A Little Football Anyone?

Call me a football convert. I never loved the game growing up. But today was quite a day. Both my boys won their games. It was fantastic. Yes fantastic.

I grew up on a farm, but I’m a girl’s girl. Football was mostly stinky and yucky and a great time to take a nap every Saturday or Sunday afternoon. But I’m starting to get addicted. Well, at least to midget football.

Lincoln is divided up into eight midget football teams; if you live in a certain part of Lincoln, you automatically go onto that team when you register (unless you register way late and get stuck where they need a few extra players.) There’s the Police, the Firefighters, Runza, the Elks, the Execs, Union Bank, Leon’s, and Assurity Life.

We are in the Assurity part of town, traditionally the pretty, rich boy part of town. (My 13-year-old daughter would happily agree.) In the years I’ve had boys in the program (including the first year with our foster son Jake, and yes I am including Rick as a boy) Assurity is not the biggest team in the program. Assurity boys are generally smaller in size and in weight to the other teams. Several years I have witnessed teams from Runza lining up to weigh in with boys over 6 feet with full beards or moustaches. No lie.

Our boys, however, tower over no one, not even my 13-year-old daughter. (Some Assurity boys match her 5 feet 8 inches, however. And she claims many have nice muscles too. I’ll take her word for that.) Most Assurity boys are skinny and tall, or short and husky. None of them have facial hair or likely pack switch blades. (None also wear boots and camo, thank the Lord.)

You really don’t know it until you get into the program, but midget football in Lincoln is a big deal. It started 60 years ago and has grown and grown. Boys starting fourth grade up to boys starting eighth grade can play. To try to make the teams fair between all these areas of town, the boys in each area are separated into alphabetical levels. You start on the Rookie team, even if you start when you are past fourth grade. Assurity has two of these Rookie teams. Joe could have played Rookie, but he was more than the 110 pound limit when he started fourth grade. Weighing in at a nice round 112 pounds, Joe was resolutely marched up to the Assurity D team.

After Rookie, or if you are one of the big boys like Joe, you might play on the D team. Assurity also has two of these D teams. My husband started assistant coaching when Joe first played D, because they lacked coaches. After that Rick was hooked, and now he is a regular D head coach with his bud Brian.

These two guys kill me. Picture your typical football coach. Is he bald, muscular, and looks like he just ripped somebody’s arms off? Mix in a lot of salty language, a few years playing football at UNL and boxing, and that would be Brian. Rick’s the one with the clipboard and whistle. The two coaches together, they firmly believe in punishments and rewards. Mouth off, cheat on your pushups, or jump off sides and the whole team takes another lap. Or even worse, the whole team has to do another dozen diamond pushups. And the rewards? Remember this is football. The only reward these guys get is an extra water break. Some reward.

Beyond the D team, Assurity has a C team, a B team, and an A team. You are placed on these teams according to your weight, skill level, and ability. Coaches maneuver the players around the first few weeks of practice to give all the levels the most competitive team available to them. A team usually keeps most of the eight graders, as well as the bigger seventh graders. B team is made up of a handful of eight graders who may be less experienced, as well as most seventh graders. Plus B might steal any bigger sixth graders, like my baby Joe.

Because players come in all weights and sizes, the midget football program tries to limit some teams around town from having too much of a size advantage with a dot system. If your baby weighs in at a specific weight at his level, he may have a green dot on his helmet. For example, if he weighs more than 120 pounds on the D team, he will play with a dot. That means he can only play on the line. If he weighs in at a little bit higher weight limit for that level, (such as 135 pounds on the D team) he may have two dots on his helmet. That means he can only play on the line, one way (offense or defense). If he weighs more than those limits, he may be a movin’ on up.

My baby has played a few years with a dot on his helmet, but thankfully not a double dot. He is a sturdy boy. Today he sailed through the weigh in without a dot on his helmet. The guy at the scale waved him through, thinking he looked OK because he was shorter than most of his team. Ummmm, actually I think the boy should have gotten a dot. We even shined up the spot on his helmet for the dot. Dot or no dot, I don’t think Joe will be going out for any passes. Running is not his thing. Not by a long shot. Not by a really, really long shot. He is happy on the line. So it is all good.

But this year on the line, Joe has his work cut out for him. Yikes. The boys on the other teams are tall and beefy. Joe plays left guard and weighs in at 151. His good friend Maclain, the right guard, is about 144. We joke with the boys that that is about 300 pounds of beef coming across the offensive line. We like to yell “Bring in the beef” at the boys during the game. Plus when you add in our center at 160 pounds (with a double green dot), that’s about 450 pounds of beef making holes up the middle. And that’s the B team. Imagine the A team. And these guys aren’t even in high school yet.

But the B team we played today (Leon’s) did not blink an eye at our offensive line. Their middle three defensive linemen all had dots. One had a double dot. Guess which one lined up across from Joe? The guy across from Joe was around 5 foot 8 or 10 inches and extra beefy, probably around 180 pounds. Joe says it actually is no big deal. You just push those double dots down to the side and cut their legs out from under them. (Joe says you are supposed to say “ha ha sucker” when you do that.) Or you push your shoulder pads up into their throats. Short husky guys like Joe have that low center of gravity working for them I guess.

We kind of figured Rick’s D team would have a good game today. Rick and Brian are super good about showing the boys how to wrap up, lock shoulder pads, and develop those choppy feet. Rick has some awesome running backs and receivers, and an awesome defense. They won 32 to 0. They have a few repeat players from last year who are returning with confidence. Pinky is back, the 70 pound nose tackle. He was army crawling his way through the line to make trouble in the backfield. One of the kids on Rick’s team, Appleget, is a huge track star. When he rounds the corner, he is just gone. It is a beautiful thing. His coaches have a man crush on him.

Rick’s team played a team with three guys from his Jr. Saltdogs baseball team. One of the mom’s said to me, “We saw Rick standing across the way with his clipboard, and we said, oh no, not Coach K’s team. Not the first game of the season.” Parents and players love him. They have a man crush on Coach Krush. Um, yeah.

Joe’s B team, well that’s another story. Most of the guys on Joe’s B team played for the Assurity C team last year. The C team last year did not win a game. They scored a total of one touchdown the entire season. Plus, the coaches last year moved up to coach the B team, along with the boys. This did not look promising. They had a few studs courtesy of last year’s D teams. But with their main play being “run it up the middle,” we were not optimistic. Plus, one of the studs from Rick’s baseball team was the quarterback for the opposition, and he has an awesome arm. Things were looking even more dismal, if that was possible.

The game remained scoreless the first half. Our offense kept to their keen plan of running it up the middle, using our little beef pack to make holes in the green dot brigade. Then the other team broke off and scored a touchdown, but failed to make the extra point. It’s 6 to 0. We flail and flail. Then our defense causes a fumble and we recover and make a touchdown. Then we run it in a second time for two more points. It’s 6 to 8. After that, the other team just walked all over us. They only scored one more touchdown, failing again to make the extra point with about three minutes to go. The father next to me, whose kid plays for the other team, said to his wife that this team doesn’t have much of an offense; Leon’s should be able to pull this off. Yes, I always get to sit next to these people. They are fantastic. Maclain’s mom and I unfortunately agree. We watched the clock tick down. And then out of the blue, one of our tight ends breaks free and makes it to the three yard line. We remain pessimistic. Then our awesome little beef pack opens up a hole and the quarterback breaks through to the end zone -- and with a mere 1 minute 25 seconds left. I know, games are won and lost with less time than that. We wait for the huge play by the other team. But somehow we intercept the ball. We wear down the time clock. We count down the last seconds. And the underdogs win. We are jumping up and down. Somehow that dad is long gone.

Well today was one of those awesome days you don’t get too much of when you play sports. All the Assurity teams won their games today – A, B, C, both Ds and at least one if not both the Rookie teams. Mark one up for the little pretty boys. I guess if your coach teaches you how to handle the bigger boys and you just want it a little more, you can close the gap, open up the holes, and dive into the end zone. Your mom may go hoarse at the end of the day, but she’s got a whole week to recover until next Sunday afternoon.

When we got home today, Rick and I talked about the day while we sat on the deck with a couple of beers. Today was one of those rare days that you play your hardest and it all pays off. Most games the team won’t be able to win in the last minute and a half. Most games you walk away the loser. But today was one of the rare days that keep you coming back for more. Both teams likely won’t win on the same day again. Some days they may not win at all. But for now we are cherishing the win. We are thanking God for a good day, for no injuries (at least for our teams), and for giving the underdogs one heck of a victory.

Now the only big job to tackle is the laundry. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. There is not enough Febreeze in the world to kill the smell of football pads in the morning. OK, so it still is stinky. I can live with that.

The Replacements I Will Survive

I Will Survive by Gloria Gaynor

Baby One More Time by Britney Spears

A Family Tradition

Siblings. You can’t live with them, you can’t divorce them. They know where you would run to and they’ve got your second set of keys.

I’ve often wondered why I am the way I am. Why do I talk so much? Why do I fret over the little things? Why do I feel the need to sass? After spending an evening with my siblings and their spouses, I’m pretty sure I’ve got that last one figured out.

We are a family of smart alecks. On our own, we are pretty lively. But get us together in a group and it’s a verbal no disqualification match.

Why are we the way we are? An image comes to mind. You know when cook something in a pot on the stove, put the lid on, turn up the heat, and then walk away? When you come back and remove the lid, all hell breaks loose. That’s a pretty good analogy for me and my siblings. What’s the pot, who’s the lid, and what provides the heat? I’m sure someone could have a field day psychoanalyzing that one.

Once every year towards the end of the summer we all get together and go to a Saltdogs baseball game. It’s usually around mid-August so we can celebrate several siblings’ birthdays, and my husband Rick’s birthday, all in one shot. My brother and Rick love baseball, and my sisters and I love margaritas and cold beer, so it’s a natural choice. We always talk loud, catch up on life, and spend a good portion of the game making fun of one another, catching lots of looks from the crowd around us. (Yep Teina, the couple to the left of us really enjoyed your new stripper name.)

If I was to point fingers, I would probably point the biggest finger of blame at my brother. He was smart and could run fast, but he still got beat up several times in grade school for his smart mouth. We had the typical rivalries. He used to punch me in the arm; I used to claw him with my fingernails. I tied him to a tree and left him there. He slaughtered me at Monopoly, showing no mercy and proving himself a terrible winner. There was always some obnoxious name calling and dancing involved. He also looked in my hand when we played cards. (I still call him old Rubberneck.) But then we grew up and had kids. He sprang up so tall that he outgrew his hair line. (Ha.) We still compete with each other, often at a juvenile level. I finished reading the Lord of the Ring series before him (everything is still a race). When my dad had surgery this year, he told me he had something for me while we were waiting in the hospital. He had pulled one of the entry tabs off the poster for the hospital’s biggest loser weight loss contest. He said I was a shoe-in to win because I was, of course, the biggest loser. (Really, people, who does this? Dad was having surgery.) He “arranged” to have a kid on my mom’s birthday, claiming to be mom’s all-time favorite. I do have to admit, he wins. He can have that one. I’m not popping another one out just for bragging rights.

And our middle sister picked right up on the sass and has developed it with her own snarky panache. Last week she texted me that she was at the Motherhood store at the mall and wanted to know if I needed her to pick me up anything while she was there. Ha. When I was pregnant she asked me if I was really pregnant or just getting fat. Ha ha. When my son was two, she bought him a drum set for his birthday. Not a toy drum – a whole kid’s drum set -- because you can’t take the batteries out of that toy. As delightful as that all is, I hope she remembers that paybacks are hell. And I have a long memory, just ask my husband.

Our youngest sister has lots of sass plus technology on her side. We siblings are often the butt of her jokes on her blog, on her Facebook, and via text. For example, tonight at the ball game I was getting teased that I was the only child that didn’t get a text from mom about dad’s recent speeding ticket. I know, no one loves me. While we are enjoying the game, my phone jingles and I receive a text from my baby sister. She forwarded me the original text she received from mom about the speeding text. Then she sent me another text, signed “love mom.” That is just so tricky. This brought a barrage of texts. Perhaps to give you the best idea of our family rhetoric, I will repeat our banter here. I will not say who said what, just that I am the good sister. My explanatory remarks are in parenthesis:

“Lot’s of cops out dad got speeding ticket 2nite”

“-love mom”

“You are full of crap, walking taco.”

“Love mom”

“Does Sarah look like she’s getn fat?”  (Sarah is pregnant fyi)

“Love mom”

“I ran out of singles at the strip club –love mom”

“Tens & twenties are acceptable”

“Love mom”

“Well I tried quarters but they kept falling out”

“Love mom”

“Clench tighter”   (Sorry about that one)

“Love mom”

“Your dads a code red”   (a super hot guy)

“Love mom”

“I threw up a little in my mouth”

“Love mom”

“(Naughty words I can’t repeat that I didn’t write)”

“Love mom”

“That is disturbing”

“Love mom”

And the conversation all goes to pot from there with things I can’t repeat. This is what I am living with, people. Is it no wonder I am the way I am? Normal people get nice family phone calls and occasional texts with loving endearments and personal news. I get “Your dads a code red, love mom.” There has to be some psychological damage to news of that magnitude.

Where does it all come from? I don’t think I can really pin it specifically on my parents. They aren’t overly sassy, although they like nicknames. My extended family, however, they might have something to do with it. My mother was one of eight kids who spent many of their days bantering and playing tricks on one another while they were stuck on the family farm. I mean really, what other family wraps up bubble wrap, odds and ends from a junk drawer, and the queen of spades (we play a lot of Hearts) as Christmas gifts? And while playing Hearts at family reunions, it is encouraged to make a Zero over your head and dance around obnoxiously if you finish the hand with zero points. Of course, they do compliment the loser on how nice their hair looks that day. And a good portion of these aunts and uncles and cousins are teachers. If your child has ever had a Mr. Everts or Ms. Everts, they may have been infected with a healthy dose of smart aleck. Good luck with that in future years. There is no known vaccine.

These smart aleck tendencies run deep among us siblings. In fact, it affects our life choices. My brother and sister and I – very active Lutherans -- all married Catholics. (Carrie will someday. Denial ain’t just a river in Egypt.) Once again, it’s probably that rebellious side of us trying to get out, trying to infect the Catholic religion with our rebellious Lutheranism. (Some day I plan to devise my own ninety-five theses to post on our front door.)

But our spouses keep up with the sass pretty well. I mean, we are all still married. My husband and my sister-in-law can sass along with the best of them. Occasionally I have to take my hat off to their retorts. My brother-in-law, well, I’m sure many days he has wondered how he got himself into this mess and if there is any hope for his kids. (Nope, I’m pretty sure I saw his four-year-old daughter giving my sister the “Z snap” with attitude just the other day.)

That leads me to consider future generations and the legacy we are leaving to our children. Many, many, many days I have said that it is a good thing Joe is built big and sturdy and plays lineman on his football team. He has an extremely smart mouth but, unfortunately, he can’t run fast. He will probably get beat up a lot in high school, but his size may cause them to think twice before they take the first swing.

Mandy, well she has also inherited the Everts talent for writing. Someday she will write books about embarrassing moments from her youth and how her parents have scarred her for life. Hmmmm. If her writing can’t support her parents in her old age, well, maybe there is a blog in there somewhere?

He Ain't Heavy, He's My Brother by The Hollies

We Are Family by Sister Sledge

Sisters Are Doing It For Themselves by Eurythmics and Aretha Franklin

Electric Feel by MGMT  (So sad Albitz got picked up by the Cardinals)

The Road to Lincoln Is Paved In Good Intentions

I do not have road rage. However I sometimes get road exasperation.

I spend probably 50 percent of my day driving around Lincoln. I’m always driving a kid to a practice or a game or a sleepover or a birthday party or a shopping mall or a swimming pool. Or else, I’m driving to a store to get something for a kid who has a game and a sleepover birthday party at a swimming pool. You get the general idea. Sometimes I think my paychecks go directly into the gas pump.

Growing up in a small town, I used to be intimidated by driving in the “big city.” But after 22 years of living in Lincoln, I can drive in the driving snow, chai latte in hand.

I’ve learned that Lincoln is a pretty diverse town, with a large assortment of drivers. In some parts of town, you have to watch out for the impulsive high school drivers. Other parts of town feature partying college students. Other parts harbor the hard-nosed working commuters. A few neighborhoods are crawling with overly cautious blue hairs. And then you’ve also got to watch out for the soccer moms; they’ve always got an axe to grind, especially if their team lost.

Here I’ve compiled a short list of drivers you should watch out for if you are new to town or just visiting. If you live in Lincoln, I’m sure I’m preaching to the choir.

Cars you make room for:

1)      Student drivers. The ones with the big blaring sign on the top or side of their car that plainly says “Student Driver.” If you can’t figure this one out, you are too dumb to drive. Go turn in your license to the nearest police officer.

2)      Old people. Would you tailgate your grandma? Seriously? She makes you cookies. I hope you choke on the next batch.

3)      High schoolers. Some newly licensed drivers can barely see over the steering wheel, no less your vehicle filling their rear-view mirror. Following them too closely could cause a major meltdown in their drama-filled world. Besides, if they side-swipe you while involved in a major texting scandal about who dumped who and who now has a crush on someone else, they may never notice the collision. And do you really want to see some little girl cry? Or, even worse, some teenage boy?

4)      Out-of-county or out-of-state vehicles. Especially those with confused looking middle-aged women. They have enough money to fix their vehicle afterwards and they may think it is worth it to get in your lane to get to the mall.

5)      Any car held together by wire and duct tape. They don’t care if they hit you. They aren’t going to stop. They are only driving with one point left on their license anyway. And they didn’t pay their last two insurance premiums. Don’t park next to these cars either.

6)      College students. Reason? See Number 5.

There are cars in Lincoln you are free to cut off. Feel encouraged to drive a few clicks below the speed limit in front of them, as well.

The biggest culprits on my hit list are fast-driving men with pickups and mini vans. I also am irritated by middle-aged men passing in the right lane. They think that they don’t have time to drive in the correct lane. They will pass everyone on the right and cut in at the last second, usually in front of Number 2. They think it worked the last five times, it will work again today. Feel free to drive closely behind the car in front of you and not allow them in. I did this once and got the finger. I laughed the whole way home. This was not the effect that driver was hoping to have, I’m sure.

I can happily say I never have given anyone the finger. I also have never yelled obscenities at another driver. (That’s not to say I haven’t thought them really loudly.) Perhaps I have said “get a move on blue hair” or “pick a lane” a few times in not the kindest tone of voice.

My husband does get road rage. I’ve had to remind him that his wife and children who he loves are in the vehicle. And now that we have one of those blasted sporting stickers on the back of the vehicle, people can track us down. So much for anonymity. But he also honks at golfers and people playing sand volleyball. He is naughty. I would cut him off if he was in another vehicle.

But that’s all the time I have to talk about driving. I have to jump back in the Traverse, crank the Green Day, and pick up my kids from school. Joe has football at 6 and Mandy has -- you guessed it -- a soccer game at 5:15. And I just sharpened my axe last night…

Life is a Highway by Rascal Flatts (best driving song ever)

Chasin' You Around by Sugar Ray (story of my life, chasing my kids around)

Death and Dating

I’m not ready for this. My daughter is going to be the death of me.

Mandy didn’t kill me with the nine months of puking or the preeclampsia when I was pregnant. But she may finish me off with the teenage-itis. If I don’t die of stress related to all the crabbiness, it’s going to be over the boys she attracts.

So we go to the tractor pull at the county fair so Mandy can see a tractor that is owned by a friend’s grandpa. Mandy and her friend go off so they don’t have to look “uncool” sitting with her mom and her friend’s parents. As we sit there, I see a couple boys standing up at the fence right in front of us. The boys keeping looking back over their shoulders and smiling and talking to one another. I think to myself, that’s odd that they keep looking over at the concession stand -- the tractor pull is in the other direction. Whatever. Boys are dumb.

But the boys stay in this spot and they continue to look over their shoulders and talk and laugh. It’s starting to become distracting. As this continues to happen, I follow their eyes over to the concession stand. Oh crap. Yep, it’s my daughter and her friend. There they are, all smiles, doing the hair flip, pretending to watch tractors. And the boys are just Mandy’s type: decked out with camouflage seed corn hats and boots. Country boys with cell phones seem to seek out my daughter wherever we go.

But, I’m thinking, OK, maybe they are checking out my daughter’s friend. Maybe they are just looking. I watch a few more tractors go, and I look over, and the boys are gone. One guess where they went. Yep, one of the guys is shaking my daughter’s hand. I smack my friend on the shoulder and tell him to go take care of that, and he just laughs. Thanks Todd. Someday I’ll return the favor.

And it only gets worse. He asked her out to a dance. And he’s 18. When you turn 18, you know how to spell “jail bait,” right? But Rick quickly put an end to that discussion. I believe he went online to order a t-shirt that says “My dad is 6’4’’ and has a concealed carry permit.” (At least, he’s working on getting the permit, but that’s beyond the point.)

We all went to the mall today, and Rick and I can not believe how many smiling boys she encounters. Of course, she is pretty oblivious. And that is just fine. I don’t want her to get conceited. She always says, oh mom, they totally aren’t interested. Hmmm. We’ve also been jokingly told at midget football practice that Mandy is not allowed to watch the practices by some of the football coaches. If she comes along, she has to stay in the car. Really. The boys have a hard enough time paying attention without any additional distractions. Once again, this is not completely new information.

So now we’ve been talking about dating at our household and the dating rules. I always believed when I was growing up that the same rules that I grew up with would apply to my daughter. They seemed so strict then, but now they aren’t strict enough.

These are the rules established by my aunts that my father followed to the letter. There was no dating until you were 16. Of course, a date officially meant having a boy pick you up, take you out, and then bring you home. At 14, my aunts established that a girl should be able to meet a boy someplace. There was no picking up or dropping off. But at least you could meet someone at a movie or a homecoming dance. At 15, you could have take-homes. You had to have your parents take you to the dance, but the boy could take you home. And then at 16, you were ready for the big time. I always had a problem with the logic, because I questioned who the 14 and 15-year-old boys were dating until the girls in my class turned 16. That was not my dad’s problem.

But here is my current problem. I turned 14 when I was a freshman in high school. Most of the boys I was interested in were my age, although I did go to prom my freshman year with a senior. Not sure if I’m going to mention that to my daughter. My daughter will turn 14 in two months and she will still be in the 8^th grade. She’s had boys interested in her who are much older than she. In fact, shopping at the mall today I surprised the salesgirl who asked what high school Mandy was going to by telling the salesgirl that Mandy was only 13 and in the 8^th grade. The girl said she never would have imagined that. Mandy is tall and very curvy. I did not look like that until I was a senior in high school.

So my question is, what do you do with a girl who is a little older and a little more developed than the other girls in her class? I know, I know, she should focus on school, and her friends, and her sports. And she does that; she has straight A’s and she has a sports practice or game almost every night of the week.

But we also want her to have fun. And she needs to have a little fun; her ex-boyfriend is just starting high school and is hitting on all her friends. She stays away from Facebook and texting most of her friends because she doesn’t want to know about it. But still all she hears about is how hot he is and how funny he is and how all the girls are in love with him. Ex-boyfriends can be the pits.

It’s a difficult time in her life. She is one of two girls in the 8^th grade at a small parochial school in Lincoln. Her best friends have moved on to high school, and she feels very alone. It’s hard to see your daughter upset and alone, no matter if she is 5 or 13 or 20. So she is looking for new friends, especially ones who are boys.

Well, 18-year-olds are out of the question. And 13 and 14-year-olds have no idea she is their age. It’s a problem I have no pat solution for. For all my blogging, nothing really comes to mind.

One thing I do know, it will all work out in the end. God has a plan and He will match her up with the people who He chooses to match her up with. Nothing I can do will change His plan. I just have to have faith that it all works out and leave it in His hands. I didn’t find the right boy until I went to college. Neither, probably, will she.

But until that time, she needs to have faith and keep having fun. And Rick and I need to keep holding down the fort and getting that concealed carry permit. As we come to the end of this blog my final question for the reader is, do you know of any private schools that ban camouflage and cowboy boots? Do you register by phone or can you do that online?

Girls Just Wanna Have Fun by Cyndi Lauper  Doesn't the dad in this video so remind you of Rick?

Tonight, Tonight by Hot Chelle Rae

The Bell Curve

Ring the bell. Who says beer and higher learning can’t go hand in hand?

I took philosophy in college, but it was never as entertaining as the philosophizing my husband and I do with our friends over beer and pizza on Saturday night. (Of course, everything is a little more entertaining with beer and pizza, especially if someone else is buying.)

We have some great friends who we love going out with to talk about our high school years, our kids, and the way the world should be. Our discussions can range from the probabilities of the movie “Red Dawn” becoming a reality to the pros and cons of the Pledge of Allegiance in public schools. And who really has three dates to their senior prom? Seriously? And your wife still married you?

After about the third or fourth pitcher of beer, one friend loves to break out a cocktail napkin and introduce unsuspecting victims to his “bell curve of life.”

It looks like a traditional bell curve. You start life at the bottom of the curve. As you grow up and go through school and high school, you climb the side of the bell. Life just keeps getting better and better. During your college years, you are just about at the apex. You’ve hit on the best years of your life. You are having the most fun, making the best friends, and living the best time of your life.

Then you graduate from college and get a job. The curve starts to recede ever so slightly. Then maybe you get married, and according to our friend, that’s when the curve really takes a dive. (This is when his wife orders another pitcher.) As you age and have kids, the curve quickly drops away. There goes all your fun and freedom.

Our friend loves to educate the interns at his office on the bell curve of life. He feels it is part of their life education. This is it, so enjoy it while you can. Sometimes their parents actually agree.

I always get a kick when our friend dupes another victim. But while I can laugh, I can’t say I necessarily agree. If I knew back then in my “glory days” what I know now, things would have been different. I wouldn’t have stressed out so much over what now I realize were little things. One bad grade does not mean the end of the world as we know it. I would have recognized that boys are dumb. I would see that some people really weren’t my friends. I wouldn’t have taken things so hard or worried so much about what other people thought. There were a lot of good times, but there were a lot of bad times too.

If I was to graph my own life on a bell curve (where is Mr. Coon when I need him?), I would put this time in my life at the top of my curve. High school and college were great. There were lots of parties, friends, boys, and freedom. But there were lots of heartbreaks and finals and uncertainties about the future. And all those experiences helped me become the person I am now.

Finding a profession I really love and am good at would rank higher on my chart than a high school prom or college kegger. Marrying my husband and having children would definitely create a big spike. (However, the period in which my son Joe was 2 and 3 might take a dip.) I love watching my kids grow and become the people they are going to be. And now that they take care of themselves – for the most part – I have some time to do things for myself. I can get a pedicure or go to the grocery store by myself (and I can get three bags of Lays pickle chips if I feel the need). Plus we have a few extra dollars to buy a new couch or go on a vacation to Hawaii. And although sometimes he is just a big kid, I still think my husband looks cute and he keeps me laughing.

Yep, life is pretty good right now. This can’t be any less fun than when I was 16. Nobody grounds me and takes the battery out of my car to run an irrigation well for staying out past midnight. And I know the same guy who takes me to the dance is taking me home later (even if sometimes I have to drive).

I’m afraid my bell curve still hasn’t started its decline. You see, you learn something new everyday. But who would have thought I might actually use geometry beyond the 10^th grade? My apologies Mr. Coon.

 Schoolhouse Rock Conjunction Function   (I know, I should have used a math related one, but this one is my favorite.)

Ring My Bell by Anita Ward

Goodbye Boys of Summer

My kids start school next week, and the thought of this makes me very sad. The beginning of school means the end of summer, and I’m not ready for summer to say goodbye.

I haven’t gotten quite enough baseball yet. There is nothing that says summer like the sound of a bat cracking as it hits the ball. I need more Saltdogs games and more ice cold beers. I need to hear the lemonade man yelling “lem-o-naid, lem-o-naid, lem-o-naid wooooooooo,” at least four more times.

I haven’t gotten enough sweet corn yet. There is nothing that says summer to me like a pile of fresh sweet corn, even if it means having to put up 200 bags at some point in the 100 degree weather. I need more grilled steaks, grilled hamburgers, and grilled brats. Summer is the only time my husband proudly cooks a meal, plus I don’t have to do the clean up. And I still need more plates of fresh garden tomatoes. And more lemonade and sun tea and watermelon and zucchinis and cucumbers and eggplant. Are you starting to sense a pattern? Summer comes with lots of fresh food. And food is big at our house. Really big. Even our dog is "big boned."

I need to smell more fresh-cut grass. That is always one of the first signs of summer to me, the smell of fresh-cut grass. I haven’t gotten enough of it. (Yes, I would buy this as a candle fragrance.) I have, however, gotten enough eyefulls of men mowing shirtless. Why is it that the guys you wouldn’t mind mowing shirtless keep their muscles covered, while the blindingly white older guys strip their shirts off as soon as the temperature hits 70? That’s an image that scalds itself into your eye sockets -- you just can’t forget. Life is so unfair.

We need to do more fishing. We didn’t get enough early morning trips to Wagontrain to our favorite fishing hole. I’ve still got bait in the fridge. (I’ve got to get that out of there.) Joe didn’t get to eat enough sunflower seeds in the boat and I didn’t get to fry enough fish. I bought a new fish breading basket and everything. And we didn’t even take the camper out of the driveway once. We tried twice, but it was 60mph gusts with tornado watches every time we planned to go earlier this summer. We might have to camp in the driveway one night just to say we used it. How sad is that?

So this week we are going through all the school clothes to decide what fits and what we need. We are emptying out the old backpacks to see what school supplies will work for next year, and what we don’t have on the school supply list. Instead of talking about grilling burgers, we will be talking school lunches. And the smell of fresh cut grass will soon be replaced by freshly sharpened pencils (which I actually find very pleasant and would buy as a candle fragrance, as well).

I may actually be sad this year when I drop the kids off for their first day of school. In the past I generally went skipping out of there, waiting, of course, until the kids were safely out of sight. And the beginning of school always meant that my birthday was just around the corner. But that was back when birthdays were landmark events. Now they come with more age spots and grey hairs (neither of which I think I should be getting yet because I do not think I am that old. I mean really.)

We had a great summer together. We went on vacation, the kids actually did a few chores, and they made their own lunches -- for the most part. Granted, I rarely got to watch any of the shows I would have liked to watch, and several more of my brain cells died when Joe turned on Sponge Bob. But it will be difficult when the house is quiet. This week has gotten me feeling very melancholy.

It may still be hot outside, but my heart says the season is passing. I better buck up and embrace the change. Book bags and homework, piano lessons and football practice, they are all scheduled and waiting. But the smell of football pads in the morning . . . well that’s definitely not a trade I’m ready to embrace no matter what time of year.

In the Summertime by Mungo Jerry  (This is worth watching just to look at the sideburns.)

Summer in the City by Lovin' Spoonful  (Again with the sideburns.)

Summertime Blues by Eddie Cochran  (Oldie but a goodie.)

The Boys of Summer by Don Henley (End of summer song.)

Hatchets, Aisle 3

I refuse to take my husband to the grocery store. I don’t know if our marriage can handle it.

I knew when I married Rick that he liked to take his time. Every tiny detail has to be done just so. But little did I know that this tendency would so plague the rest of my life.

He is incredibly indecisive, although not in all areas of life. At least I hope not for his coworkers or his baseball team. But at the grocery store his lack of focus is the worst.

I go through the store, aisle by aisle. I am a list person. As I go down each aisle, I check the list and get all the items I need in that aisle while I am in that aisle. I may find a few extras I forgot to put on the list, but I get them while I am in that aisle. I am pretty organized, pretty annoyingly so.

Rick, however, does not approach grocery shopping in the same manner. We need peanut butter, so he goes to the aisle with peanut butter. He knows we need butter, so he goes to the aisle with butter. Then he knows we need bread to go with the butter and peanut butter, so he goes to the aisle with bread. Next, he remembers we also need milk, so he goes back to the dairy aisle to get milk. He crisscrosses the whole store five million times, taking five million minutes, taking five million steps. My patience only goes to about four and a half million.

The same goes when we are trying to leave the house. Rick is one of the last people out of the door because there is always one more thing he has to do. We could be ten minutes late -- he literally could have his hand on the doorknob -- and he would think of just one more thing he had to get before he could leave.

This tendency is also a problem when we are packing to go on vacation. I can get the bags packed and by the door, I can make him a list of all the things he needs to pack. But we will leave about an hour after I have scheduled us to leave because he just couldn’t get the bags in symmetrically. Or else the tie-down in the back of the pickup didn’t cover everything just so. Or else he doesn’t have the right pair of sunglasses. And we still will arrive, only to discover he forgot his best fishing pole sitting on the garage freezer. Last time we went on vacation, I left my daughter behind when I took the dog to the kennel. I told her, “Ride your dad. Keep him moving. Maybe he will be ready in a half hour when I get back.” Did it work? NO. I think it might be catching. Arg. (Just kidding Manda, I love you. J)

I pride myself on being quick and efficient. I make a mental list of what has to get done and in what order of importance these things should be taken care of. Rick was not born with this capacity, at least not in matters at home. Maybe he saves up all of his organizational skills for the office. I don’t know. I know he saves up bagels and cream cheese for work, maybe that’s where he keeps his organization, as well.

It’s funny to me sometimes, because this is one of Rick’s biggest gripes about our son. It can take Joe a half hour to get dressed for a baseball game. It’s the same problem all over again. He sits down and puts on his baseball socks, but then has to get back up to find his belt, and then his shirt. I used to think it would be better if I just turned off the TV. Now I realize it is genetic. It’s funny that we can become so annoyed by some character flaw in someone else, and yet we are completely blind to the plank in our own eye. I suppose it is God’s sense of humor. I also suppose it is why my mother’s constant talking drives me insane. (Sorry mom, I hope this isn’t completely new information.)

I see both boys doing the same things. They start out with all good intentions. But as they are in the middle of finishing one job, they think of something else they should be doing, and they start that job. But they never finished the first job. So when they get halfway done with the second job, they go back to the first job, cause, oh yeah, they were working on that first. And then while they are almost finished with the first job, they think of a third job, and they start doing that. I have walked into the garage to find my husband standing there, stock still, with his hand hanging in the air over a tool. He is staring into space, with a blank look on his face. I know he is trying to remember which job it was he needed that tool for in the first place. I hope it is not the Alzheimer’s (we both have it in our families) cause I call getting it first.

I know opposites attract, but come on. Some days I tell myself, for better or worse, for better or worse. After 18 years of marriage, I have adapted somewhat. We plan to get to something about 15 minutes early, then we can get there on time. The clock in his pickup is set 10 minutes fast (although the fact he knows this and adjusts somewhat defeats the fact). And I tell him we want to leave for a trip about an hour before we absolutely have to be hitting the bricks.

For now I will continue to do the grocery shopping by myself. It saves my sanity and my marriage. Maybe I will take him when the Alzheimer’s sets in. Who are you again and why are you holding my purse?

P.S. Rick says this is completely not true. Well, maybe some of it. But not all of it. Sure.

Hello, I Love You by The Doors

A Letter of Apology

Dear future daughter-in-law and son-in-law,

I am so sorry. After spending an entire week in close contact with both of my children, I feel I have some apologizing to do.

I have come to the realization that my husband Rick and I have spoiled our children something terrible, so much so that it may make life somewhat difficult for their future spouses.

I claim most of the responsibility for spoiling Joe. I wait on him hand and foot, giving him back problems – the problem is that he’s never bent at the back to pick something up.

He really has to do very few things for himself. The spoiling starts when I make his bed every morning. I know, what am I thinking? I wash and fold his clothes, and then put them in his room in the hopes that he will put them away. But after he trods them all over the floor, I eventually put them away too. I remind him to shower, to put in his contacts, and to brush his teeth. I fix him chips with cheese and salsa and bring him his glass of milk. Then I bring him another. I pretend not to notice he did not eat anything green on his plate and sometimes I count ketchup as his vegetable for the day.

I am embarrassed to say that I do so much for him that I highly doubt he could function on his own. I make sure he has everything he would need before he heads out the door from book bag to water bottle. I’m sorry to say once I had an off day and didn’t notice until he was walking into school in the dead of winter that he forgot his shoes. Sometimes he gets headaches because he forgets to eat. Whoops. My bad.

Perhaps it’s because I find everything goes faster and more efficiently if I do it myself. I do ask him to help me with chores. But, just like his father, he knows if he just waits long enough, mom will get fed up and do it herself. (Rick claims this is because I am on a faster schedule than he is. Right.)

So I apologize in advance to you, my future daughter-in-law. First and foremost, I’m sorry because my son says he is never moving out of our basement (really sorry about that one.) Secondly, he will never put his dirty clothes in the hamper and will leave his wet towel wherever he decides to drop it. I guess he believes the magic clothes fairy will follow him wherever he goes. Yep, he’s hopeless. I hope you are satisfied that he is cute, fluffy, and super funny. I also hope you guys are getting along OK as he pursues his career as a football player, chef, and professional dog walker.

And to my future son-in-law, I blame your future issues on my husband. Many times I have said that Rick has ruined Mandy for all other men. She will never find a man that is as wonderful as her father. Seriously. Give up now. You can’t win this war.

Rick and I go to the store and he will buy something, just because he saw it and thought she might like it. We eat at a restaurant and he suggests we bring the kids sometime because Mandy would really like this or that. We stop to get gas at the station and he brings out a little bag of pickle chips or a mocha latte. When I ask “what’s that?” he says that he just thought Mandy might like a little something (although he also does this for Joe).

Rick makes time in his schedule to drive Mandy wherever she needs to go, even if that someplace is some boy’s baseball game an hour away. And if he does get mad or says no, she says, “but daddy” or “I love you daddy” and he just melts. Good luck with those blue eyes.

Yep, Rick and I are suckers, softies, and wimps. However you want to put it, we are spoiling our kids terribly. They have cell phones, TVs in their rooms, and more clothes than they could ever need. But then again, they have all the love in the world. They know how to work, be a good winner and loser, and say they are sorry and mean it.

We apologize for all their shortcomings. But we know they are loving, forgiving, and kind. We hope someday we can make it all up to you. How about a nice big screen television in the basement?

Sincerely,

C. R. Krush

Daughters by John Mayer

I'm Sorry by Brenda Lee