Please, Don't Take Me Out to the Ball Game

Let me just preface this with my usual disclaimer:

I know I am a Slacker Mom.  

If you are looking for parenting advice or laundry tips, 
you'll need to keep on Googling.

Fortunately, my kids love me just as I am, and really, it's all between them and me, no?  (Oh, unless I write it all in a blog.)  That said, I really try to discourage my offspring from doing too much stuff.  I was a latchkey kid who grew up in a house on a lake nine miles out of town with full-time working parents.  We did not participate in after school activities, we didn't take classes, and we spent our summers generally alone, but on a lake, so no complaints there.  My idea of a perfect day consisted of two ideals, and was divided by the temperature:

1. Temp is under 90 degrees, sit on the beach or on the deck drinking Kool-Aid and reading a book; or,
2. Temp is over 90 degrees, sit inside the house drinking Kool-Aid and reading a book.

Oldest Daughter is in dance and plays cello, but not due to any great encouragement from me.  I support dance because it will help her be more coordinated than I, and I get to sit in Panera's for 45 minutes and read or write.  She's played cello for four years, and seems to like it, and it seems like a good way to prevent pregnancy, because what high school boy wants to nail the cellist?  It's a win-win.

Youngest Daughter is in dance, which is conveniently scheduled during OD's class.  Oh, you don't want to take German Clog Dancing?  Well, sorry honey, but they don't offer ballet from 6-7 on Wednesday night.  I heard Taylor Swift is using clog dancers in her next video.

Middle Son...he wants to be in EVERYTHING.  We've come to the point where we tell our friends, neighbors and his teacher not to tell him about any extracirriculars.  At the moment, he is doing the following school and after school activities:  Safety Patrol, Student Council, Cello, Piano, and Baseball.  This summer he is dropping piano, but adding swimming and starting a lawn mowing business on top of his can collecting business (don't ask).  Next fall, he'll be done with baseball, and will start tackle football, and is begging to be back in piano.  He also wants to do all of the intramural sports at the school, and would like to be on a Lego Robotics team.  Oh, the don't have one?  Let's form one!

I've studiously avoided baseball and soccer for a very good reason:  They have the longest seasons and require more than one practice a week.  The Son hadn't been in baseball since 4-year-old T-Ball, which we told him was as far as he could go in baseball.  Then he learned that boys his age play, and he asked to be on a team during the winter, while he was in his second session of YMCA basketball.

SON:  "I heard there is a good baseball league over the summer."
ME:  "I think that is only open to middle schoolers."
SON:  "No, I looked it up online and sent a link to you.  It's for 10-year-olds."
ME:  "I heard three kids got hit in the head with baseballs last year.  Never played piano again."
SON:  "No, they have protective gear."
ME:  "Well you'll have to pay for it, and I've heard it's about $5000 in fees and equipment."
SON:  "I have $5500 in the bank from the cans, the cash is on your dresser."
ME:  "I don't want to drive around all the time."
SON:  "I bought you a Starbucks gift card, a folding chair, and a new iPod."
ME:  "DAMN IT!"

And so we are in baseball.  We've been to three two-hour practices a week for the past month, and today was a scrimmage scheduled from 2 to 4 p.m.  Since The Son has diligently sat in the audience for various piano, cello and dance recitals for the girls, we told them they needed to come and support their brother.  OD agreed if she could bring her phone and get ice cream afterward, YD agreed when she found out there was a big playground by the ball field.  OD wore a tight t-shirt, jean shorts, Kanye West sunglasses and a slight scowl.  YD wore a flowergirl dress that was two sizes too small and flip flops.  We left the safety of our home and loaded up en masse in the rolling White Trash Mobile Unit.

When we pulled up they were handing out the new jerseys, and The Son's face was the picture of joy.  He proudly donned his purple jersey and socks and cap and stood by the dugout, practicing his swing with the other 10-year-old boys, and I swear to God he looked so flippin' sweet I wanted to sop him up with a biscuit.  And then I thought about that little vixen who is going to break his heart for the first time and I vowed to never let myself become attached to any of the girlfriends.  She's out there, the Vixen - be warned, little girl!  I have your number!  Where was I?  Oh, so cute in the little baseball pants that were white on every other boy but oddly had stained knees on my son.  I really need to sign up for that Laundry class at the local community college.

The game was almost ready to begin when I stopped gazing adoringly at my son and began to notice some things in the bleachers:

1. Two of the women from Real Housewives of New Jersey were somehow plunked in folding chairs behind home plate.  They had matching dark roots/orange highlights with the old Kate Gosselin/Posh Spice haircut, huge designer sunglasses, bright dark blood lipstick, dozens of gold bracelets/hoop earrings/necklaces, and animal print outfits.  (Note to self - a little animal print goes a LOOOONNG way.)  They spoke loudly about their pedicures, how crappy the other team is, and donuts.
2. No less than FIVE people brought their dogs.  To a baseball game.  Because the dog thought to itself, "Hey, I want to sit in the dirt and full sun on a retractable lead and have someone yell "SIT" at me for two hours."  I'm thinking the dog would rather be at home licking its balls on Mommy's favorite couch after going through the garbage, but maybe that's just George the Superpet.  
3. People really love to outdo each other in the folding chair department.  I saw chairs with cup holders, side tables, umbrellas, MP3 players, hydraulics, GPS systems, and Playstations.  I saw chairs in canvas, nylon, suede, leather, actual cheetah hides, and color-coordinated with their highlights and pedicures.  I sat on the bleachers, old school, earning every bruise on my sciatic nerve.
4. Mothers love to yell their child's name in encouraging ways, and flinch when the ball or bat comes within a foot of their kid.  Some fathers like to yell emasculating things at the boys, like "C'mon Joey, swing like I taught you in the yard until midnight last night under the Kleig lights!!!  (looks at other parents) He did so much better last night, I don't know what's going on today!"  Perhaps if you could actually beat him here, in front of everyone, he'd play better.  The last time I checked, these kids are TEN!!!  Get a grip, Ike Turner!

Again, I'd like to clarify something.  I didn't shower before this game, and I had on no makeup and a t-shirt I'd worn for the previous three days that is hot pink with huge red lips on it reading "Antique Archaeology".  I know very little about baseball and I'm completely disorganized and unprepared.  I can TOTALLY go crazy-ass mom at these things with the yelling and clapping, and I am FOR SURE not the classiest person there.  But there seemed to be more competition in the bleachers than out on the field.  And?  The practice scheduled from 2-4 p.m. ended at 5:30.  Five FRIGGING thirty.  And not one person there seemed the least bit put out about it, like "Hey, what else do I have to do today but hang at the ballpark with my dog in my folding Cadillac Escalade and encouragingly berate my kid?"  And Dude?  I had to pee in the worst way and I just couldn't go to the public bathroom at the four-plex after 300 ten-year-old boys had used it.


I guess I have to learn that I Don't Care if I Ever Get Back.  So take me out to the friggin' ball game already.  And don't stare if I laugh when the coach yells "BALLS IN" as the game starts.  It's all class, all the time with me.

Sugar & Me

Tonight, we decided to have a family night, which means we order pizza and watch a movie. I loaded up on pizza grease and then sat down to watch Marley & Me with the fam. Huge mistake. Prepare for total emotional meltdown.

I'm sure most of you know about Marley & Me. It's a movie starring Owen Wilson and the woman Brad Pitt dumped, based on the book by John Grogan about his relationship with his yellow Labrador Retriever, Marley. I believe Owen Wilson attempted suicide right after this movie, and now I know why.

Current Husband and I had a Marley, but her name was Sugar Magnolia, after our favorite Grateful Dead song. She, too, was a yellow Labrador Retriever, and we got her about a month after we were married. She was also a Bad Dog, but we loved her. Sometimes we didn't know how much we loved her, because we were so pissed off at her, but we did truly love that dog. The parallels between Sugar and Marley are many. Indulge me while I take a walk with my dog down memory lane.

Sugar loved to chew things. She ate drywall and paper towels and garbage. She ate dead squirrels or rabbits or birds she found outside. She ate the flowers in my garden and the fence. She chewed on shoes and purses and table legs. When we had Oldest Daughter, Sugar chewed up and ingested many toys and stuffed animals, and her favorite thing to eat was baby socks. As soon as the baby kicked off a sock, Sugar would gulp it down. We soon found ourselves with a back yard full of baby socks that had made it through the dog's entire digestive tract. She ate a t-shirt I bought on our honeymoon and part of a quilt made by my deceased Mennonite grandmother. We came to understand that it was impossible to keep everything off the floor, and if it found its way to the floor, it would eventually become a steaming pile in the back yard.

Sugar loved to run. She would catch sight of a small forest creature or a large dog or a flying Frisbee and she was gone. If she was attached to a leash that was attached to your arm, that was your problem, not hers. She loved to see the front door opening and pick the exact moment to bolt through the space and run away down the street. She would come home a few hours later, exhausted and panting, and smelling of swamp and feces and dead animal, but she came home happy. We would always chase after her down the street, worried she would get hit by a car or ruin someones yard, but she would elude us. We found later that if we stopped chasing her, and started running in the opposite direction, she would follow us. She seemed to think that if there was something more interesting than chasing her going on, she had to be a part of it.

Sugar also failed dog obedience class. She would sit and lay, but beyond that she was wholly uninterested. She wouldn't heel, she wouldn't stay, she wouldn't come. She had a real problem with going through the garbage to get people food. Our instructor said that if you give a dog something with hot sauce on it, the dog would be deterred from eating people food. CH took a piece of steak and smothered it in Tabasco sauce, salsa, crushed red pepper, and cayenne pepper. Sugar ate it, drooled profusely, and begged for more.

The next night at obedience school, the dogs were supposed to show a trick they learned to graduate from class. For Sugar, learning to stay would be a huge accomplishment. CH walked her out to the middle of the circle of puppies, told her to stay, and walked away. As he got to the outer edge of the group, the instructor starting yelling, "Call your dogs! Call your dogs!" Sugar, as was her routine in every class, has started pooping in the middle of the room. However, the aroma of jalapenos, salsa, and cayenne pepper was too much for the other dogs. They had to have a taste. Chaos ensued, and we were handed Sugar's GED for dog class and asked not to return.

Sugar also liked to stare. She liked to stare at us as we went to the bathroom, when we talked on the phone, when we had sex, and particularly when CH was watching TV. She would sit across the room from him and just stare at him endlessly. It was very unsettling.

But Sugar also liked to stretch out on the bed between us, and lick us endlessly, and she could chase a ball all day long. She loved our babies (she was around for all three), and she was loyal to a fault. She was always willing to go wherever we would go, and she expected nothing in return but a fresh bowl of water and some food. And an occasional rawhide bone.

When she died, Sugar left a void in our lives that hasn't yet been filled. She was our first baby. And it is unfair that these animals that love us so unconditionally have to live such short lives. Are you crying yet? Because I am. Damn that John Grogan and his touching dog movie. And damn those casting people for making us think we have to look like Jennifer Aniston and Owen Wilson at 40. And damn the screenwriters for making us think people who write can live in restored vintage farm houses on the outskirts of Philadelphia worth at least half a million dollars and drive Volvos.

Excuse me, I have to go and give Current Dog a hug. I suggest you do the same with your current pet.