Nope, stop panicking, its not OUR boy ... my little sister Kati and her husband, Juan, are having their first little boy together the end of January. Yep, the family is all still laughing that it's another "he" to the fold. This will make THREE boys for Juan and Kati (2 stepsons for Kati from Juans prior marriage). I hope she's ready for the ride. I can barely stay sane at thirty .... grumble, grumble, sneeze, four!
NO GRANDDAUGHTERS! I guess my sister-in-law Sarah will have to begrudgingly step to the plate if I am ever to have a niece. They have girls in her family!
As the mother of THREE, count them yes, THREE boys, people are always offering "comments". Most of their comments are things like, "wow, three boys ... my three sons, huh? (okay, stop it with that one, it was funny the first time, it's old by the 13,oooth time), boy you have your hands full ... don't worry I did it ... and finally, "consider yourself lucky, girls are worse, much worse." Up until this point I figured the latter comment was given to me out of pity. How could girls POSSIBLE be worse than three boys. After all, I have made it clear that although I love my boys, boys are indeed stupid. They don't think things through, they do then think (sometimes think, most of the time giggle at their utter stupidity) that whatever they did was funny, even if destruction lies in their wake. ie: refer to the large hole that is in my wall in the upstairs hallway from Jon and his friend trying to Pergo the floor ... where did the large hole come from ... not sure, but it was something like this, "bam! woops" giggle, giggle, giggle from both Jon and his friend. So, I rest my case on the boys are stupid part.
Back to girls. I assumed people telling me they were worse was pity. But. as my boys get older and I get to see some of their female counterparts in action I have made the following judgements. First, my mother should be entered into sainthood. She raised three girls. Second, boys ARE easier. Even though boys are dumb, they are predictable. Something doesn't go their way and the list is pretty short as to what their reaction will be. Msot of the time it will be something physical, either against themselves or their unsuspecting sibling or wall or door that stands in the way. If it isn't physical, it will ne emotional, but that usually is sulking and they go into their cave to do that and emerge angry at the world ... but that soon passes when they are offered to participate in something else dumb with other boys that will get them all in trouble again. The cycle is vicious, but it is what it is.
Girls ... mmmm. Well, this weekend I witnessed by niece (she's 8) have a meltdown. Now, girl meltdowns are different. Boys just sort of fall apart and let you have it in a 10 second tirade. Girls start slow. Okay, she didn't want to go home from her grandpas house ... and I'm not picking on her in particular, just was watching this particular girl moment from the sidelines and disecting it in my head. Anyhow, my niece starts off slow ... a few hours prior she places the "bait" to stay longer at her grandpas house. The plans have been set and there is no way she can stay any longer. They have been there for a couple days, her parents are exhausted, etc. so they are leaving for the long drive home. But, nevertheless, the bait ... "hey, could Uncle Jon and Aunt Cortney just take me home with them?" We were leaving the next day.
What?! Okay, I must admit the sheer genius in her manuvering skills was there. After all, we do have to drive past her parent's house on the way home, we do drive an SUV that has room for 85 people, and her cousins and she seem to get along okay. Hmmm. I even entertained the idea, but didn't want to step on her parents toes. They responded with a "no, that won't work", etc. It was pretty simple ... until ... until about an hour before they were supposed to leave. Then began the show. It started with my niece burrowing her head into the recliner in the front room as her family got packed up. She burrowed and wallowed and made large directed dramatic movements towards anyone that would watch indicating her complete and total sadness that her time at Grandpas was about to come to a close. By the 1/2 hour point we had full on tears that started to well in her eyes. Then there was this quiet little , "uhh,huh,uuuh, huhh" sort of pititful whiny cry like a cat that is jsut starting to go into heat. Then, without notice, a wail. A wail of pitiful in which would melt the coldest of hearts. The wail sort of downplayed itself back into the pitiful cat sound. It was genius ... I watched, actually a little but in awe, at how well she played this situation. She had to practice this for hours, no way this was off the cuff!
Everyone starts to say good bye and I am still sort of enamoured with the wailing little bundle in the recliner. By this point she had her cousin (my boy) trying to talk her off the ledge to no avail. He promised she could always come back to Grandpas, he would still live there, she needed to go get in the car or her, "pawents were gonna get WEALLY mad at her!", he tried everything. FInally, her exhausted and exasperated parents half heartedly cried up the stairs, "Erin, we're leaving, with or without you, let's go." People, I swear this on all that is holy, the kid smiled and nestled further into the recliner. I think she actually thought them leaving her was an okay plan and she had won the mexican stand off. The next thing you know the calvary was sent (Grandpa and her Dad). Grandpa managed to get her out of the chair and on her feet walking down the stairs in the general direction of the car ... her Dad managed to get her in the car ... the whole time wailing, then sobbing, then bringing it all down to a pitiful cry wiht words like, "never get to stay, but I LOOOOOOOOVE bepaw" thrown in for effect. Really, I was impressed. This was also when I decided my mother (and her mother) deserved sainthood for putting up with daughters and their drama.
We left the next day .... it went something like this, "Drew, Bradyn, get your crap, we're leaving." Drew responded with, "WHAAAAT?! But you said ... you SAID ... HEY WHAT?!?!?!?!" (see, full on tantrum right from the get go so one knows what to expect, no gentle wind up like a girl luring you into feeling bad for her). Bradyn tried to follow suit with, "HEYYYYY! I WANT TO STAY HEEEEEERE!" Nope, we're leaving. Get your crap. Drew said, "fine, but I'M PICKING THE MOVIE WE WATCH IN THE TRUCK!" Bradyn responded, "fine, BUT DREW PICKED LAAAAAAAST TIME!" Boys, get your asses in the truck now. We're leaving. They both got in, both still fighting about who got to choose the movie, and neither of them were barely able to look up from their battle stations long enough to give out their goodbye hugs to their grandparents. By the time we hit mile one of the journey, the DVD was in, the headphones were on, and they watched in silence for four hours. We only stopped onced to feed and water them. AND, did I mention boys are extra special because they can pee anywhere, no bathroom required, no squatting, and on command? Okay, not regretting all boys.
All I have to say … he’s STILL alive and I stayed in my chair. Alright, Drew successfully made it through day one WITH PADS. We are taking his new football playing in milestones. As in, he GOT THROUGH week 1 conditioning, he is still alive after day one with pads, he still wants to play after day two with pads… at least he doesn’t mind taking Motrin like a “big boy” … and “well, the bruising HAS to go away eventually, right?”. Drew still claims he “loves it”. I am stunned, amazed, and at the same time very happy. It’s good to see my “no contact” little boy suddenly in the throng of crushing helmets and pads and even better watching him get up, dust himself off, and go in for more. The only mistake I have made thus far is the “marble” analogy. I was trying to explain to Drew that tackling (hitting as they call it) was like marbles. If you take a marble and shoot it at a standing marble, the standing marble will shoot across the room. BUT, if both marbles are shooting at each other at the same time, they will either stop one another when they meet, or equally bang off of each other. SO, with this logic, I tried to tell Drew football is the same when he comes off the line. He needs to come off of the line FAST and with the same speed as the other kid so when they hit the other kid doesn’t have more power and can bash Drew. SO, I was thinking I was a GENIUS. Until yesterday … when Drew was participating in “West Points” (the kids bash each other two at a time), I was on the sidelines and watched Drew’s first “hit”. He didn’t seem aggressive enough to me and he sort of got his butt kicked. SO, I hollered, “Drew, lower, lower, wrap his legs!” A few more hits and Drew was doing a little better getting lower, but he still seemed a little less aggressive so I hollered, “Drew, MARBLES, MARBLES!” After practice Drew told me I needed to not yell about marbles anymore because when I did a kid standing by Drew said, “dude, is your mom talking about your balls?” Ugh. So yes, as my friend Amy indicated, Drew will probab;y need a lot of therapy for the “Pee Wee Football and Mom years”. But, for now, we’re both surviving. And yes, I have become the crazy parent that sits in the chair on the sidelines with my drink and hollers at my child telling him to hit harder and lower and cheering him on when he bashes another kid. The transformation process was pretty fast from non sports mom to sports mom the first time I heard the helmets and pads crushing. I think the mommy in me took over as well as a little adrenaline and it’s been all down hill from there. Gooooooooo Drew!
Yep, the rumors are true. Drew is playing "football" this season for the Franklin Tilton Falcons. I suppose the "who" he is playing for is not nearly as important as the fact that he is not only playing ... but liking playing. He "endured" the first week of conditioning (2 hours night practices for 5 days week), and tonight he actually puts on the full gear to start "hitting", "tackling", etc. He tells me he isn't nervous, and he's, "excited". Me ... I'm not so excited. I think it will take every ounce of personal self-restraint I have to sit in my chair on the sidelines and NOT get up and rush the field the first time I see him get "hit". Let's be honest ... he isn't the "biggest" kid on the team, and he certainly isn't the "fastest" (I'm praying the chubby kid on his team doesn't quit because he is the only reason Drew is never last in the running drills.). Being small and not so fast he can't even run out of the way ... he has to just take every bone crunching smack down the bigger and more experienced kids deem necessary to offer to the smaller, less experienced new kids. I know, I know, if I rush the field and beat the hell out of the kid that knocks Drew over the first time there could be ramifications. Drew's friends could make fun of him until the end of time ... the police could possibly be called to arrest the crazy lady, (and the Franklin police only know me as the crazy plant lady right now, no need to add crazy overprotective mother to the list), and/or Drew could be banned from all future organized sports ... or at least his mom would be asked to find a new hobby other than spectator when he DOES play. Honestly, I'm weighing them all out and none of them really sound THAT bad?! I'll be the parent on the side of the field tonight trying to look tough, secure, and supportive as I smile at my oldest boy, my poor skinny frail oldest boy, and holler, "don't worry honey, you have pads on, it won't hurt!" Lies, all lies. Then I will hear the crunch of pads hitting, boys grunting and hollering, and hopefully from somewhere on the bottom of the proverbial dogpile Drew will emerge still liking football and not flipping off his coach and anyone else within eye shot as he exits the field. Pray for him. Pray for me. Updates later.
