The Morning AFTER Kickball

Kickball ... oh, kickball.  So the morning after kickball our coach posts on facebook a sweet, sweet, picture of me and two other teamates in the dugout.  We were supposed to wear black or blue (how fitting) t-shirts.  All I had was a gray t-shirt from Jon's closet.  It's about three sizes to large and really compliments my figure so I look no less than 14 sizes larger than reality.  Oh, and my eyes are alien red.  Come on Rebecca, fix my picture lady! LOL!

As anxiously awaited, a kickball report.  I spent the better part of yesterday ringing my hands and cussing Jon's name.  There was even a heated e-mail exchange between Jon and I where I yet again told him how much I hated him for this whole kickball debacle.  He tried to soothe my nerves by telling me he was sure this was not competetive.  Oh, and p.s., "do you think we have any soccer cleats at home?"  Idiot.  We arrived at the field no less than 40 minutes ahead of schedule.  Jon lectured me the whole way to the field about the importance of being "on time" for sporting events and he was sure I just "didn't understand" that facet of sports since I had NEVER played anything.  I HAVE played sports, and I don't remember the 40 minutes prior to game time rule.

Since we were early, we were fortunate enough to witness some shemales playing softball.  It was a rough bunch of gals (think Pink Ladies all grown up), and I was pretty sure they were passing a cigarette around in the dugout.  Jon was antsy and kept looking around.  He left me to "look" for the team, and came back a little later telling me he had found part of the team.  I begrudgingly followed him to my "team", and tried to put on a face of happy.  I really was happy to see the people on my team, I like the people, it's the whole game I abhore.

I made it clear to our coach I was afraid of the ball, the game, and pretty much would be the weak link.  One of my friends showed up to witness my skills on the field.  I started laughing a little that she showed up and she said, "oh Cort, I couldn't miss this!"  I had a fan.  Just as I thought things could not get worse, I looked over to see the team we would be playing. I'm pretty sure when I was in High School, they were in utero.  Awesome.  They all looked capable of flinging the ball at raging speed, right at me, or my feet, as I am running, even better.  They had matching t-shirts, obviously kickball professionals.  They were undefeated, okay only one game undefeated.  But when you are throwing around words like, "undefeated" when you are on a kickball team you obviously have competetive issues.  These would be my Brittany and Brooke nightmares revisited.

I informed the team, and the coach, that if I curled into the fetal position and started mumbling incoherently on the field to just haul my butt off the field and let me be.  It would be Junior High flashbacks.  There were 9 of us, so the coach told me I didn't "have" to be on the roster for kicking. I appreciated her sympathy, but said, "awesome, which would be worse, me not kicking sitting in the dugout like a lame duck, or me kicking facing inevitable embarassment and/or personal injury?"  I weighed both options seriously.  I opted to kick.  It seemed less embarassing.

I was last on the kicking order. I think my coach figured if I could see there was no serious bloodshed for the first 8 kickers it would soothe me into less worry.  The game started and I was a nervous wreck sitting in the dug out that smelled like pee.  Our team was first to kick.  Jon suggested we go first kicking so we could get some points before we were humiliated.  The team kicked one at a time, and I'm not sure if there was an inning in between there (I think there was) before I had to kick.  The first time I played field, I was told, "you can go in FAR right field if you want."  Ah, right field, the place I usually play.  Less action, less chance I could screw up.  Awesome.

When it was my turn to kick, the referee (or umpire, what do you call them in kickball?) literally gave me a moment before the kickball was "pitched".  I must have looked terrified because he said, "are you okay?"  "Um, yeah."  I am happy to say that the first kickball pitch, as well as every other I received that evening I did make it to base, only first base yes, but I always made it to base.  There was only one iffy moment in which I squeeled with abject terror as I ran into first base.  I had not kicked the ball hard enough (my secret plan in which to avoid being hit) and it was fielded at third.  I looked over my shoulder and saw the ball coming my direction.  "Don't hit me!" I squeeled.  My heart was pounding and the first baseman started laughing. "I won't hit you," he said.  "Oh good, really, it's my worst fear, seriously, so don't hit me, tell your team."  I was serious, he was laughing.

All in all, it was a good game.  We almost beat the fetuses (only one point!), which would have been a HUGE accomplishment and pat on the back for all of us "older" players.  I did not get hit with the ball, I made it to base, and noe once did I have to field the ball and/or even participate.  I did ssee my husband throw the ball, twice, at people's feet.  And, I did scream twice, "holy crap!  You're that mean kid from Junior High!"  I scolded him after the game telling him I would NOT put up with that sort of crap, and he said, "what?  it was a light hit?"  That's what Brittany used to say, just before the gym teacher informed her she could only throw with her "left hand, Brittany ...".

There are 7 more games in the season.  I think I can handle that. I have not been hit, and I made it to base.  Two major accomplishments.

Drew - Napolean Dynamite in Disguise?

For those of you not familiar with the stellar fellow to the left, this is Napolean Dynamite.  He is from the famed, ever popular west of the mason dixon line (especially Utah and Idaho) movie, "Napolean Dynamite".  To my East Coast friends, some of you I have shown this piece of literary movie magic, to the rest of you, you may not understand this rambling,

Napolean Dynamite is a geek in all terms of the word.  The movie is about the most hilarious I have ever witnessed, but I think that is because I grew up in Utah, inc close proximity to Idaho where the movie was filmed.  Napolean uses phrases like, "come ooooon, my lis are reallllly chaaaaped," when calling his older brother from school to bring him chapstick.  His other phrases include, "I have really sweet skills, like numchuck skills, bow hunting skills ..."  His favorite animal is a "Liger". A "liger" is his own artful creation that is a cross between a lion and a tiger.  His best friend is an immigrant named Pedro.  His older brother is in his mid thirties and spends his days, "chatting with sweet babes" and "training to become a cage fighter."  His elder brother is about 30 lbs soaking wet, and also the world's biggest geak.  Napoleans best line, "geeeeesh, goooosh!" to which he throws his head down or to the left in utter disgust.  I share all of this with you ... because I am raising Napolean part II.

Drew is my 12 year-old son.  Although he has absolutely no resemblance to Napolean, he has some of the same "sweet" lines.  He has not created a "liger", but he has created his own world, including a club to which he and his dork friends are members.  It is called, "we hate unicorns."  Why do they hate unicorns?  Who knows.  It is the same random reason I can't get him to write anything else in his English class that doesn't involve war, killing, bayonettes and blood.  He's become that weird kid we made fun of in Junior High/High School that drew dramatic pictures of wars, castles, war weapons, and in the smallest of print.

Drew's favorite phrase is Napoleanesque, "mooooooom, geeesh, gooosh!" He usually yells this, or mutters it under his breath, to which I respond, "come oooon, my lips are really chaappped!"  This is met with a, "shut up." A word I would NEVER have uttered to my parents for fear of immediate retribution in the form of capitol punishment.  Drew tries with all his might to navigate through the perils of middle school.  However, he has managed to find his way to like minded little Napolean's that make up their own language (think liger), dress like slobs (so much for the thousands of dollars in Abercrombie, Aeropostale, American Eagle, etc his mother bought him for school), and have no idea what to think of girls, except they are wierd. 

Caesar, our dog, also receives the Napolean treatment.  Napolean has a Llama, we have a Shitzu.  Napolean says, "come on you big lard, eat your dinner!"  Drew says, "mom. what the freak, he's already fat!" when I ask him to feed and water the dog.  Ask him to do a chore around the house, "moooooooom, nooooooo, I have to capture the second lair of (whatever) to get the (whatever) of the next world!"  Hmmmm.  If Napolean had his own laptop, no doubt he would also say such phrases.  One day I caught Drew with a "secret codes and combinations" book for winning his whatever world on his whatever game on his laptop.  I said, "hmmm, Drew, you are NOT living in the basement when you are 30."  That was also met with a, "shut up."  But, also an embarrassed hanging of the head because he knew I knew that this book was the final key to ultimate geek.

All this in mind, the one thing I can say that is relatively normal about Drew is that he is in CAP.  No doubt Napolean would have not been in CAP if offered on the Idaho countryside.  What is CAP?  CAP is civil Air Patrol.  I won't make to much fun of this organization, because it beats the hell out of boys scouts.  It is mini air force, and they do NOT get merit badges for wiping their butts, or making an egg on the way to their "Eagle".  Also, it's cheap.  Don't get me started on the public fleecing of the BSA.  The little CAP's train to be in the military when they are big.  They help in natural disasters, they have line and rank, and Drew's commanding officer is a girl ... this, I love.  Oh, and Drew isn't a moron like Napolean.  For better or for worse, he is smart ... gifted and talented smart.  Which is great, but only provides me with more fodder.  The nest two weeks he and Bradyn are attending Gifted and Talented Camp.  I call it Nerd Camp ... Drew is not amused.

We're hoping Drew grows out of the Napolean stage.  We have made him watch the movie, repeatedly, and he still hasn't made the correlation.  Maybe when he's older.  For now, we will suffice loving our little unicorn hating, computer hacking, middle school navigating, mini Napolean. Love you Drew. - Mom

You did THAT to Mom, THREE TIMES!

Recently it hascome to my attention that my e-mails to teachers of my children are being fwd to other teachers for cheap giggles.  While I am okay with this, (apparently my father wrote some spectacularly (is that a word?) embarassing, yet entertaining letters that were hung in the faculty room during my elementary school years.  Today with the onset of e-mail, noone even has to take the time to put a pin into the wall with said letter.  In this vein, I am calling this new Post Options, "letters to teachers".  The first of many letters (and more if I can find them in my old e-mails), read below.  This was in response to Drew bringing home, "we're having the maturation day" at school.  No longer do kids make careful invitations in class, inviting Mom/Dad.  Now it is a single form, here it is, don't you dare come this day, just sign the damned form.  As any parent, I was a tad concerned when I saw the words, "and a speaker from planned parenthood, who has been here many years prior, and does a wonderful job, will be coming back this year."  Immediately visions of bananas and condoms filled my head, so I sent an e-mail to Drew's sciece teacher asking "what" the kids would be learning, just a basic run down.  The following is my response to Drew's science teacher: Mr. Josh Goldstein

Josh,



Thanks for the heads up on the HS (health studies) course. Last year, in New Hampshire, middle school starts in 5th grade, so Drew has already had this “course”. The little New England town we lived in had a slew of teen pregnancies so they just preached, “DON’T DO IT, EVER, DON’T EVEN THINK ABOUT IT.” I was on the school board at the time and my thoughts were, “they are OBVIOUSLY doing “it”, how about we tell them don’t, but if you do …” Colorado seems a little more laid back than New England. Bottom line, not kidding, I just wanted to make sure Drew wouldn’t be coming home showing me his newly acquired skill of placing a condom on a banana learned from the planned parenthood speaker.


It was ridiculous, at best, the knowledge Drew came home with when he was 9! After some parental advice from my mother, the Elementary School Principal, Jon and I took the bull by the horns, bought Drew a “book” explaining the whole thing, told him to read it, and if he had any questions to ask us. That’s how Drew learns, so that’s what we did. Anyhow, I had just told the boys I was pregnant with our third child about a month earlier.  Drew read the book and Jon and I stared at him, he asked very scientific based questions and was handling the whole situation like a medical student… until he got to the page explaining the “mechanics”. His eyes got enormous, and he looked Jon straight in the eye and said the following:


“Dad,” then he pointed at himself, “if I’m here, and Bradyn’s here, and Mom is pregnant … that means YOU did THAT to Mom three times!” My husband couldn’t control himself and burst into laughter, I was trying to be an adult and explain the miracle of babies, but all was lost at that point as Drew exclaimed, “THAT is the most disgusting thing I have ever heard of!” and slammed the book on the floor.


So, since the focus this year will be deodorant, take a shower, don’t be gross, could you possibly add to the years Health Science curriculum, ALWAYS put the toilet seat down? My boys are trained in this, but sleepovers friends have yet to learn this skill. I would be ever so grateful.

Thanks for your help and patience,


Cortney