Happy...what do we call it...'10s?

So, New Year's Eve...another year has flown by...but that's the rhythm of life, and the way of the world, and I can take it in stride.  What I somehow didn't realize--until I heard a DJ mention it on the radio--was that the DECADE is over as well.  Jeez, so much for my calm, philosophical perspective on 2010! How could this happen?  (Although I guess the actual number: two-thousand...TEN should have been my first clue.)  It seems like only yesterday we were fretting about the impending Y2K disaster, right? Then, poof! The first decade of the millennium is just gone.

Scrambling to process this major oversight on my part, I immediately decided I should try to write something profound for my last blog entry of the year, words that capture the essence of the past twelve months with poignancy and humor...but as I sat down to my computer with fingers poised over the keyboard, my sons raced by, whooping and stripping off their clothes, shoving each other on the way to the shower (sorry for the visual!)...and my ever-so-brief hold on deep, meaningful thought was utterly lost.

However, that little display (so to speak) brings up one way my life is quite different now than it was ten years ago: as I welcomed the year 2000 (with hot tea, fuzzy pjs, and bed at 10 p.m.), I was pregnant with Derek. My last decade absolutely was defined by Motherhood, with all of its joys, tears, and craziness. And the other big change for me is also the childrens' fault--I mean a natural result of having children. When Derek was born, I was a full-time Speech-Language Pathologist (you know, the career I trained for, in 6 agonizing years of college and grad school; oh well, so much for that!).  I've since embarked on the dual career track of Stay-At-Home-Mom/Sign Language Interpreter.  I guess you could say I'm a very different person, personally and professionally, than I was ten years ago!

With sons that are 9-years old (greatly looking forward to reaching his own "decade-mark") and 6-years old, I cannot predict what the next ten years will bring.  I can state with confidence, however, that like any good roller-coaster, it will be a thrilling (maybe at times nauseating) ride. I wish you the same (without the queasiness, of course)!

If it's a vacation, shouldn't we at least be someplace warm?

Everyone beware, for we are about to enter the critical period of Winter Break.  Certain elements combine to make this a particularly volatile time:  It's several days past Christmas, and the kids have figured out all their new toys (and have been informed, to their EXTREME disappointment, that they will not be playing with the Wii for 8 hours a day)...they're already so finished with running around outside in the cold...within the four walls of the house, children and parents alike are grating on each others' nerves (or is that just me?)...the early novelty of not going to school has given way to the dreaded "I'm bored, what should I do?" (I have suggestions, but you won't like them. Clean something! Preferably outside!  And no, that does NOT mean hose your brother off in the driveway!)

This year, we are feeling it even more keenly than usual, since my kids had the 3 days of school leading up to vacation cancelled, due to a snowstorm (those who live someplace like Canada, or Minnesota, or anywhere that deals with winter weather better than Maryland, please feel free to go ahead and laugh at us).  That's right, they haven't been to school since December 18th.  Ugh, that sounds even worse now that I actually checked the calendar.  It's true, sometimes ignorance IS bliss (or at least...less irritation?  doesn't have the same ring, does it?)

Anyway, this morning they (okay, all of us) rolled out of bed at 8:30, ate a large breakfast (twice, actually; we are talking about Derek), played Super Mario for a while, did a little shopping and lunched at Costco, built a box-fort in the basement, watched some old college football game on ESPN Classic (that was them, not me)...in short, pursued a life of slow-paced leisure and fun.  The boys (and husband, too, for that matter) have quite a rude shock waiting for them on January 4th, when it's back to the cold, cruel Real World of work and school (that's just 5 days...five short, quick days...I can make it.)  Then I will receive my long-awaited, lavish reward for all the entertaining and refereeing and feeding (and any other "ings") I've been responsible for: 3 more weeks off, until my job starts back up on January 25th.  There will be peace and quiet...and the Wii all to myself!

I've created...Wii-nies!

I should start this entry with a few disclaimers:
1. I'm a girl (I know, DUH, but it's relevant, you'll see);
2. I grew up with gadget-phobe parents who did not feel compelled to provide me and my siblings with the latest and greatest video game gear as it was introduced or upgraded;
3. we finally ended up with the (now charmingly-retro, but at the time, ever-so-cutting-edge) Atari system (can I get an "Amen" from other children of the '70s?)

That being said, my favorite game was Frogger.  I used to love, love, love jumping that spunky little amphibian across the highway, until the inevitable SPLAT of an 18-wheeler squished him into virtual roadkill.  However, unlike the current generation of plugged-in, techno-savvy kids, I was never in danger of developing Nintendo-thumb, or going cross-eyed from staring at a screen all day.  Which is one reason why, right up until 2 days ago, we were a PlayStation, Nintendo, and Xbox-free house.

A few years ago, as everyone (who doesn't live on a mountaintop or in a cave) knows, the Wii came along, and of course changed the Gaming World forever, blah, blah, blah.  However, there was NO WAY IN HECK I was ever getting up at pre-dawn-thirty and standing in line for hours to buy a video game system, no matter how cool it was.  So finally, the hype died down (took long enough!), and as a special bonus, the price came down a little, and it was time to take the plunge.  We bought it as the Family Christmas Gift this year, let the boys start playing with it on December 25th...and I haven't seen them since. Oh, I hear them, as they yell "way to go" after a Par hole in golf, or when they trash-talk their Avatar Opponent on the computer tennis court, or when they plead with their bowling ball to curve left and pick up the Spare.  They're even developing rivalries with some of the Wii-guys; they particularly want to beat "Matt", who keeps hitting home runs and making spectacular center field-catches against them.

And although I haven't even tried to play the game myself yet...I finally Get It.  Watching them gyrate around the Family Room, hooting and laughing, giving each other instructions and encouragement: Male Bonding in its simplest and best form.  For now, I'll observe the Testosterone Tournament from a safe distance...knowing that I'll have the Wii all to myself when they go back to school and work next week!  Watch out, Matt!

That's it, find me a den; I'm hibernating!

The Blizzard of 2009, which buried us in just-under-2-feet of snow, is officially in the (record) books.  Big Picture: that's more snow than we usually get in an entire winter (or two...or three)!  In fact, here in Maryland at this time of year, we're usually enjoying our extended Fall, doing our holiday shopping in 50-degree temperatures, still wearing Fall-ish jackets. But this season, bracing ourselves as we head out into near-freezing temps and bone-chilling breezes, we are huddled into down jackets (plus gloves, scarves, hats, and boots), gingerly tiptoeing our way among the frozen mounds of leftover snow. This is probably stating the way-obvious, but here goes anyway: I. DON'T. LIKE. IT.

So I was yawning and complaining my way through another frigid day today, when I suddenly realized something deeply insightful about myself.  Winter makes me cold and tired and grumpy (that's not it, here it comes...); while I admit I'm not always the most pleasant Human during the cold months, I'd make an awesome Bear!

Just think about it...
1. I could eat whatever I want in the Fall, for months on end, to bulk up!  No portion-control, no turning down the extra Christmas cookie, no "thanks, Mom, I couldn't have another helping, I'm watching my weight!"  Calorie-loading = survival? Bring it on!
2. The LONG SLEEP.  Curled up in a cave, warm and dry, with nothing to do but rest.  Aah.
3. Plus, it's quiet in there!  Even the cubs are conked out!  "No, honey, you can't have a snack, I warned you to eat more in October.  Go back to sleep, we'll talk about it in March."
4. Full-time fur coat.  Not to have to pile on layers of fleece, dig around for wool socks, drink warm tea until it's coming out my ears, wrap up in blankets anytime I'm sitting down...
5. And then I would emerge in the Spring, bask in the sunshine, let the warm breeze ruffle my fur, and go eat some berries. (Even better, after months of starvation, I'd be totally svelte and ready for swimsuit season!  Or so famished I could eat a hiker, but I deserve it after all the deprivation! I'll work it off later, chasing the cubs!)

Finally, for a Mama Bear, "grouchy" just comes with the territory.  It's a perfect gig for me.  So I'm going to go burrow into my bed and give it my best try.  If you don't hear from me by April, send berries (I'll take a smoothie...but no hiker!)

Snow Frenzy! (even before the first flake...)

The entire greater Baltimore/Washington region is in high gear, preparing for snow for this weekend.  Should be no big deal, it IS December, right?  BUT it's coming as somewhat of a shock for several reasons:  the last few winters have been pleasantly mild (if you're a cold-wuss, like me); and this area almost never experiences a significant snowfall this early in the season.  In fact, a friend posted on Facebook that according to one local weatherguy, it may be "our biggest December snowstorm since 1982."

When I read that, something rustled in the back of my memory, in the vicinity of where I file "High School Stuff".  Hmm, winter of 1982...10th grade...Biology class...DING DING DING, I found it! (I thought you'd be amused to witness the actual process that goes on in my head when I'm searching for a snippet from my past. It's a little surreal, but it works pretty well.)  Anyway, my Biology teacher, Mr. Hoffman, was a very smart man (as well as the original uber-nerd), whose hobby was: weather forecasting.  So one day we arrived at our classroom, flushed with cold and thrilled about examining cells under the microscope--I mean about the coming snowstorm.  Our bespectacled, fuzzy-haired teacher peered about vaguely, trying to get us to calm down, while we chattered about enormously important things such as: 1. when the snow would start 2. how much we would get and 3. how long we would be home from school while they plowed us out.

When he caught the gist of our conversation, Mr. Hoffman interrupted us to weigh in on the predictions of the (paid) meteorologists, who believed we were getting about 3-5 inches of the fluffy white stuff.  "Oh no," he disagreed calmly, it's going to be more like 10-12." With the sarcasm and scorn unique to teenagers, we collectively rolled our eyes at him. What did he know?  He taught Biology, not Precipitation 101!

Of course, Mr. Hoffman was EXACTLY right.  I forget how many days we got to play in the snow before returning to school, but I somehow doubt that we apologized for doubting him, when we got back.  So, Mr. Hoffman, I offer a belated apology and respectful appreciation of your amateur weather skills.  Today the estimate is for us to get between 8 and 13 inches before the final flake falls.  I wish I could ask Mr. Hoffman what he thinks, before I brave the store for milk...and soup...and hot chocolate mix...

Mommy Memory? Blame it on the kids!

Last week when I was lamenting all the trivial facts that I have been forgetting lately (I did take a moment to check, and I'm happy to report that I still know my own name, address, and phone number, whew!), it didn't even occur to me that I should blame the situation on the obvious culprit:  my 9-year old son.  And I'm not just talking about how mothers routinely have to multitask--a glamorous term for such mundane chores as supervising homework while cooking dinner while unloading and reloading backpacks and simultaneously...I forget what else...what was I doing again?  No, I mean that Derek has actually stolen my brain.  Now before you dismiss this as being a little too X-Files, consider the evidence:

I sometimes have difficulty recalling Derek's math teacher's name.
Derek can tell you, without taking a breath, the names of the last four Heisman Trophy winners, which university they attend, the number they wear on their jersey, and their position.  (He can also probably list their major, class attendance record, and GPA.  I'm only exaggerating on the last part, by the way.)

I couldn't tell you the Orioles starting outfielders names (maybe 2 out of 3)
Derek brings up games we saw at Camden Yards not only this year, but in years past.  He mentions the weather, where our seats were located, what he ate (and believe me, this fact alone would fill my memory banks), who the O's were playing, the starting pitcher (for both teams), the final score, who hit home runs, whether there was a "save" recorded, etc. (Note to Baltimoreans: if pressed, I'm sure he could tell you who won the Crab Shuffle on the Jumbotron...but I don't want to stress him out.)

I'm sure you can see the problem: the more he stores away in that scary little mind of his, the more vital bits of information slip away from me. (Of course it couldn't be disorganization, or scattered focus on my part; it's definitely Derek's fault.) But, to look on the bright side, I hear chocolate is good for various things these days, so maybe it applies to memory (did I actually read that, or make it up?  oh well, who cares!).  It's worth a try--I'll be in the kitchen, searching for the Ghiradelli squares...if I forget to come back, someone come find me, please!

Next on ESPN Jr: Reporting on Roundball

Derek played in his very first Elementary League basketball game today.  Forty minutes of intense competition, of thrilling fast breaks, of graceful layups, of...oh, forget it.  The reality was more like:  a gymful of 4th and 5th graders, trying not to trip over each other or elbow someone else in the face.  During an early lull in the action, my mind started wandering, and I found myself pondering the name chosen for this Division:  Pee Wees.  WHY would they do that?  It makes the boys sound like Munchkins in hightops, rather than the raw-but-talented young athletes they are...I was just working up to an elaborate in-my-head-rant, but it was cut short by the referee's whistle...as he called a timeout for "untied shoes." There were no fewer than three of these during the game.  So okay, maybe they aren't quite so professional yet.

In a lucky coincidence, the opposing team included Derek's best friend from school.  As two similarly-shrimpy (I mean "smaller-sized but still quite tough") guys, they guarded each other all day. However, it turned out to be a sadly lopsided contest, with Derek's team running rampant over the court, racking up points seemingly at will.  It got so bad, we parents broke into a loud and heartfelt cheer when the OTHER team finally nailed their first basket.  However for us, as an introduction to organized hoops, I would have to call the game an unqualified success.  Derek did not get crunched by a larger kid (always a possibility at his size); he had several assists and steals, and scored his first point (yes, just one:  a free throw after he got fouled...by his best friend!); and his team won (37-4, but who remembers these things?  Oops, I guess I do!)  Pass the Gatorade, but don't call him Pee Wee!

Um...wait a minute, I'll get it (maybe)!

The thought that's uppermost in (what's left of) my mind lately:  is it possible to reach a point in your life when you've learned so many things, memorized so much information, seen and heard and read such an enormous amount of "stuff"...that your brain can fill up?  In other words, any new fact that needs a "filing space" in my head seems to kick out something else that I once knew, leaving me standing there, staring into space, waving my hands around (as if that helps me think better), going, "I KNOW this, it's right there, starts with a "c"...oh, nevermind, I'll just Google it!

The first time this happened, I was trying to tell a group of co-workers about a yummy Asian restaurant my family loves.  I can see its location in Columbia.  I can give detailed instructions on how to get there.  I. Can. Not. Say. The. Name.  (And we're all Sign Language Interpreters, so there was a LOT of hand-waving.  Didn't help at all.)  The second time, I was trying to think of the former lead singer of INXS (yes, the one who committed suicide. Don't ask me why I wanted to know, because I can't Google that.) I even got so far as to remember what his first name started with.  Then I stalled.  (My husband was apparently unmoved by my torment: "Well, he has been dead for 10 years," he said skeptically, as if this should explain and excuse my forgetfulness. Totally not the point!  I used to know it.  Now I don't.  Jeesh, he just does not seem concerned enough about my declining mental acuity...although I can still use the word "acuity" correctly, so that's something.  Where was I?)  Oh, yeah: finally, I was describing to a friend what my husband does at work, including the job titles of some of the interesting specialists he collaborates with.  For some reason, I could not come up with the word "pharmako-kineticist".  I mean, can you imagine?  How embarrassing is THAT?  (Okay, maybe I can be forgiven for the last one.  But it irritated me anyway!)

My point is (to the best of my recollection): I'm too young for what they call "Senior Moments". So if anyone has a method for "cleaning house", in which I can clear out some useless fluff from up there (the Penn State quarterback's name,  the formula for cotangent, the number of wins Cy Young racked up in his lifetime--these are just a FEW of the random bits of data I don't need...or can Google) to make room for what's really necessary, I would appreciate it.  But please, don't tell me, be sure you write it down!

A Week of "P" Plagues...

I don't mean to imply that we were visited by catastrophes on a Biblical-scale this week, but here's the recap:

First came the pestilence, in the form of little micelets that invaded our downstairs storage room. We've had them before, and there are "bait stations" already in place for when they decide to stop by (because really, nothing says "welcome" quite like a tasty blue chunk of poison.  Have some, I insist!)  For a while, after we had new foam insulation installed last winter (covering their convenient entry-hole), they seemed defeated, and stayed out.  But one cold night this past week, their frostbitten little mouse-butts must have been motivated enough to figure out how to gnaw through (leaving a telltale pile of insulation fluff, and other evidence, if you catch my drift.  Ick.)  I immediately scheduled a number of "interviews" with Pest Service Guys, to set a new plan in action.

The weird thing is, the mice sneak into that one room through the garage, and never go anywhere else in the house.  I asked Pest Service Guy #3 why that was, and he looked at me with a confused expression, like he was trying to figure out how to answer me without being rude.  Finally he said apologetically, "Well, it IS kind of loud in here."  I stared back at him blankly for a few seconds before I noticed:  the elephants--I mean my sons--were upstairs in Derek's room, playing tackle-something, laughing hysterically (audible through the closed door), and shaking the house every few seconds when they crashed to the floor.  To my Mom-hearing, this didn't even register until he mentioned it. Then, to add the exclamation point, the cat (useless-lump-of-fur--I mean fearsome predator) strolled by.  Apparently 1)noise, and 2)the threat of being hunted (however remote--but they don't have to know that) have effectively discouraged our unwanted guests from prowling the house at will.

Next we were visited by pinkeye.  Riley went off to school looking perfectly normal, and I got a call at lunchtime demanding that I pick him up immediately.  I'll spare you the unpleasant details, but suffice it to say he looked...bad. This was the first time one of the kids had caught this particular ailment (I think he was strangely proud of that; "I beat Derek, I got pinkeye first!"  Boys are so oddly competitive...).  He was decidedly less pleased when we held him down and squirted the antibiotic eyedrops in, but he did enjoy the enforced day-off-of-school while the medicine took effect.  Hmm, maybe I should put him on Mouse Patrol while he's home!

That's it so far (I know it's only Thursday, but I'm keeping fingers and toes crossed that we're done with the excitement, for this week anyway.)  If we have any more "P" surprises, I hope it's something like "a shower of Pop-Tarts" or "a flood of pansies".  Those, I'm ready for!

Hooping it Up

The Fall sports season is over, and so we bid a fond farewell to baseball and soccer (just in time, since lately we've been losing daylight and gaining nippy breezes:  NOT pleasing to outdoor spectators!).  We had a nice lull of two weeks or so in which to regroup...but now it's time to jump into basketball.

Derek is playing organized ball for the first time, in a 4th/5th grade league. This week's practice was held at a local middle school, and when I walked in with Derek to meet his team, I thought I had tripped right back into the 1980s.  (Historical note: that's when I was a Statistician for the boys basketball program at my high school.  Very important and prestigious position.  Okay, not really.  It mostly involved watching the game and making tally marks on a sheet of paper for assists, shots, fouls, etc. But we got to spend lots of quality time...with sweaty, smelly boys...oh, nevermind.)  Everything seemed exactly as I remembered it: the fluorescent lights (do they have to be that dim in gymnasiums? what's that about?); the clocks behind metal cages (not even set to the right time, so what's the point?); the wooden bleachers (although I'm sure they're some kind of neo-plastic-substance nowadays--I'll have to check when they're pulled out for a game); the vaguely sneakerish-smell (hopefully that's the ONLY odor on the air as the season progresses); the slightly spongy floor (for cushioning my skinny guy when some huge 5th grader plows him over).  It seemed so familiar that I found myself looking around for the concession stand, where I used to buy my Twizzlers and M&Ms for dinner on game nights (in my obviously pre-nutrition-conscious days. I probably washed it down with Diet Coke as well.)

Eventually I snapped out of my nostalgic reverie and actually paid attention to my son, who was busily running drills and scrimmaging with his teammates.  He was dripping wet and tamale-red and appeared to be having a fantastic time. Maybe in a few weeks when he has his first game, I'll fill out a Stats Chart for him...while eating my M&Ms.