you get from the nurses, so I knew that Small’s wound was deeper than I had thought originally.  The doctor came in to assess it . . .  and promptly sent us to the Emergency Room at the hospital. 

The hospital staff was great (shout out to Inova Loudoun, woot-woot!) but I was a little worried when the representative from “Family Life" came to chat. 

Always calm when faced with tension, I blurted “Oh my god!  You’re here to make sure I’m not an unfit mother!”  She reassured me that she was only there to make sure Small was comfortable and that I didn't have any questions, but then she asked if we’d been to the ER before. 

Again with the verbal vomit:  “Yes!  A year ago when he split his lip open and he had to have stitches and we had to have the plastic surgeon and he was so brave!” 

“These things happen,” she chuckled.  “He’s three years old.” 

Whew.  

Ten stitches later, he’s healing nicely, and I’m trying to repeat her mantra that “these things happen,” especially when you have boys.  Just for safe measure, when Small stands on the coffee table pretending to be a caped crusader, I remind him that “if we go back to the ER again, they’re not gonna let you come home with me!”  

25 Things You Don't Know About Me

25 Things You Don't Know About Me . . . .

1.  I never wear blush.

2.  I sleep on the left side of the bed, unless we’re in a hotel room, in which case I sleep furthest from the door.  This way, if a monster breaks in through the door, he’ll get YOU first.

3.  I could easily work at IKEA as the person who puts together the furniture.  I'd have to work alone though; IKEA furniture assembly nearly ruined my marriage.

4.  I can keep the book at a baseball game or on the GameChangerApp.

5.  I hated Twilight, 50 Shades, and Harry Potter, (though I have enjoyed reading Harry Potter with my boys.)

6.  My toes are ALWAYS painted.  I'm vain.

7.  I found my first gray hair on my 26^th birthday.

8.  I get anxious about impending pain, but I seem to have a high tolerance for it.

9.  I had plastic surgery before I was 5 years old.

10.  I’ve known two of my oldest friends since we were 3 years old, and they are the closest to sisters I’ve ever had.

 

11.  I believe my Mother-in-Law likes me WAY better now than she did when she first met me.  Apparently I'm an aquired taste.

12.  I need a lot of sleep.  Naps make me a better person.

13.  I remember having my first experience with depression at age 13, and I worry that it’s a trait that will be passed on to my children.

14.  I use Oil of Olay products simply because my grandmother did, and smelling it makes me think of her.

15.  Friends is still my favorite tv show.

16.  I do laundry every day.  Every.  Friggin’.  Day.

17.  I believe in Karma . . . the energy you put out into the world surrounds you at all times.

18.  I have a tattoo - because no one ever believes a girl like me has one.

19.  I believe my husband and I are like Yin & Yang.  We are two pieces of a puzzle that complete each other; not in the sappy “you complete me” way, but in the way that we complement each other’s strengths and weaknesses.

20.  I loved being pregnant because I felt like I finally fit into my body.

21.  I feel guilty every day about my parenting – that I’m not good enough, I’m not paying enough attention, and that I need to be more engaged.

22.  I am addicted to my computer. 

23.  I wish I had rushed a sorority in college.  I'm really good at making those alphabet letters with the little dots on the ends.

24.  I don’t know how to whistle. 

25.  Misplaced apostrophes make me crazy.