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. 

I Hate Myself for Even Mentioning This . . .

You know how I’m always saying that we shouldn’t judge other people because we all have our sh*t and we’re all doing the best we can?

Fasten your seat belts, y’all.  I’m about to get all judgy up in here.

I realize that USA Today does not have the same prestige that CNN has, so I apologize for the complete irrelevance of this post.   I read a disturbing story last night on USAToday.com about Chris Brown and I must vent.  You will remember Chris Brown for

a     A.  his contributions to the world of music

b     B.     his philanthropic nature

c     C.     his wholesome boy-next-door image

d     D.  the fact that he beat the crap out of a girl

Apparently he’s some sort of rap “artist” who thinks he is a gift to his industry.  While I, as a suburban housewife, do not claim to be an expert on the genre, I believe with all sincerity that Jay-Z is a rap artist.  Snoop Dogg (or Lion or Hedgehog, or whatever he’s calling himself these days) is a rap artist.  Even Kanye is a rap artist, and it PAINS me to say that, because, (since I'm being judgy,) he's an idiot.  I cannot name one song by Chris Brown; the only reason I even recognize his name is because of the notoriety he gained by beating up his girlfriend and then shrugging it off as collateral damage from a passionate relationship. 

I really hate to even give him any room in my already swirly brain, but last night I read an article in which Chris Brown claims to have lost his virginity at 8 years old to a 14-year-old girl.  He claims he was sexual at an early age because he watched a lot of pornography and “it’s different” in the rural area of Virginia where he grew up.  Also, he’s so good at “it” because he’s been practicing since he was eight. 

Read the USAToday.com article here.

Here’s where I get all judgy:

• Where were the adults in his life (be they parents, aunts, uncles, responsible community members) when he and his cousins were watching porn as children?
• I grew up in the suburbs of Virginia and have traveled to many rural areas of the Commonwealth, and I can guarantee you that 8-year-olds having, um, relations is NOT the norm.
• He declines in the interview to state how many women he has enjoyed.  Why is that, Chris?  Because a gentleman doesn't kiss and tell?
• He’s a “walking art piece” and if it weren’t for the “incident” with Rihanna, he’d now be “bigger than life.”  Man, Life has certainly thrown him some curve balls, eh?

Am I the only one who feels that Chris Brown should be voted off the earth?  In the spirit of finding-the-good-in-all-of-us, I ask WHAT has he contributed to society?  He is an embarrassment to the male gender and his endless narcissism is ridiculous.  When I was eight, I was playing with Barbies, and when I was fourteen I looked like this:  

He was doing "that" at eight, with someone who was fourteen?  It's disturbing on so many levels - the perversion of it, the lack of supervision, the absence of remorse or regret, the warped psychology . . . 

Chris Brown needs to be knocked down a few pegs.  I don’t mean in a harmful way, but in a Scrooge-on-Christmas-Eve kinda way – where he could see himself as others see him and have a chance to experience a little humility.  Perhaps as he matures he’ll develop some integrity, but I’m not hopeful.  He needs to grow up.  He needs to learn what it takes to have character, how to act responsibly, especially when one has a platform such as his fame, and to treat others as they deserve to be treated.  

Meanwhile, in Suburbia, I hate myself a little bit for even writing about this.  

I Set the Elf on Fire.

I set the elf on fire.

It was an accident, I swear.

I’m sure, by now, you’re aware that there are OVERACHIEVING moms, some of my girlfriends included, who keep making the rest of us look bad by posing their elves in clever positions to the delight of their young offspring.  I’m not that mom.  I am the mom who jolts awake after being in bed for an hour because I realize f*ck, I forgot to move that damn elf.

Neeny has been with us for several years and he is THE most effective bad behavior deterrent in the history of bad behavior.  He magically appears when we return from our Thanksgiving travels and he doesn’t leave until he returns to the North Pole with Santa on Christmas Eve.  Last year, when the boys’ behavior was bordering on Naughty, Neeny didn’t return one morning, but he left a note that explained that he had returned to Santa and had reported on their Naughtiness . . . and perhaps Santa would give them another chance if their attitudes improved and they listened to their mama.

Can you picture me doing my best Dr. Doofenshmirtz laugh and wringing my hands like an evil cartoon villain?

Sunday night, I actually remembered to move Neeny.  I put him in the playroom inside a lamp, figuring he’d be safe since we rarely use the light in that room.

Lo and behold, Medium decided he wanted to use his easel so I turned the light on for him, forgetting that Neeny was sitting directly ON the lightbulb.  I walked in about an hour later to turn off the lamp after Medium had cleaned up, and I smelled something odd.  Sniff, sniff.  Hmmmm.  Sniff, sniff.  It smells almost like plastic burning. 

Insert audible gasp here.

I rushed over to the lamp to grab Neeny without anyone under 10 seeing me do it, but he was fused TO the hot lightbulb.

I turned off the light and peeled him off the bulb, but alas, he had a giant, charred, steaming black hole where his little plastic tummy should have been.  I almost burned a hole all the way through his felt, cotton-stuffed body.  I blew on him like I was trying to cool down microwaved mac and cheese.  Once he stopped steaming, I threw him behind a picture frame and prayed the boys wouldn’t notice he was missing.

Hubby arrived home from work and I announced that I had to go to Target.  “Neeny caught on fire.  Explain later,” I called as I headed out the door.  No worries, I thought.  I’ll buy a replacement at Target, put him in the same spot and the boys will be none the wiser.

Target was sold out.  

Not time to panic yet, but I will admit that my armpits were feeling a little persweaty, I could feel my face getting red, and I lost all ability to take a deep breath.  I asked the salesperson if there were any more in stock “in the back.”  You know, the magic “in the back” where they store all the hot items so they can feel like heroes of The Right Stuff proportions when they burst through the swinging doors with whatever product you can’t live without?  No luck. 

I knew I had seen them in other stores, but I needed one, like, yesterday.  I sent out a mass email to all the moms in my neighborhood via Google groups.  I headed to another store to look, and when I asked the sales representative if they sold the Elf on the Shelf, he answered me with a confused look as if I had just asked him if I could borrow a kidney, and said, and I quote, “a wha?”

Has this guy been living under a rock?  Does he not have his own Pinterest account?  Is his self-esteem not reliant on his creativity and his ability to Edward-Scissorhands several craft projects at once?  

The next store was the same story as I encountered a young sales associate who obviously has not been inducted into the secret sorority whose mascot is a creepy plastic doll dressed in non-flame-retardant clothing.

At this point I had visions of myself in my basement at 2 in the morning, sewing a tiny little coat for Neeny so that I could hide his GIANT GAPING HOLE.  At the 4^th store I started to panic as I mentally documented how my colossal failure as a parent was going to scar my children for life, robbing them of their innocence, their belief in magic, their faith in humanity, and essentially ruin their very childhood. 

And then it happened.  A mommy in my ‘hood emailed that the elf freaked her kids out and that I could have theirs, for free, and that it was sitting on their front step just waiting for a new home.  I double-checked that it was the older, skinnier, scarier elf and not the newer, chubbier, more cherubic-looking elf, which simply would not do. 

The BoyMommy family is again in ownership of an Elf on the Shelf.  Apparently he got his hair did last time he went to the North Pole as he now has reddish hair.  You know what he does NOT have?  That charcoal smell.

Sending Good Vibes to a Grieving Mommy

A year ago, this family's profound loss broke my heart:

http://aninchofgray.blogspot.com/2011/10/bridge-one-terrible-night.html?m=1

Another Mommy blogger, and a friend of Anna's family, is requesting that we send Mommy Love to Anna's family by writing Jack's name on your hand and posting a photo of it here.  

http://momastery.com/blog/2012/09/08/jack/

Though I don't know Anna personally, I feel a little piece of my heart was lost that day as well . . .  only a mother can begin to fathom the magnitude of her grief, and I can't help but feel that it could have happened to ANY one of us - there but for the grace of God go I.  So today especially, hug your own children, use the words "I love you," and let's lift Anna up so she knows she is loved, and she is brave, and she is not alone in her pain.  I am reposting the entry I wrote a year ago :

For days I’ve been trying to think of something clever and witty to write about, as I’m hoping to keep up with the blog a little better now that Medium and Large are at school all day.  I’m trying to get Small on a regular nap schedule – mostly because I’m anal and can’t handle it when I don’t have a schedule or a plan.  I hope to be able to write more frequently while he’s napping. 

I could write about Tuesday when we overslept until 6:58, but I still managed to get the boys up to the bus stop by 7:12.  Or I could write about purging my closet of clothes I haven’t worn in years, but which have moved from our townhouse, to Manhattan, to our temporary housing, and finally stopping here in our home.  Or I could put a humorous spin on trying to find a nerdy teenager with no social life so that I can have a babysitter at my beck and call.

The problem is that I keep thinking about Anna Donaldson and her family:

http://vienna.patch.com/articles/blue-ribbons-for-jack

The Donaldson Family, of Vienna, VA lost their 12-year-old son, Jack, in the floods we had last week.

I first heard this story from my former “boss” at JMU, who was a sorority sister to Anna Donaldson.  Then I discovered that, in the it’s-a-small-world department, my across-the-street neighbor was also a sorority sister.  My connection to this woman is six-degrees-of-Kevin-Baconish, but still, her story was brought to my awareness more than once.  Then this morning, a high school friend posted a link to Anna's blog, An Inch of Gray.  I just can’t keep quiet anymore.  So this one’s not funny.

For all the b*tching I sometimes do about mothers who don’t support each other, make other mothers feel bad about their parenting, or try to one-up each other, I must admit that in a time of tragedy, there is a bond between mothers that is almost spiritual.  And I don’t mean spiritual in the religious sense. 

I mean I hope that the heartbreak and grief I feel for this woman whom I have never met will help ease some of her burden, because it pains me to think of her suffering “alone.” 

I know she has a family, and perhaps it seems insensitive for me to imply that NO ONE, not even her husband, feels the grief as tangibly as she does.  I have a notion that collectively, mothers everywhere who are hearing her story are shouldering a bit of her heartbreak. 

When I lost my mother, I remember thinking that I truly understood where the term "broken-hearted" originated.  I literally felt an ache in my heart - a physical pain.  It struck me as surreal that people still went to the grocery store, picked up their mail, filled their cars with gas when my world had fallen apart.  I’ve always said that losing my mother has been the greatest loss of my life, and I am the first to admit that I had a difficult time dealing with my grief.  But here’s the thing: children expect to lose their parents at some point.  Hopefully it won’t be until the parent has lived a full life, but we all accept mortality as the final chapter of life. 

Parents are not emotionally equipped to lose a child.  That’s not how it’s supposed to happen.  

Ten years ago, my girlfriend, The Mormon, lost a child.  Hubby and I hadn’t started our family yet, so while I grieved with my friend, I grieved with her as a friend, not as a mother.  I hurt because my friend was hurting.  It wasn’t until I had Large that I truly understood that having a child is having a part of you live outside your body.  Your child is an appendage that’s not physically attached.  (Sometimes I feel like my kids are the middle finger . . . )

As diligent followers of this blog (hint, hint) you know that I don’t discuss politics or religion.  I believe what I believe, and I don’t need to rationalize it to anyone.  No matter what you believe (or don’t) my simple request is this: pause for just a moment today and send good “Mommy” vibes to Anna Donaldson.  Motherhood is a sorority of its own, and today our Sister needs us. 

*Anna's friend Glennon writes a blog called Momastery.  Her most recent entry, simply called "Anna," is a powerful post in which she reminds us that one doesn't stop being a Mother when your child leaves the earth.

Medium, Small, Large

And finally, my boys.  I LOVE them with every ounce of my being.  They drive me absoultely insane sometimes, but I am thankful every day for their sweet smiles.

Jury Duty . . . yes, please!

Earlier this week I received a summons for jury duty.  

Can you imagine?  An entire day of sitting with my book or a few magazines just perusing at my leisure?  And they have coffee there!  I could drink caffeinated goodness all day long.  When and if they call my name, I'd get to parade in front of well-educated (presumably) people who would decide if the former High School English teacher / Stay-at-Home Mom / Mommy blogger with a wicked sense of humor is the gal they want deciding the fate of their court case.

I could put on makeup and wash my hair and wear something other than my sweat shorts and a ponytail.  I could spend the day with other grown-ups, (ALL of whom must be at least 18-years-old,) listen to grown-up topics, have grown-up discussions, and make grown-up decisions.  

Books?  Coffee?  Being ALL UP in somebody else's business?  Sign me up!

Alas, I have these little people at home who need someone to pack their lunches, remind them to please-for-the-love-of-pete close the garage door, and nurture their little souls all day long.  Jurors are paid $30 a day for their service.  That only pays for 3 hours of child care.  

I apologize America, but I will be unable to fulfill my civic duty.  I faxed the following this morning:

43434 My Street

Somewhere, VA  20000

Friday, August 14, 2012

County Jury Management Office

PO Box 550

Somewhere, VA  20000

To Whom It May Concern:

I have been summoned for jury duty and instructed to report on Thursday, September 27.  My juror ID is #000123456, group # 0012. 

I am a stay-at-home mom to three children, one of whom is not yet school age.  While I would love a day that did not require me to wipe noses or other body parts, I do not have child care.  Hiring a sitter in this economy would require dipping into my children’s college fund.

I can be reached at 703.777.7777

Thank you for your consideration.

Sincerely,

Boy Mommy

Chick-Fil-A, You Betrayed Me . . . OR Why the Chief Chicken Maker Should Shut His Pie-Hole

I steer away from political commentary on Facebook because, to me, it’s like listening to children argue.  I do that all day anyway; why would I want to do it while reading.  I’d rather be informed of what you ate for dinner or how many times you’ve been to the gym this week than listen to 350 of my closest “friends” explain why they’re right and everyone else is wrong. 

The thing is, we’re all right.

I’m a Democrat and Hubby is a Republican.  We vote on different issues.  I love him and he loves me, and we agree to disagree about our politics.  There’s no way I’m going to change his mind, nor he mine.  I have rational, educated reasons that support what I believe and so does he; that makes both of us right. 

Up until now I’ve kept quiet about the Chick-Fil-A debate, mostly because I wasn’t sure exactly how I feel about it.  I’m a big believer in Freedom of Speech, even if what’s being spoken isn’t something about which I agree.  I do not partake in pornography, for instance, but I support the publication of it.  It’s not my preference, so I make a conscious choice not to purchase it, but I’m not about to act all holier-than-thou and tell you that you can’t.

I understand why many people are defending Dan Cathy and his Freedom of Speech.  He certainly has that right and he has exercised it.  Chick-Fil-A has a unique business model that is rooted in Christian values, and I’m okay with that. 

But just cook the d*mn chicken.  That’s your job.  You’ve gone and started this whole sh*t-storm and now I can’t eat the chicken.

Our country is run by people who have different religious and political views - many of which are different from mine.  If a job is done well, it really isn’t any of my concern if you’re Christian or otherwise. 

I really don’t care what the man who fries my chicken thinks about marriage.

What I do care about is that we haven’t learned from our mistakes.  This photo is circulating on Facebook:

The similarities are eerie.  In our parents’ generation, some people didn’t want black children to go to public schools with white children because of the color of their skin.  It wasn’t because they were bad people; it was because of skin color.  Eventually the Supreme Court decided that every student has a fundamental right to education. 

Isn’t it conceivable that maybe it’s time for a change . . . that it’s time for us to decide that every person has a fundamental right to legally share a life with the person of his/her choosing?  Is this the photo we want running in our children’s history books?

It is ironic that Cathy stated, “I think we are inviting God’s judgment on our nation when we shake our fist at Him and say, ‘We know better than you as to what constitutes a marriage.’ I pray God’s mercy on our generation that has such a prideful, arrogant attitude to think that we have the audacity to define what marriage is about.”

Um, isn’t that exactly what YOU’re doing, Mr. Cathy . . . defining marriage as only being between a man and a woman?  Since when is the guy who runs a chicken joint the authority on right and wrong?

Perhaps I don’t have enough backbone.  I was thinking just the other day how wonderful it is that Starbucks supports fair trade.  If they were not supporters of free trade, would I stop drinking their coffee?  Doubtful.  I have told my boys, however, that we will not be eating at Chick-Fil-A. 

“Forever???” they asked.  (Insert audible gasps here. . .)

I don’t know.  I do loves the Chick-Fil-A, but at the moment, I would feel guilty if I supported their business.  I don’t care if YOU go, because in the big scheme of things, I realize that my money or lack thereof is not going to make or break their business.  But right now I just can’t spend my money there knowing that their Chief Chicken Maker was so vocal about being homophobic. 

I ask you this: what if he had said that marriage is only to occur between a white man and a white woman or a black man and a black woman?  Ludicrous.  Why does using the word “gay” make his argument socially acceptable to some people?  A man and a woman who do NOT love each other can legally share their lives/finances/benefits with each other, but two people of the same gender who are committed to one another cannot. 

It just doesn’t make any sense, and I can’t see the God that I choose to believe in penalizing people for qualities such as skin color, sexual orientation, or gender.  The Power in which I believe wants us to be kind to one another, to accept one another with ALL of our faults and shortcomings, and to be good people . . . not to interpret the Bible in ways that will benefit our own agendas.

So, for now, I’m not eating at Chick-Fil-A, and I explained to my boys that the Chief Chicken Maker went public with some comments that were not very nice and that excluded boys who love boys and girls who love girls, and in our family, that ain’t right. 

Mr. Cathy, make it right so I can enjoy the delectable chicken.  And waffle fries.  And milk shakes.  Issue a statement that indicates that you are firm in your own beliefs (which I respect) but that you are not the Decider of What is Right and What is Wrong and you shoulda kept your pie-hole shut.