Retail Therapy

I’ve always loved to shop. If there is anything I really inherited from my mother, it was probably the love of all things shopping mall.

If I ever am having a really downer week, or if I know I have a really awful event coming up that gives me a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach, I go shopping. It kind of takes the edge off a crappy day if you can face it with a new shirt and slap on a new pair of shoes.

But I find that I rarely make it over to Lincoln’s big shopping mall anymore. It’s probably because mall stores don’t really utilize coupons.

Pardon my Jerry Seinfeld, but what is up with all the coupons? Every time I go to the mailbox, it is overflowing with circulars and coupons. I can’t believe how easily I am snared by the call of the coupon. I consider myself a logical person and I know it is all a gimmick, but those coupons start burning a hole in my wallet that just increases the closer they get to their expiration date.

In my opinion, Kohl’s probably does it best. They send you a coupon in the mail for 15, 20 or 30 percent off your next purchase. And every day they have about 90 percent of the items I need to buy already on sale. What started out as a $25 shirt is now $15, plus your 20 percent off the whole store coupon. Then, go during an early bird special and the sales are even bigger. And during certain times of year, they give you Kohl’s cash to spend the next time you come in. They are like an old, hot boyfriend you could never completely walk away from -- they just keep reeling you back for more.

True story, the clothes aren’t the highest quality. But as quickly as my kids and husband wear through them, the clothes last long enough for every day. And they have everything from bathroom towels to coffee makers, radio-controlled toys to patio furniture. The last time I went to Kohl’s I spent around $80. The receipt said I saved about $120. What? How can it be that I saved 60 percent of what I spent? How can they stay in business? Is this stuff all crap, or did Congress legalize slave labor again? I actually laughed out loud when the clerk handed me a coupon for another $10 in Kohl’s cash. Really? I’m not just saying lol, I really did.

Occasionally I clean the old coupons out of my purse. This is a task I do not enjoy. It’s not because I don’t like to clean. If the truth be told, I am probably a little bit of a clean freak. No, I don’t like it because it steals my happy whenever I find a great coupon that I forgot to use and have to throw it away because it expired. I just threw out a $10 off coupon at Famous Footwear. It bums me out because I had my eye on a pair of cute, black heels – not flat mom shoes and not spiky hooker shoes. Bummer, the shoes now went from just right to full price.

If there was anything I would like to throw out of my purse, however, it’s all these stupid membership/friendship cards. Each store has their own card that they have to scan when you make a purchase so you can qualify for a lower “friends-only” price, or you can rack up points to get coupons in the mail. I can’t believe I have a card at Petsmart to rack up points on chew toys and cat litter. My favorite card is my Russ’s Market card. It gives me cents off of gas when I buy groceries (although I buy most of my groceries at Super Saver). Even if it’s just two cents off a gallon, I do a happy dance in my head when I save money on gas. And I think “sucker” whenever I see someone fill up for more somewhere else. I have so many of these cards, I just rubber-band them together in my purse. In fact, I think there are too many for one rubber band to hold, so I have two piles.

Really I do hate these cards. The reason is that it makes me feel stupid whenever the clerk asks for your card. Yes, I am that woman in line in front of you, the one you got behind because she only had one or two items. However when it comes time to pay, she takes five minutes to shuffle through her membership cards, until she finds the right one to hand the clerk. One time my rubber band snapped and my pile scattered everywhere. I said a bad word. Now I know to just give them my phone number so they can look up my account. It no longer concerns me that the guy behind me in line is getting my digits. I am not smoking hot.

If I try to philosophize why I am so easily seduced by the coupon trade and the lure of free stuff, it probably goes back to that hunting and gathering instinct God stuck in us to provide for our families. We just want to hunt down the best deal and gather it home. I refuse, however, to fight with some woman at the store over one item, like you see in television comedies. However, I will walk a little faster to get in the front door to get to the sale stuff first.

Actually I’m sure it all has something to do with the economic times we live in. Some economist would be able to explain how the world shops in changing waves. Sometimes we are willing to spend for luxury items, when we have the disposable income. Sometimes we save up and shop for quality. If we are going to spend the money, we want something that is going to last. Sometimes we are just barely squeaking by and we shop where we can get the best bargain for our buck. I think a lot of us are living in this stage, especially those of us with ever-growing, technology-loving kids.

But why talk when you can shop? I’d go on and on, but I’ve got to wrap this up. I’ve got a 30 percent off coupon and $10 of Kohl’s cash in my purse that runs out today. And if I leave now, I can still catch the Early Bird specials. I think I’ve got a rough day coming up at least once this week.

MoneyGrabber by Fitz and the Tantrums

Holiday Road

“I found out long ago it’s a long way down the holiday road.”

It’s hard to believe a vacation can be called a vacation when it starts and ends by riding in a confined area with the same three people for 10 hours.

Our family just returned from a week-long vacation at various landmarks and lakes in the fabulous state of South Dakota. “Next time let’s not travel so far,” my daughter Mandy said. Um, we only went one state away. (She was also disappointed last year when we bought a camper. She didn’t want to be stuck in the camper with us. She wanted to go someplace exciting with someone fun. The burns just don’t sting as much as the hearing starts to go.)

I’m sure we could have come up with other exotic destinations, but that’s what happens when you plan a vacation in just a couple days, trying to squeeze it in with a family reunion between the end of baseball season and the beginning of football season. You know we can’t miss a game or practice. That’s coaching sacrilege.

Actually the trip to South Dakota was educational in many ways. We all learned a good many things. We toured a cave and saw stalagmites and stalactites; we visited Mt. Rushmore and read about dead presidents. We learned about the outlaws of Deadwood at the museum there, trying not to run over any of the outlaw bikers currently in residence. And we toured the mine at Lead and discovered how you use the bathroom at 8,000 feet below the surface. (Don’t ride the red carts underground with the strange lids.)

But the real things that we will remember were not really part of the itinerary. In fact, I’m doubtful I can still recall what four presidents are on Mt. Rushmore, but that might be the Alzheimer’s. For example, the kids discovered that their dad is the king of useless information. This was not new information to me – we’ve been married more than 18 years. Every trip we have ever taken I am bombarded with little facts. Our nephew once told Rick he didn’t know everything; Jesus knew more than Rick. Rick quickly retorted, “But Jesus is the only one who does.” In South Dakota, Rick would point out “useful” information about tilting sandstone formations, future uses of neutrinos in energy and weaponry, and the powerful erosive powers of dam spillways. This is what you get when you are related to an environmental civil engineer. We made lots of stops, but only a few of those were for food or the bathroom. Ooooooh, look at that exciting dam spillway. Aaaaah, that is a beautiful rock outcropping. Wow, they really have a problem with loose sediment. And you thought stopping for the world’s biggest ball of stamps was mind-numbing.

Joe, our 11-year-old, learned not to swim in the lake directly in front of the area his cousins were throwing rocks. A very energetic little guy caught him on the side of the head with a big chunk of driftwood. (We all said an emphatic “no” in unison when the same little boy wanted to chop firewood with Rick’s hatchet later than night. Yikes.) Although Joe was out of commission with ice on the bump for a good chunk of time, it wasn’t enough to stop him from tubing behind the boat when his turn came around. It's funny how you can perk right up when your ship comes in. Joe also learned things could be worse: if you go down the water slide head-first like another kid at our hotel, you could end up splitting the top of your head open. That boy had to go to the emergency room for stitches. Then there are those really important, food-related discoveries: 1) all Mongolian Grills aren’t as good as the one in Lincoln, and 2) you can’t get the roast to go all the way to the middle of those jumbo marshmallows. Lastly, he was shocked to learn that Bambie was actually a boy deer. (Don’t ask.)

Mandy, our 13-year-old, learned not to mouth off to bigger, stronger relatives. She may be taller than her mom, but she has uncles and cousins much bigger. They aren’t afraid to sling her over their shoulder like a sack of potatoes and try to chuck her in the lake. Being a smart aleck can be dangerous; don’t sass your dad before he pulls you on the tube behind the boat. We never had to wonder where the boat went. We could hear the screams coming and going. Other things she discovered: mountain streams are very cold if you stand in them, and she was born with the ability to multitask by texting boys and playing Frisbee at the same time. Being in the Black Hills, she discovered that she likes cowboy hats and boots. Heaven preserve us from cowboys with cell phones. I remember when I used to call those guys “goat ropers,” but not in an endearing way. My sister would agree. While working in Pine Ridge, one cowboy hit on her, saying his horse was his ride. She was not impressed. Of course, his lack of teeth didn’t help.

I, myself, learned many things on our vacation. One, come supplied with a secret napkin and ketchup stash. There are never enough of these two items when your major source of food comes from a drive thru. Two, a ten-hour drive is enough time to figure out how to log into face book with your phone. Three, I can spot a biker chick even without the bike a mile away. Besides their unique wardrobe choices, they all have that weathered, haggard look like they could do with another cigarette. D) I like the taste of Northern over walleye. Who would’ve thunk it? Five, Rick’s blue eyes actually come from the Norwegian Nelson side of the family. I guess I can stop looking for the origin of the Krushenisky name. Six, and most importantly, calories don’t count on vacation, so it’s OK to buy five pounds of handmade taffy. No scale, no problem.

All in all, it was a good trip and well worth the time and money. But what, you ask, did Rick learn on our vacation? I don’t know, but I’ve heard enough. If you want to know, you can ask him yourself. He will be more than glad to explain it to you.

 Holiday Road with Lyndsay Buckingham

Ladies Love Country Boys by Trace Adkins

Tubthumping by Chumbawamba

The Smell From the Pig Barn

It’s that time of year again. It’s fair time. Yes the smell of the county fair is thick in the air, along with all the humidity. It smells awesome downwind from the funnel cake stand, but not, of course, from the pig barns.

That’s where I spent a good 75% of my county fair time when I was in my preteens and teens -- in the hog barn. Yep, I showed hogs at the county fair. I was just that cool.

You don’t find many girls out in the hog barns. A handful of girls show cattle, a handful show horses, and the majority of 4H farm girls show lambs. I, however, showed pigs. Why, you ask? Because my dad said so. And that was the end of that conversation.

But there were a few benefits to being one of the few girls who showed pigs. Slap on a pair of high-heeled boots, a belt with a shiny buckle, and do your hair and makeup, and you are a shoe-in for runner-up champion in showmanship. I think the men judging thought anyone who would slop through the mud in heels and perfectly pressed jeans while keeping eye-to-eye contact deserved at least that much.

I eventually discovered that being one of the only girls at the hog barns could be used to my advantage. Not, of course, with my brother. He knew I could handle myself and it was all an act. But what the other club members didn’t know wouldn’t hurt them. I would wash my own pigs, because I was particular about them looking clean. But I could bat my eyes at one or two of the guys in my group and they would fight over who got to trim the hair around the ears and tail of my show hogs for me. They also could be convinced to scoop the poop out of my pen for me, and take my turn raking the aisle. (In addition to being judged on how good our animals were and on showmanship in the ring, our club was judged on herdsmanship, which was how clean we kept our part of the stables. We had to keep the pens clean and keep the aisles raked, as well. Our club almost always won the top award for herdsmanship.)

However, the meager number of benefits of showing pigs never outweighed the grossness. Let’s start with the smell. Just in case you were wondering, pigs smell. Really bad. But the worst pig smell was at the pig farm a few miles away from our house. My dad would take my brother and me over to pick out our pigs for that season. We each generally got about three pigs. I always wondered why my dad would bother bringing us along, because he and the man we bought the pigs from did all the picking out for us. But the smell at that place, wow! It’s the kind of smell that stays on your clothes and body, and doesn’t wash off with just one shower. Mom could smell us coming. Seriously. Imagine that smell you smell while traveling past a feedlot, but then imagine standing knee-deep in the middle of it – enclosed in a building with no windows for fresh air. Gross.

Once we brought the little piggies home, then the chores began. We had to water and feed them twice a day. My brother made sure I always did my share of this. He was not going to do my chores for me. All pig pens don’t start out looking like pig pens. Our pen was a large, fenced area that contained several short pig “houses” that they could go into to get out of the sun. But what started out like any other piece of ground with dirt and grass would quickly be uprooted and covered with mud holes and pig goo in just a matter of days. We contributed to the mess, purposely leaving on the hose so the pigs could make their own mud holes. Pigs really do enjoy coating themselves with all that slop to keep cool.

Despite what you might think, pigs are not dumb. And they unfortunately seem to have their own sense of humor. More than once they would carry off the feeding or watering trays to the far corners of the pen, so we would have to plod across the muddy wastelands to retrieve it. During that trip, at least one of the pigs would manage to knock either my brother or I over into the biggest mud hole. It was as if they had worked out ahead of time which one of them was going to stand innocently behind us and which one was going to come charging by to make us trip over the other pig’s back. Pig snorts do sound incredibly like laughter.

But the splash in the mud hole was not the worst job. That came when it was time to load up the pigs and take them into town for the fair. I’m not sure how other people got their pigs to town, but we hauled them in the back of one of dad’s old grain trucks. Although we had worked with the pigs a few times so we could lead them around to show them with our little show whips, the pigs did not want to go up the shoot and into the back of that truck. Again, they were not stupid. They knew this was not going to end well. This was also a time my brother and I learned that dad knew a whole bunch of cuss words. This was completely new information.

Once the pigs were finally loaded, it was time for my brother and me to wash off a summer’s worth of mud and grossness to see what color the pigs really were for the show. If you are squeamish, you might want to jump ahead and skip the rest of this paragraph. I’m guessing most hog farms have a concrete containment area on which to do this washing. We had the old grain truck. My brother and I would roll up our jeans and shirts and jump in the back of the truck with all those pigs armed with only a scrub brush, a hose, and a bottle of dishwashing liquid. One of us would rinse with the hose while the other would pin a pig to the side, slather it with soap, and go to work scrubbing off the gook. Guess which job I generally got. Here’s a hint. I didn’t get the hose. It may not sound so bad, but I should probably mention that when pigs get nervous, they poop. They poop a lot. Imagine the back of a truck trailer with six pigs, all pooping a lot, into a soupy, soapy, muddy mess. And we were walking around in this mess generally barefoot with our jeans rolled up. Oh, good times, good times. Dad would open a small hatch at the back of the truck to let a little of this mess pour out. And as the mess got deeper, he would tilt the back of the truck for the mess to run out faster. There are no words to describe the amount of grossness.

And people wondered why, on the last day of the fair when we sold our pigs at the auction, that no one cried. Almost all the girls with sheep cried. All the 4H kids knew where the animals were headed. But those of us showing pigs were laughing all the way to the bank.

Looking back, the experience was probably good preparation for parenthood. You do have to feed and water kids, probably more than twice a day. They like to rub up against you when they are wet or yucky. Something always needs trimmed and washed. Loading them into a vehicle sometimes causes a few cuss words. And again, there can be no words to describe the amount of grossness that you experience.

My husband says it makes him laugh out loud to think of me showing pigs at the fair. Even today I still look forward to the county fair. We hit the rides and the food. And before we go, I always stop in the pig barns and remember back with pride. And then I kick a little hay in the aisle and tell the kid raking he missed a spot. It’s just the kind of girl I am.

 Sold (The Grundy County Auction Incident) by john michael montgomery

The Good, The Bad, and The Bubby

Boys are completely different organisms than girls. I know, I know, I’m not telling you anything you don’t know, but I never really understood how different they are until I raised one. And my son Joe is all boy, and then some.

Boys start out differently from girls from the very beginning. For example, you can not use the same potty training devices for boys that you use for girls. You can not let potty training boys run around the house without underwear, because they will go firehosing down the hall. It is fun and Mommy’s screaming makes it funnier.

Our Joe, who we endearingly call Bubby, was always a rough-and-tumble type of boy. Plus he has always had an incredibly large share of Kimbrough stubbornness in his DNA. As he was growing up, we tried all sorts of methods of discipline, and he could sure make life difficult. We tried putting him in timeout when he was having a tantrum. But you know those dogs that just keep barking and barking so long that you wonder how they have a voice left to bark? Joe could scream at the top of his lungs and cry for more than 45 minutes. And the only reason it never went longer was that he would start throwing up because he had been screaming for so long. And when he was done throwing up, he was still mad. One time he threw his head back so hard during a tantrum, that he hit a door hinge and had to go to the hospital to get two staples in the back of his head. Such a boy.

We tried putting his favorite things in timeout on top of the television cabinet. He blew that scheme out of the water when he was 3. He said, “That’s OK Mommy, I didn’t want to play with that thing anyway.” And this was his favorite stuff. Arg.

Eventually we figured out that if we wanted him to do something, we would tell him to do the opposite of what we wanted him to do. If he started to ride his tricycle down the street, way too far, we would say, “Oh Joe, you’re so fast. Keep riding that fast all the way down the street as far as you can go.” Sure enough, he would turn around and come back, just because it was the opposite of what we told him to do.

And Joe was a goer. He had three gears: stop, go and faster. He did not stand in one place. At his first Christmas program he fell asleep in his chair at the front of the church. His Sunday school teacher had to catch him before he physically fell out of the chair and then had to carry him out at the end of the service. The reason? He had never had to stay in one place that long without falling asleep. My grandpa said that you would have to nail that boy’s shoes to the ground if you wanted him to stay in one place. My grandpa used to get such a kick out of Joe when we would visit him in the nursing home. Joe was 2 and all the residents would come to their doors to smile and watch this rambunctious boy jump around and run up and down the halls. But we never could stay more than 20 minutes. Not because I didn’t want to. It was because I would always end up carrying Joe out of the nursing home kicking and screaming before that time -- he wanted to run and jump on everything. The residents loved that too. ARG.

This propensity for running and jumping and pulling levers and pushing buttons has gotten us into all kinds of trouble. In fact, I think there was a period of about 3 to 5 years I would not take that boy to Wal-Mart. It happened when he was 2 (Joe put the “ter” in terrible twos). My husband Rick generally bribed Joe that he could ride the coin-operated rocking horse by the doors if he was good at the store. Of course, as all mothers know, we only send our husbands to the store for one or two items. So this was not a big deal. When moms go to the store, we have to get everything, and our carts are overflowing and I do not always have quarters. So there I am, with an overflowing cart, so full my two-year-old can’t ride and is running along side. In front of the sliding doors, he has a tantrum because he can’t ride the rides. And there he goes, running, out into the street in front of Wal-Mart, directly in front of several screeching cars, then out into the parking lot. I immediately abandon my cart and my purse and chase him down. When I finally bring him back, kicking and screaming under one arm, a Wal-Mart manager takes pity on me and asks if he can help me get my cart to the car. I vowed never again.

I should also add that the boy occasionally would bite. It was a short stage, but it just added to our joy. And he seemed to only bite girls that would stand up to him. Even more joy. (Some day he is going to have a crush on Jayden Groff and she is going to punch him in the face.)

Eventually I had a mantra I would tell myself when I was starting to lose it: “If we don’t go to the hospital, if the police and fire aren’t called, it’s been a good day.” The source of this mantra happened so quickly, well I still can’t believe it happened. It was at a nice hotel close to Des Moines with a nice pool area and nice reception hall. (Definitely not the Super 8.) We were staying in the hotel for my cousin’s wedding reception at that hall. It was about 9 o’clock and Joe told me he was tired. As I take a few seconds to pick up my purse and jacket, he runs out into the hall ahead of me. I think it took 3 seconds. All of the sudden the fire alarms start blaring and lights are flashing. Out in the hall, I see my three-year-old frantically trying to push the handle of a fire alarm back up into place. It wasn’t a regular fire alarm. It was a handicapped-enabled one that is lower than regular wall-mounted alarms and looks like a big white handle on the wall. And so he pulled it. Yes, the whole reception hall and the entire hotel had to be emptied out until they could verify there was no fire. Yes, the bride got her picture taken on the fire truck. Yes, the hotel and hall emptied a second time when the alarms went off a second time while the firemen were resetting them. Yes, someone asked “whose kid was that?” the next morning at the hotel. Yes, the entire incident still makes me blush.

I think I remember reading in one of Dr. James Dobson’s books something about bringing up difficult children and how eventually these kids are ones you cherish. They have a special place in your heart. I’m sure it’s because they’ve put you through so much and you never carried out your threats to kill them. Actually, I now know exactly what Dobson was talking about.

First I have to say that both of my children have special spaces in which I cherish them up in my heart. Mandy, my daughter, is the biggest sweetheart, she works hard to get all A’s on her report card, and loves all little children. Joe is my little man. If I am upset, he always tries to comfort me and tell me a better way of looking at things. He is a huge comedian and spouts some of the funniest, intelligent insight into life, which is pretty incredible for an 11-year-old. He also says he has inherited my curves, which is something he probably shouldn’t brag about.

So I guess what I’m saying is that there is hope for any young moms reading this. If your kid is throwing a major tantrum in the checkout line and you think everyone is watching, take heart. We’ve been there. In fact, your kid is probably yelling less than our kid did. And if your kid is screaming “mommy, don’t beat me” as you carry them out of church, just stop and take a deep breath. Then tell yourself: “If we don’t go to the hospital, if the police and fire aren’t called, it’s been a good day.”

My husband is never going to stop coaching

My husband is never going to stop coaching.

Never. Once our kids are through with sports and he no longer has teams he can coach, someday Rick will be spotted out on the street corner with a whistle around his neck. He will blow it at pedestrians, telling them they aren’t running fast enough. Or that they need to take a lap.

I’m not sure I can even name all the teams Rick has coached. He started coaching Joe’s baseball team since he was in preschool, back when some of the outfielders would abandon their positions to go play on the dirt piles. He still coaches some of those same boys, but now they play the competitive Jr. Saltdogs league for 11/12 year olds. He helped coach a few years of Joe’s YMCA soccer. He also coaches for Lincoln midget football, for the Assurity D league. That’s one step up from the Rookie league. He coached Mandy’s YMCA softball team since they were preschoolers, up until about grade 6. He assistant coached for her YMCA soccer and Spirit soccer, but doesn’t do as much of that now. He’s helped coach some of her YMCA volleyball teams and maybe some basketball. He also assistant coaches for both kids’ school volleyball and basketball teams. (Thank you Melissa and Craig. Don’t you quit next year.) Rick can’t stand to sit on the sidelines. He hasn’t met a team he didn’t want to help coach.

And he is actually a pretty good coach. He played a lot of sports growing up, in high school, and then played recreational sports after he was done with school. The last couple of years he has had to slow it down so that he only plays basketball with a group at lunch once a week. Of course, that may be coming to an end someday soon. He says he is definitely the old man out on the court (some are college age) and whoever he guards has the most points for that game. White men can’t jump, especially 45-year-old white men.

Rick has the attitude that everyone should stay active. He runs three to five miles a day. Even on those 100 degree days. And he loves it. Yuck. Some days we have nothing in common. He thinks sports are really important, especially for kids and for their health and self confidence. It’s something I have come to agree with.

He’s a good coach because, first and foremost, he makes sure everybody gets to play. When the kids were in recreational YMCA teams, he made sure everyone got to play the same amount of innings, and they all got a chance to try every position. Now that the kids play on competitive leagues, he still thinks everyone should get to play. Nobody rides the bench all game every game. But that doesn’t mean everyone gets equal playing time. They have to earn it. They have to come to practice. They have to work hard at practice. They have to work hard at the game. This motto helped his baseball team get third in the league last year out of 30-some teams.

However, his soft-heartedness sometimes keeps him from winning all the games. For example, he kept a kid on his football team who maybe should have moved down in the league. When Rick made the suggestion and the kid teared up, turned and hung his head to walk over to the other team, Rick called him back. He kept the kid so he could play on the same team as all his friends. Rick’s got a heart of gold.

But unfortunately he has got the voice of a grumpy old man. He inherited that barking, loud voice from his Grandpa Bernard when he coaches. It makes me cringe, but it’s how he is. I think the entire reason he helped assistant coach Mandy’s soccer was because his voice would carry all the way across the field when the head coach needed to call out plays.

And I get to hear a lot of that voice. I go to almost all the games. For baseball games, I keep the stats book. I know the only reason he wants me to do it is because if someone makes a mistake in the book, at least he can yell at me. He won’t yell at the assistant coaches. But I get to hear a lot of things in the dugout that aren’t party to the rest of the spectators. One game he said when the boys came back to the dugout, “If you guys aren’t going to play outfield, just let me know. I’ve got plenty of kids sitting on the bench who will play outfield, so just give me the word.” A few weeks ago he said as they came back in after a bad inning, “That was the worst inning of baseball I have ever seen in my life.” Nice job Buttermaker. Yeah, I had to stick around and chat up the parents after THAT game to smooth things over.

It’s also been an interesting life lesson on the difference between boys and girls and how they approach challenges. Take, for example, girls’ softball and boys’ baseball. On the bench during girls’ softball, the girls talk about “where did you get that cool visor to match your pink glove?” One of the first softball games of the season many years ago, the other team got a hit in the infield and no one went after the ball. All the girls stood around and looked at one another until one girl eventually went and picked it up. The next game, the first hit of the game, our entire team of girls ran after the ball, abandoning all their posts. It would have been an error on first base, if there had been a first baseman to catch it. You know every girl got a good talking to after that first game by their dads, telling them to go after the ball no matter where it is hit. Boys, on the other hand, don’t talk about matching pink gloves and hats. At the game last night, the boys congratulated the boy who got a hit that went straight at the other team’s pitcher, beaning him in the leg and taking the pitcher out of the game. The boys squirt one another with their water bottles, fill each other’s hats with water when they aren’t looking, spit sunflower seeds everywhere, and see how many pieces of gum they can fit in their mouths at a time. And at the boys first grade season? The first time one of the boys threw the ball to first base and got the runner out, it was on. The team was out for blood. They wanted to get those three outs every inning, and they would push each other over on the diamond to get to the ball first.

The teams aren’t always the greatest. Sometimes his teams lose more games than they win. Sometimes his nose tackle for Midget D league is 70 pounds soaking wet, and he adapts by showing the kid how to army crawl under the opposing linemen. It’s hard to come up with positive things to say when you have no points on the board and all the parents are complaining that their kid should be playing more at key positions. And none of those parents have any idea all the time he spends on his spreadsheets, how many videos or clinics he goes to for new ideas, and that he so wishes he could come up with the key to getting their kid to play at the best of their ability. It’s all for no money, and maybe a free shirt and hat.

The best part of coaching, the thing that makes it all worth while, is not winning the championship -- although that would be awesome. It’s seeing those weak players on your team finally get a hit or finally make a basket. The times that give you tingles up your back is when you’re tied with two outs, and you’ve got a guy on third, but one of your weakest hitters is up to bat. Then he magically, somehow, whacks it out there and makes it to first base, batting in the winning run. It’s when you see those kids light up that makes those unpaid, underappreciated hours of planning, practices, and complaints worthwhile.

So he keeps on coaching. He keeps on spending his evening with his spreadsheet, plotting who is going to play where, fine tuning his batting order, figuring out new plays that allow a defensive line full of less than 100 pounders the ability to hold back an offensive line of 130 pounders.

So in about 10 years, if you are driving through town and you see a tall salt-and-pepper man on the corner with a whistle around his neck and a clipboard in his hand, please text me. Let me know where I can pick him up and I will come with his a blue Gatorade to take him home to watch the Bad News Bears and the Sandlot just one more time.

Centerfield

My daughter is 13

My daughter is 13, but few people would make that guess.

When she turned 13, she was the same height as I was (5’6’’). Currently she is about one to two inches taller than I am, depending on the shoes. She is athletic, enjoys playing middle hitter for her club volleyball team, and loves to plow girls over while charging down the soccer field. She has curves that most girls don’t get until their senior year of high school. (At least I didn't.) She loves red hair, but I’ll only let her get red highlights – for now. We have to show some restraint. A little bird told me that another 13-year-old-boy’s mom remarked that if my daughter was 13, she was a 13-year-old on steroids.

This predicament causes my husband and me a little fear, a little pride, and a whole lot of paranoia. Neither of us was so developed at that age. Plus, we both grew up in small towns, where you know the friends – and the boyfriends. You know whose kid is the shy, sweet type and whose kid is the motorcycle racing, gigolo type. (I always preferred the later.)

Granted, Lincoln is not a metropolis, but it’s still a crap shoot regarding the lineage of any Tom, Dick, or Walter. The creepers are everywhere. One of my daughter’s best friends carries pepper spray and knows how to use it. So far we have refrained from this, mostly because we question her aim. We also aren’t sure if she will remember which side of the can has the nozzle. As I said, we have paranoia.

Sometimes, however, I enjoy walking several paces behind her just to see what she doesn’t see. It’s funny now that I’m grown and I know the things that I know. I’ve seen boys at Scheels go wide-eyed when she is looking at fishing lures in the same aisle, back out of the aisle, and then slink back minutes later to look at something right next to her. Then there was the sweet, quiet boy nervously talking to her at church camp, all the while the boy’s older brother walked by and sneaked a picture with his cell phone. I’ve also seen her walking with a group of friends at an amusement park, totally oblivious to the fact that she was passing a long-time ex boyfriend. I then watched him do a total double-take after she was safely past. Yeah, he better just keep walking.

And it doesn’t just happen at the mall. I can’t decide which comes first: the sophomore boy who lives across the street goes out to mow his lawn, and then Mandy goes out to read her new book. Or, if Mandy cracks the book cover out on the front porch and the quiet of the neighborhood is broken by the sound of the mower cranking up. Clearly it is a chicken/egg situation.

Mandy may only be beginning her teen years, but there are two things we’ve learned: 1) don’t wear volleyball spanks to the grocery store after a game. My husband Rick had to muster a little self control when he saw some schoolers following his daughter with their cell phone to a get a picture of her butt. Glad I didn’t have to bail him out of the clink that day for assault and battery. And B) parents are so embarrassing, but that power can be used for good. Rick loves to embarrass Mandy when walking by a group of schoolers at the theater, or mall, or even in the driveway. For example, he likes to say in his loud Grandpa Bernard voice, “Really, you think that boy is cute?” or “Hey, check me out.” This has her running for the car. I just love Rick.

Really and truly I know that we have some serious challenges ahead of us. As in all things that give me stress, I try to find the humor in the situation. It helps me deal with the hard parts of life, especially because Mandy has the biggest, softest heart. She will get her heart broken. She will embarrass herself (she is her mother’s daughter).

All we can do is ensure that we have given her a strong enough Christian foundation to keep things in perspective and to make good choices. Boyfriends come and go. Good girl friends can last forever. And as Jimmy Soul puts it, “if you want to be happy for the rest of your life, never make a pretty woman your wife.” (This, of course, goes for husbands too.) Words to live by. Think about it.

If You Wanna Be Happy For The Rest Of Your Life

I used to be smart

I used to be smart.

No really. I used to be smart. But then I had kids.

I remember when it happened. My husband and I used to play a game called “Guessing Songs” on car trips. (Yeah, I know what an ingenious name.) Before the chorus, you got a point for yelling out the correct song name and a point for the artist/band. We might even award a third point if you could recite the album title (something my iTunes-loving children will probably never appreciate). Rick was good, but I was better. I could sweep the proverbial floor with him.

And then I went and got pregnant. All of the sudden he was killing me at this game. It was like someone poured Aunt Jemimas down my neural pathways. Obscure songs that should have rolled right off my tongue – they just weren’t there. Or if they were there, they were frustratingly a beat behind my husband. As most wives will tell you: there is nothing as frustrating as getting thrashed at a game you rule by your husband (especially if that husband is my husband, one of the world’s premiere smart alecks.) Needless to say, we stopped playing that game. If momma ain’t happy, ain’t nobody happy.

Since then, it’s all been down hill at a dawdling, but ever-increasing pace. My mind has proven unreliable on numerous occasions. I’ve called my mom (really) more than five times to remind me of the code to get in the front door at my grandma’s assisted living. I’ve taken a kid to school with no shoes on his feet in the middle of winter. (If your car is in the garage, why take the time to put your shoes on in the house?) I’ve driven all the way around Sonic -- possibly more than once -- looking for the drive thru at the Sonic that does not have a drive thru window. And these are the things I’m willing to admit.

I mean really. I graduated from Journalism at UNL with honors when UNL was one of the top 10 News-Editorial schools in the nation. I was a writer for a computer magazine, writing about how computers work, how the Internet was formed, and interviewing bigwigs at computer companies for nice little biographical filler pieces. I flew to computer shows around the country and had jumpy pr people asking “how high” when I needed quotes or software for an article. I was smart. As my brother always said, I could have been high school valedictorian but instead I had a social life. But enough with reliving the past. . .

I would blame it on turning 40, but my husband is older than I am and I know he doesn’t make as many bonehead choices as I do. I would blame it on the hormones, but that seems lame. It may have started with the screwy, nine-months-of-throwing-up hormones, but those are long gone.

I put the blame squarely on my children. I mean, why not? They are the ones that left my figure in ruins and made me forget how to throw killer Friday night parties. They are also the ones who stole my identity. I am no longer identified by my first name. I am Joe’s mom and Mandy’s chaperone. (I know, a whole other issue, but I have issues.) Yet I don’t feel like somebody’s mom most days. I still glance over my shoulder for my mother-in-law when I hear someone say Mrs. Krushenisky.

And now my kids are in their teens, or knocking on that door. Oh, I’ve heard the horror stories. Older mothers are quick to pass along all the nuggets of knowledge they’ve picked up over the years. Just wait until they learn how to drive. Just wait until the boys are lining up the driveway. (I’ll leave that to Rick with his guns and camo. He’s been planning for this since the first time I threw up and now is readying for his concealed carry permit.)

If I was to really try to put my finger on it, I think it has something to do with how your brain changes when you become a mom. All those hormones transform you from a know-it-all to a do-it-all. You may not be their first choice when they need help with math, but you are the first one they blame if they don’t have a water bottle at football practice. All the sudden you have the multi-tasking skills of a superwoman. You feel naked without your calendar. Somehow you remember to wash (and dry) their uniform before the game and feel as if you are a total failure if once, just once, you forget it’s their turn for show and tell. (Blast that calendar.) And these powers are utilized not only by your kids, but your husband relies upon them as well. If you know Rick, you know Rick is the biggest kid at our house, figuratively and literally. It’s up to you to remember a gift for his mother’s birthday, where he put his carpal tunnel arm band, and when he has a chiropractor appointment. All the sudden you find yourself holding up this whole gigantic ship. And somehow you try not to remind them that they would all be lost without someone to hold it all together. Maybe I don’t always succeed at that one.

At this point in my life I try to tell myself that my smartness is changing. (Yes I talk to myself, no I don’t answer back.) I may not be able to recall important facts and figures, or what I walked into this room to get, but I have smarts in other areas. For instance, little boys didn’t brush their teeth if the toothbrush is still dry. Broccoli can not be completely hidden under a pile of ketchup. If the piano book hasn’t changed position, no one practiced. Regarding social studies homework: “fatboy” is never the answer. I think this may apply to most homework categories, but not to motorcycles and safes. Also, I may be blind without my contacts but I can see the blue light of a cell phone down the hall when someone is texting numerous boyfriends at 1am after hours.

Ok, so I haven’t completely lost it. It’s still there. Just give me a little time to remember where I put it. Maybe it’s on the calendar.