Lessons At The Berry Farm

I have fond memories of berry picking with my mom and siblings every summer. We went to blueberry farms and plucked dozens of pounds of fruit from the heavy branches. Those outings were always one of my favorite parts of summer; I felt peaceful and happy.

Yesterday I took my boys plus Bryan to a local farm to pick strawberries in hopes that they would find the same simple joy in filling buckets that I had found in the task when I was young.

It almost went well.



I hadn't really taken into account that I was making this journey on my own with two one-year-olds, one three-year-old, and two school-age kids who were so anxious to fill their containers that they didn't bother to check that the berries were ripe before they plucked them from the vine. Grrr...



Add to that the babies who were stepping on the plants, taking bites out of green strawberries and then throwing them, and Drew who ... well, he pretty much did the same thing as the babes. There wasn't enough of me to keep up with them.



Then the wind kicked in and began to blow dirt into all of our eyes. My contacts were screaming in rebellion, while tears streamed down my cheeks.



I completely lost my cool and was chewing kids out for wandering off, picking unripe berries, and everything in between. I felt really bad for turning our outing into an unpleasant experience, but I decided to just fill the stinking boxes as fast as I could and get everyone back in the car before my eyes turned all that dirt to mud.



The day was not a total loss. I learned to never take toddlers to a u-pick berry farm without reinforcements, stay home if it's windy, and that no amount of squashed fruit or sticky hands is worth me becoming the uptight mom who rains on the parade. The kids still had fun, and we used those berries to make some killer smoothies.

OH, YES, I DID.

Remember this?

I did it again.

I thought I had all my bases covered. Or, just the one base. The one that requires you to check the pockets of every pair of pants you wash to ensure that you don't toss 10 crayons in with your load and then turn your clothes tie-dye when you dry them with bits of colored wax hidden all over the place. Check the pockets and you're good. Or not so much.

I have spent all day shoving load after load of laundry into the machine, trying to get caught up from the heaps that have accumulated since everyone was sick, and lesson number two for how to keep your clothes from being stained by Crayola is to not keep the art supply box next to the laundry pile because Drew will leave crayons laying around and toss them to and fro until a lovely cerulean color lands in the laundry pile and gets covered up by the excess amounts of soiled towels and underwear. Then you throw a bunch in, and inevitably, the crayon will make it's way in the washing machine without your knowledge. Then you dry it all, still in a mad rush and too pre-occupied to notice anything strange about the color of your favorite t-shirt. And then it's too late.

I hate crayons.

Another Example of Excellent Parenting

Yesterday I had a few minutes that weren't sucked up by doing the dinner dishes or bathing toddlers, so I sat down to watch a news special about Haiti. (And the dinner dishes are still sitting in the kitchen sink and the toddlers didn't get bathed last night.)

Before long, Cameron and Ethan wandered in and watched with me. And this is when I had to start pausing the program every 90 seconds to answer the kids' questions, explain why the affected area needed soldiers, discuss malnutrition and infection, etc.

My kids have always been very interested in world events and I do my best to give them the explanations that they need in order to understand what's going on, and I've always been impressed with their understanding and maturity. But last night I suppose I gave too much information when Ethan asked, "But an earthquake could never happen here, right?"

Oh, contraire! Our house pretty much stradles a fault line, and tempts fate daily. I explained the science of an earthquake as best I could, pulling out of my dusty mind what tidbits had stuck with me from fifth grade. Then we went back to watching the latest reports from Haiti and The Dominican Republic.

Ethan laid his head on my shoulder and quietly began to cry. The guilt and remorse that then overtook me was pretty intense. I felt horrible for dishing out more reality than my six year old could handle. I rushed in with hugs and "don't worry"'s and tried to reassure him that if anything like that happened here, it would not be nearly as bad because we have food and water and doctors and plenty of medicine and our buildings are stronger and Daddy and I are here to protect you... It helped a little.

I looked over at Cameron to make sure he was ok. He was. But that was what I expected from the kid who checks out library books about frostbite and then wants to debate what tools might be used for amputation.

I sent both boys back to my room to watch cartoons, like normal kids should, and I made a mental note that when Ethan asks if we can watch something else, it might be for reasons other than his love of Star Wars.



While we're on the parenting subject, if you haven't already, peek over at my other place and leave a comment on the subject of replacement parents. It's really making me think!

Cabin Fever + Toddler Mood Swings = Facebook

Today was one of those days.

I thought about what it would take to make me feel better, and I decided that the only cure for the pulsing demons called Whine and Mess that had taken up residence inside my skull would be to have an elephant stand on my head.

Unpleasantness reigned in our house today. There was mess everywhere, cranky children, boredom and no chocolate because I ate the last of the Peanut MnM's last night. Bad combination. I had no motivation to get anything done and no patience for the constant low hum of whining coming from every breathing being in the joint, myself included.

Once, I screamed just to scare the daylights out of everyone so that they would all start wailing instead of whining. I find the crying more tolerable. The result was like how I imagine it would feel to stick your head in a bucket of water if it were on fire.

So after the chaos of noise and clutter filling the floor, and with the better part of the day looming in front of me like a big, black rain cloud, I reactivated my Facebook account. I'm not sure why, exactly. It seemed like an appropriate thing to do at the time. Distract myself, perhaps. Stir up some trouble, maybe. Spy on people since I'm the only person who blogs with the frequency of a friendless, pathetic loser. Also, I have only left the house twice this week. My world has shrunk and maybe I was trying to break free.

I think tomorrow I shall take a mental health day, otherwise I might join MySpace and E-Harmony.com.

In serious hopes that today was the beginning of the end.

I may not be good at many things, but I have been doing a fantastic job of teaching my kids to sweat the small stuff. If there were an Olympic event in flipping out, I would have a case in my living room full of gold medals. I am just that good.

This morning, I lost it big time, but I think I learned a lesson from it all.

Cameron and Drew were in the living room being rowdy, as usual, while Andrew finished getting ready for work so that he could take the older boys to school. I came into the room to make sure they had shoes and backpacks on, and found Cameron and Drew atop the mountainous pile of laundry on the loveseat, looking through the clothes for something.

"What are you doing up there??" I exclaimed.

"We're looking for my glasses," came Cameron's reply. "Drew tore them off my face and threw them."

"What is the matter with you!?" was the opening sentence of my hour long rant.

It seems that they were horsing around, Drew went for Cameron's weak spot, the glasses, and chucked them as hard as he could. Ethan informed me that they must have landed somewhere soft, because no one heard them hit anything. Thus the search through the pile of clothes waiting to be folded.

We looked through the entire laundry pile three times, checked under couches, in the fireplace, I checked the window blinds, thinking that they may have gotten hung up there. We checked behind couch cushions, in the armchair, under the armchair...everywhere. I could not think of another place to look, soft or otherwise. I had already yelled at Drew and sent him to his room. I yelled at Cameron for letting Drew do such a thing. I yelled at Cameron again for being so dense as to not have a clue where the glasses landed, and I yelled at myself for not having folded those clothes on the couch days ago. There they were, mocking me and my lack of appropriate time management. We tried to coax out of Drew a clue as to where he might have chucked the specs, but he looked at us like we were crazy and he wasn't giving up anything.

So after the most frustrating forty-five minutes of my life, with no satisfaction, Cameron and Ethan were late for school, Drew had been sent to his room for his own safety, and I had yelled and cursed and cried until I didn't know what to do anymore. I finally told Cameron to keep looking until he found his stupid glasses, and I sat on the couch to try and regain control of my rage and breathing.

Cameron wandered around the living room for about five more minutes and then looks at me with a confused and yet thoughtful expression and says, "Maybe I didn't have my glasses on yet."

I then became aware that a possible side effect of anger is the body's spontaneous attempt to violently expel all internal organs via an explosion somewhere behind the sternum. I think I had to swallow my heart and lungs to get them to go back where they came from.

I took a very, very deep and deliberate breath and walked as calmly as I could into the bathroom, opened a drawer, retrieved Cameron's glasses from their case and walked back to the living room. I closed my eyes and held the glasses out for Cameron, waited until I was sure he was out of my reach and then opened my eyes, thinking that if I couldn't reach him, I wouldn't kill him and would be able to control my irrational temper. I was wrong.

I yelled a lot. I am not in any way proud of it, nor do I think it did any good, but I had completely lost it. Honestly, how does a kid remain convinced for over an hour that his little brother has snatched his glasses and thrown them across the room, when he never had them on his face in the first place?

So in the process of venting all of my frustrations over the matter, I squashed every ounce of self esteem and respect that Cameron might have possessed. And if ever there was a kid who did not need his mother to tear him down several notches, it was Cameron.

When I had finally calmed down and was drained of tears over the ridiculous incident, I didn't want to send my kids to school. I knew that my over-reaction would cause both Cameron and Ethan to have a terrible day and I didn't want to send them into the world while I was still unable to apologize. But I did it anyway because I knew it would be hours before I was calm enough to say the right things to patch where I had wounded.

My day remained a disaster until the boys returned from school and I could apologize for so explosively losing my temper.

I learned two things today. The first thing I learned was that I am a bigger idiot than I accused Cameron of being, (yes, I did, and I can only hope that time will erase that from his memory). Not only because I didn't put two and two together, (Drew claimed he didn't know where the glasses were, no one saw where they went or heard them hit anything, Cameron is a notorious scatterbrain...Hello?? I should have known that the glasses were never part of the equation), but mainly because I belittled my child repeatedly as my frustration and irritation grew, because I couldn't get my emotions under control. Cameron and I will probably both be tormented by the way I treated him for a long time, and I did it over a $40 pair of glasses that I knew full well when we got them would only survive this house for a few months at best.

I also learned that my temper may have seemed like a small pest a few weeks ago when I would occasionally lose my mind over a wrestling match gone too far or a box of cereal scattered all over the floor, but I've been feeding that pest more often than I should have lately, and it has grown into a beast of gargantuan proportions. I am going to have to work so hard to shrink it back to it's rightful size. It won't be easy, but it is long overdue.

So for as long as it takes, I'll be tackling this problem with all kinds of deep breathing exercises, counting to ten or ten million, humming of churchy songs, and trying to find the bright spot in my woes, even if I have to make one up. Wish me luck, cause I'm gonna need it.

But I can do a summersault!

Grace and coordination are not qualities that I am blessed with. Since childhood, I have been prone to accidents anytime I try to do something physically challenging or anything with lightening speed. I never outgrew that tendency toward catastrophe, as you might remember from reading about my ice-blocking adventure. A great number of my young years were spent limping and waiting for scabs to mature on my very disfigured knees. Regrettably, most of the injuries I sustained spawned from a complete lack of fear and poor judgment. But at least once, I had some company in the poor judgment club.

I was eight years old and living in Beaverton, Oregon. My parents were comfortable leaving us four kids alone during the day while they were out, but anything in the evening hours required a babysitter. On one particular evening, Mom and Dad had gone out on a date and we kids were left with a teenage girl to care for us. We adored having babysitters because therein lay a perfect audience for our imagined games and budding talents. Showing off was the perfect way to spend an evening.

My siblings and I were running around like a bunch of wild hyenas, giggling and tumbling and screeching with delight. Things began to escalate as we each tried to out-do one another in hopes of winning the prize of being the babysitter's favorite. Someone was doing cartwheels. In the living room. Absolutely one of the five cardinal sins of living in our house. (#1 - don't talk back to your mother, #2 - no food in the living room, #3 - do what you are asked the first time that you are asked, or prepare for death, #4 - do not stomp or slam doors, and #5 - do not attempt acrobatics indoors.) Well, if cartwheels were being done in the house, then I would take it one step, (or maybe it was one giant leap), further. I pulled all the seat cushions off of the couch and piled them into a fine replica of The Leaning Tower of Pisa, and then I climbed on top of it.

I stood there at the top of my tower and waited until I had the full attention of the babysitter. She sat there on the floor, grinning, and knowing full well what I was about to do. Her expectant smile was all the encouragement I needed - I cartwheeled off of that tower.

In my entire life, I had never been able to do a cartwheel, and so why I thought that it would be a good idea to try one from a starting point 3 or 4 feet off the ground is a mystery to me. A bigger mystery, however, is why the babysitter thought it was a good idea. She had plenty of time to stop me while I stacked the cushions, and more time to see the red flags while I carefully scaled the cushion tower, and one more chance to prevent catastrophe while I stood there with a ridiculous grin, ready to perform my stunt and emerge as the victorious champion of our living room circus performance.

But she just sat there and smiled at me! And I was either too stupid to realize that I was about to regret ever wishing for the sitter's favoritism, or too embarrassed to chicken out.

The next thing I knew, my hand was hitting the floor with tremendous force behind it, and something was very, very wrong. I was writhing on the floor, screaming and clutching my arm, and that babysitter, that stinking babysitter - it was all her fault, was hovered over me with panic oozing from her mouth and her hands as she tried to calm me, or at least quiet me.

Pain. That's all I could think about. Pain, pain, pain.

When I was finally able to stop howling and crying, fear overcame me. "Oh, no. When Mom and Dad come home and find out that I was doing cartwheels in the house, and off of the couch cushions too, I am dead. They are going to kill me." I think I cried some more after I realized that my life was about to end.

I went to bed shortly thereafter, and the baby sitter came into my room and said that she thought we should say a prayer. I wanted to tell her that she was an idiot, that some kind of horrific damage had already been done to my arm, (which I was still cradling, don't anybody touch me), and that it was pointless to pray over it because not only would it not be miraculously okay, but I was facing punishment to end all punishment for the way in which this crippling pain had come about. But I couldn't very well say that to her, and besides, I could tell that she was equally concerned for her own fate as she was for mine. I didn't know at the time that my elbow was fractured, but I knew enough to be sure that something was very wrong with my arm, as I couldn't move it. Surely if anyone found out that she had allowed me to pile all those stupid cushions and then cartwheel off of them, she would be in as much trouble as I. Feeling a little sorry for her, I told her to go ahead with her prayer. She then left me to my attempts at sleep.

The next morning, Mom woke me and told me to hurry and get ready for a wedding that we had to go to.

What? That's it? No, "How's your arm?" No, "What have I told you about cartwheels in the house?" No spanking? No lecture? I couldn't believe my luck! The babysitter hadn't told! I was going to live! Never mind that I still couldn't move my arm - who cares? I happily, though carefully and slowly, dressed myself for the wedding and presented myself in the kitchen. Still, no one said anything. Hurray!

A few hours later, we were sitting on the world's hardest benches in a Catholic church. I have only been to that one Catholic wedding, so I don't know if it's normal for them to last an eternity, but this one did. About five minutes into it, I could hardly stand the pain in my arm. I had had no Tylenol or Advil, no ice pack or even any pity, because to get any of that, I would have to fess up to what I had done. So I sat there on that bench, waiting for the end of the ceremony and trying to not to fidget. Sitting still while in such pain is a very difficult thing to do. I was still holding my arm at a perfectly still right angle, and cradling it with my right hand, but my legs were screaming to run from there. "Just get up and run!" they shouted.

About six days later the vows had been given, and the kiss and the music...and FINALLY, we got to get up and go. To the reception. Someone help me! However, the ability to move at will and consume food seemed to diminish the pain somewhat, and as I had gotten used to holding my left arm immobile with my right hand, I could run around and play with the other kids. I was nearly able to forget the pain. Mom asked me at some point why I was holding my arm. I told her that it hurt, but I must have just slept on it funny. Simple as that, or so I thought.

At home later that evening, I was trying to get out of my dress so I could take a bath, but my arm was stuck. I contorted myself into all sorts of positions in my efforts to peel the dress off of myself, but to no avail. I stood there, wondering what to do, and came up with no other option than to ask for help. I knew that I was as good as handing myself over to the enemy. I would certainly be getting my comeuppance.

Mom did her best with the dress, and after working at it for a good, long while, she was able to extricate me from the garment. Upon seeing my swollen arm, she knew that it was not a matter of having "slept on it funny", and asked me what had happened. I willingly outed myself at that point, because the pain had finally won me over. I told the story as succinctly as possible, and then put on a t-shirt and jeans and went off to the emergency room with my dad, almost a full 24 hours after the incident. Impressive that I lasted so long, don't you think?

I had a small fracture in my elbow, and for that received a cast to hold my arm in that tiresome right angle position for a few weeks. It felt better to be helped, and slightly medicated, and to have finally told my parents the truth. Dad figured that I had suffered enough and no punishment was given. After the hospital, he took me to Burgerville, where I remember sitting next to him in the car, sheepishly eating french fries as he asked me if I was ever going to do something like that again. Nope. Not me. Dad told me that I was never to attempt a cartwheel again, indoors or out. I agreed, and wondered while we drove home if the babysitter would be told to never again attempt to supervise children. I bet she got off scott free.

No Other Artificial Cherry Tastes Quite Like It

Two of my dad's favorite sayings when I was young were; "Don't touch that", (but he said it in French, so it sounded like "Na touche pa!"), and "I didn't raise a bunch of dogs to do my own barking". So we kept our hands off of anything that looked expensive, and we babysat.

My sister, Natalie and I were, if I remember correctly, 8 and 9 years old when my parents first began to leave our younger siblings in our care on Saturdays while they ran errands and ate fast food without us. You may think that we were too young for such a responsibility, but rest assured that my parents are very smart people who would not have left their two favorite children with Natalie and I unless they were absolutely sure that they would be safe. We fed Kellie and Joel Ramen Noodles for lunch nearly every Saturday, we taught them how to eat without the use of silverware, we showed them how fun it can be to pretend that the carpet was hot lava and jump from couch cushion to coffee table to couch, and all kinds of other intelligent and healthy activities. We had many adventures.

One Saturday, about a year after Natalie and I officially became the Saturday babysitters, we were doing our chores after Mom and Dad had left, and Kellie got to feeling like Natalie and I were unfairly making her do all the work. I don't remember whether that was the case or not, but Kellie was convinced that we were mean and rotten - so she packed a suitcase that was almost the same size as her six-year-old body, and declared that she was going to stay with Grandma, who lived about 4 blocks away. Natalie and I decided that the best thing to do would be to let her get on with it and hope that she chickened out so that we wouldn't get in trouble for losing her. Kellie started down the sidewalk with that suitcase full of frilly dresses and shiny black shoes, and with tears in her eyes she stomped towards the corner. Natalie and I watched from the front door, giggling and wondering how far she would get before she came running back. She was halfway past the neighbor's house when Kellie got scared and came back, sobbing and feeling worse than ever. I don't know about Natalie, but I felt very grown-up for having handled the situation in such an adult way.

About a year after that, I was eleven and we had begun to babysit for our siblings after dark. Mom and Dad were out late one evening picking up all the things we needed to go on a road trip the next morning, and we kids had settled in to watch a movie until they returned. At some point towards the middle of the movie something moved in my peripheral vision, and I looked over to the living room window which was covered only by a sheer curtain. There was a man standing there, just outside the glow of the porch light. His silhouette was still as he peered into our front room, and I became as motionless as he. He was just standing there, watching us. I was completely paralyzed with fear, and wondering all the while how to alert the rest of my siblings without provoking the man to get a closer look. I'm not sure if Natalie eventually noticed the man as well or if I was able to finally whisper some kind of alarm, but we all eventually stood up very quickly and rushed into the hallway where there were no windows for him to peep through. We stayed there, pulses racing, breaths shallow, waiting for the man to leave. Once or twice we peeked around the corner back into the living room, but the fear of that experience has wiped my memory of whether or not we ever left the hallway until Mom and Dad got home. The man eventually moved off into the shadows, where he bode his time until he could break into our neighbor's house, which he did. See what smart sitters Natalie and I were? The man left on his own - there was no need to call 911, or our parents. The neighbor took care of that when he gave her cause to do so. Who was I to make trouble for a man who had, at the time, done nothing wrong?

As scary as that episode was, our scariest experiences in babysitting happened in broad daylight and were self-inflicted. On Saturday afternoons, our parents would head out to do whatever it was they did every week when they left us, and Natalie and I would wait a good fifteen minutes to make sure that they weren't coming back for some forgotten item, and then we began to argue in urgent whispers.

"It's your turn!"

"No, I did it last week. Remember? I barely made it back before they came home!"

"Oh, right. But you're so much faster than I am - you go!"

"No! I'm scared. You go."

"Fine. I'll go. But I'm taking your bike."

So much anxiety! You see, we usually had a dollar or two to our names, and we craved Jolly Rancher Sticks like heroine addicts who were desperate for a fix. Cherry and Watermelon and Fire flavors were our true vices. Not so much the Grape or Sour Apple, but in a pinch they would do. In order to feed our addictions, either Natalie or I would need to stay with Kellie and Joel while the other went after the candy on our bike. It had to have been at least a mile, but my eleven-year-old grasp of distance was probably a little off. It was, regardless of actual distance, quite a journey.

When it fell upon my shoulders to secure the booty, I would start off by letting my adrenaline force my feet to pedal past the park that lay behind our house. I tried not to think of the boys who walked through the park wearing dark trench coats and chains, or the marijuana smoke that sometimes wafted through the trees, across the creek and into our backyard. I even tried not to think about the crawdads that sat upon the rocks under the bridge with all their millions of babies clinging to their underbellies and crawling all over the rotting leaves and mud.

Pedal faster, faster, faster.

After a few turns there was a straightaway that climbed a very slight hill. The sun was sometimes beginning it's decent by this time, and that added to my sense of urgency. I would pedal past a house where, oftentimes, two black girls would be standing in their front yard with a boom box blasting Salt n' Peppa's "Let's Talk About Sex". They were dressed in their scandalously tight jeans and midriff shirts, hips swinging in suggestive circles, and they were making up their own dance moves to the song. I was sure that I would be in deep trouble just for unintentionally listening to the lyrics of that song, so I tried to avert my eyes and shut off my ears. But I couldn't help oogling at their lurid moves and natural rhythm. I pedaled faster and faster, trying to escape the music.

"Let's talk about sex, baby,
Let's talk about you and me,"

(No! Must go faster!)

"Let's talk about all the good things and the bad things
That may be. Let's talk about sex..."

Where was those girls' mother? Why did they have to make this even worse for me?

Pedal, pedal, pedal. Hurry! Before they catch sight of you and try to give you a make-over and a dancing lesson!

Next came the most frightening and dangerous part of the trip: crossing Murray Boulevard. Murray was a very busy road with cars whizzing along at about 200 miles an hour, one lane, I believe, in each direction, maybe two, with a turning lane in the middle. I knew at this point that it was time to take a deep breath and wait. This part of the journey could not be rushed. You don't take your time and you could be squashed flat before you even reached the middle of the first lane. Look both ways...car coming...look again...might be enough time, but don't risk it....look both ways...this could be it...yeah, that truck is a good ways off...look once more, just to be sure...GO! I don't recall ever coming close to being hit, nor was I ever honked at, to the best of my recollection. Once across, it was just a few yards to the parking lot of the Circle K Mini-Mart.

Inside the Mini-Mart was row after row of dazzling candy displays. I passed the Mambas and the Bonkers and the Whatchamacallits, the SweeTarts, the Nerds and even the Bubblicious. On the very bottom shelf were the boxes of Jolly Rancher Sticks, all for fifteen cents each. On a good day we had enough money to get eight or ten of them, and then it was up to the check-out counter, where I held my breath hoping that the clerk wouldn't ask me where my parents were, or if I had come alone. I was too naive to know that Mini-Mart clerks rarely care about that type of thing.

The trip home was all about speed. Clutching a little paper sack filled with our spoils, eyes focused on the road ahead. If Mom and Dad had gotten home before the Candy Runner, there would surely be blistered butts and groundings and extra chores and all kinds of unpleasantry. There was absolutely more concern about getting home before Mom and Dad than there was about getting to the Mini-Mart without being abducted by a freak in the park or squished by a car. In fact, had one of us ever ridden up to the house to find the family minivan already parked in the driveway, I would hope that we would have been smart enough to just keep riding and never look back.

As it was, we never did get caught making one of our Jolly Rancher runs. The runner would arrive home, the three lucky ones who had stayed behind would finally stop praying for the runner's safe and undetected return, and we would all greedily choose a stick and then stash the rest in our bedroom closets, hidden in their paper sack until the next time Mom and Dad went out.

Those were the good ol' days when I was ignorant to the dangers of the world and completely hooked on those cinnamon flavored Jolly Ranchers.

I really hope my kids aren't as dumb as I was.

I Am The World's Biggest Ignoramus - But The Pictures Are Sweet!

Two years ago, almost to the day, I was a youth leader for our church. I was responsible for teaching a lesson every other Sunday to the 14 and 15-year-old girls, and helping them plan and execute their mid-week activities. One particular week in August they had decided to go ice blocking. Now, for anyone who does not know what that is, I shall explain. You sit on a block of ice and slide down a grassy hill. That's about it. I had never been ice blocking before, so I was anxious to give it a try. I picked up a van full of girls, bought 6 blocks of ice at a gas station and we made our way to a park that featured a phenomenally steep hill.

It was a lovely summer evening, and I enjoyed watching the girls act like silly children while they whooshed down the hill on their giant cubes of ice. When everyone had had a few turns, I decided to take a ride myself. So I placed my towel atop the ice, sat my giant rear end on the block and scooted off. It was similar to one of those carousels outside shopping centers that you put your quarter in and slowly revolve in a circle for a lousy minute or so. The experience wasn't nearly as exhilarating as it looked, and I was left feeling a little jipped.

I carried the block of ice back up the hill, and as I crested the top, I saw It. The long, metal slide. And of course, I thought, "Oh, man! It would be so cool for someone to go down that on their block of ice." (I know - only a fool would do such a thing, but wait for it...)

Now this was no sissy kid slide. It was about 25 feet long from top to bottom and sloped with approximately a 35 degree angle. In the world of slides, it was steep and it went forever. (It has since been removed from the park, most likely due to it's insanely unsafe nature.) So really, what better way to take a lazy ride down a hill on an ice block and turn it into a thrilling show of ultimate awesomeness?? That's what I thought, anyway. So I took one of those darn blocks and put it at the top of the slide and sat on it. And then I waited to gather my nerve. All of the girls were standing at the top of the slide with me, as it began at the top of our grassy hill. One of them said, "Are you sure you want to do this?"

You'd think that a young, invincible girl questioning the wisdom of what I was about to do would make me think twice, but no. I was already sitting there, shorts getting a little wet from the melting ice, and if I chickened out then the girls might think me to be a wimp, and I was trying to be the cool leader - so that just wouldn't do.

I gave the block of ice a little forward thrust, and let go of the side rails.

And then two things happened simultaneously. I think I had time to mutter, "Oh shit!" and then I was launched off the bottom of the slide, flying through the air.

The actual descent from the slide happened so quickly that there would have been some kind of land speed record set, if we happened to have been timing it. Conversely, the part where I was flying through the air took so long that I had time to think, "What have I done?? This is going to hurt!" And then I landed, with excruciating pain, and slid across the sand for about 10 feet.

Immediately, I did what I could to avoid further humiliation. I sat up, pretended that my butt didn't feel like it had just been rear-ended by a MAC truck, and smiled. Yeah, I'm an idiot.

All six of the girls came running to my aid, inquiring as to my condition. I assured them that I was fine, and stood up to brush myself off. My feigned nonchalance seemed to have worked, until one of the girls said, "You're bleeding!"

Crap. Sure enough, that slight stinging I felt in my calf was the result of a gargantuan sand rash. I told her I was fine, that it didn't even hurt. (Which, when compared to the agonizing pain in my hiney, was completely true.)

We finished up the evening with a few more runs down the hill; sticking to the grass, of course. All the while I tried not to show how incapacitated I was, and the only thing I could think about was whether all these girls would rush home and tell their parents what a moron I was. That's exactly what I would have done, had I been in their shoes. As the sun began to set, we piled back into my car and headed home. I had to drop everyone off at their houses, and so I drove very quickly and tried to appear to be sitting on both sides of my butt, when in fact, I was only letting my left side come in contact with the seat.

Finally, everyone was safely in their homes, and I could head for mine. Unfortunately, we were living in an apartment at the time that was at the top of three flights of stairs. I managed the torturous climb and entered my front door. Andrew was sitting there on the couch and I just let it all out. I hobbled over to him and cried and told him how stupid I felt and how much my backside was killing me. He laughed. A lot. Then, I pulled my shorts down to have a look.

Here's what we found:


(This is a picture of a picture because my scanner won't work, but notice the nice lump on my upper thigh, just above my pant line? That's where my sorry butt landed, right on the edge of the ice block that nearly killed me. About 3 months ago, I finally got feeling back in that part of my leg. And yes, I just posted a picture of my arse on the internet.)

More of Andrew's laughing followed this discovery, but it was several days before I could see the humor in it. After all, I had to go to church 3 days later and pretend that everything was cool, and that I didn't have obscene scabs clear down my leg from sliding so far on the sand.



That made shaving quite impossible.

I do not recommend acting in such a reckless and idiotic manner, but if ever you do, be sure to take pictures, because once the pain and numbness and embarrassment fade, you might just be pretty darn proud of the size bruise you can give yourself.


I apologize for having failed to forewarn you that you would be looking at my big ol' white butt cheek. I just think it's a breathtaking picture!

Now, folks, the moral of the story. Do not try to impress 14-year-olds with any sort of physical skill or daring. It's much less humiliating to just bring awesome snacks. Also, ice blocking is no fun.

Because I felt I had to.

Today I did something I swore I would never do. I bought a cell phone for my 8 year old. I know what you're thinking because I am thinking it myself.

Here's the justification: Cameron and Ethan may have to walk by themselves to school from time to time this year, and I have always been the kind of person who worries about the worst possible scenario. I know that by sending my kids 3 blocks away on their own, they will be offered candy, hit by a car, attacked by rabid dogs and abducted all in one day. I would feel a lot better about letting them walk if they could call me when they got there, or heck, why not just talk to me the whole way? Yeah, that sounds good.

So Cameron will soon, (when Saturday's mail arrives), be the proud new owner of a cell phone that I promised myself I would not give any child of mine until they were at least 14. Preferably 16. Or never.

So do I think that this is a ridiculous thing to buy for a child? Absolutely. Do I feel better about letting the boys walk 3 blocks without me? Yeah. So worth it.