Wilbur Got A Bad Rap

Have you ever heard anyone remark on the intelligence level of pigs (actual curly-q tailed, no preservatives, pre-processing pork)? If I have, I don't remember it. But I think they may be pretty darn smart.

My little corner of the desert, being hotter than the backyard of Hades this time of year, has an annual tradition called Monsoon Madness. The town takes over a local park and erects water slides and other water features to play in, mud volleyball pits, and a giant mudslide. There is so much mud that even if you are not on one of the volleyball teams or actually going down the mudslide, you STILL end up with mud on your clothes. There are children of all ages running around this park, literally covered from head to toe in slimy, oozy mud.

Slimy, oozy COOL mud. Which is spectacularly awesome on a day where you are once again facing temperatures above 110 degrees.

Last weekend it was time for Monsoon Madness; and Bug found himself swept up in the fever. So while Jock couldn't see any good reason to wallow in the mud and so stayed home, Bug and I headed off to the park. Where he, many many times, would go down that ginormous mud slide only to run to the other end of the park and clean off by sliding down the slip and slide. Only to go tearing back down to the other end of the park to go down that mud slide again.

So while I found myself a nice chair in the shade by the giant mister fans, talking to the mom of one of his friends (because really? What else is there for a mom to do after getting splashed with mud your first time standing anywhere close to the mudslide?), Bug had the time of his life.

Pigs must be pretty darn smart. And I bet they have the most fantastically fun times!

Hosted by Cecily and MamaGeek

Another Angle For The Nike Campaign, Maybe?

Just a word of caution, here. This might turn into more of a rant. I'm okay if you want to browse through my archives today, instead. You know what they say: Forewarned is forearmed.

*big deep breath*

Most of you should know my stance on volunteerism, right? You've read my letter to parents, you've seen enough posts about how often both Coach and I volunteer, and you've even seen some posts on Jock's volunteering. Which is exactly what I want to talk about today.

How many 16 year old boys do you know that spend ANY time volunteering, let alone a significant amount? And by significant, I mean anything more than the couple of hours a month their mom makes them spend mowing Grandma's yard, or community service hours required by the school. No, I'm talking about volunteer time that is WILLINGLY donated, over and above what may be required by someone else. This is the kind of volunteering that Jock does. Especially every baseball season. This season has been no exception, and with our local Little League hosting both a District AND a State Tournament, there have been extra hours needed from volunteers. My son has once again stepped up to the plate (ha! Baseball puns for baseball volunteering! Not intentional, but I'm not taking it out, either!) and willingly donated his time. Time that (even while I don't see it) is extremely valuable to a teenage boy.

Before every--EVERY--game, he is there to help with field set up and prep. There are two fields a night to set up and prep. This includes setting up the score keeper tables, roping off the dugouts and score keeper table, setting up the shade structures for the score keeper table, chalking the fields, and just generally making sure the park is ready for the teams playing to arrive. Then, he also donates multiple nights to being the official pitch count recorder at one of the fields (generally two games per field per night). He also works in the concession stand. (To be fair, he now gets paid to work in the concession stand. However, he was volunteering in there long before that ever happened, and even now has been seen volunteering in there on nights he's not scheduled.) And at the end of the night, he stays with me and helps to take down the score keeper tables and shade structures and generally make sure the fields and park are left in good condition for the next day. He does not do this for recognition; in fact, I don't think anyone at the school even realizes he does this. He's not doing it for padding on a college application, although he was happy when I pointed out that we could add all of this to those applications when he starts sending them out. No, he does it just because he's a good kid.

There are 13 members on our Little League board right now. Of those 13, there are at least 6 others who have teenage children. Teenage children who are perfectly happy to help out when they get paid, but can never be found or counted on when they are just volunteering. I wonder why that is? And I also wonder why it is that when additional volunteer time is needed, one of those parent-of-another-teenager board members (who has a child that is not only getting paid to work the concession stand but paid to empty the garbage cans each night) ALWAYS suggests MY son be the go-to kid, even if that means taking him off of one of the few paid shifts he has. Why are these other parents not suggesting their children step up and volunteer? Do they think it's enough that they, as parents, are volunteering? How can you expect your child to learn the importance, value and satisfaction that volunteerism is if you don't encourage them to do it, themselves? How can they learn that just by watching you?

Kids don't learn to walk by watching you. They don't learn to speak by watching you. They don't learn to ride a bike or swim by watching you. No. They learn BY ACTUALLY DOING IT.

I Need To Work On My Coping Skills

I've always been an emotional person. Some might even say I am overly emotional. I know Coach thinks I am. Eh. Oh well. It's a side of myself that I embraced long ago.

Tonight was the night we went up to the high school and picked up Jock's schedule and textbooks for this upcoming year. Nothing there to get emotional about, right? Most people would agree with you. Unless of course you know me. Then you suspect that there was bound to be SOMETHING that would tug at my heart and make me all weepy. And if you know me, you would have been absolutely right.

We were handed the emergency contact information along with the class schedule, and told to look over it and make any necessary changes. Okay, everything looked fine there. Then we were handed some form or other to sign, an authorization for technology use, I think. What it was didn't really matter, though. What mattered was the information I needed to put on there.

Student name? Check. Student ID? Check. Student Grade? Oh mercy. 11th grade.

When I saw what I had written, I looked over at my handsome boy. I can no longer say I looked down at him. I guess I didn't really even look over at him. I looked UP at him. (Which I will tell you, made this entire thing worse somehow.) I looked up at him, pointed to the paper, and told him that writing that number there was probably one of the more difficult things I'd done recently. So his friend pipes up about how I'll only have to do that one more time next year, and then it will all be over and Jock won't need me anymore.

After I mentally punched this kid in the nose (because OF COURSE I would never ACTUALLY punch someone in the nose, especially if that someone was 20 years younger than I am and a sometime friend of one of my children), I pointed out a small fact that he would do well to remember. Pointing out that the time when a child will no longer need his mother, to that mother, is a bad idea of epic proportions; as it triggers mom tears. To which Jock pointed out, grinning the whole time, that no one wants to deal with mom tears.

That grin and the dimples he was blessed with are the only things that saved him from being punched in the nose. (Okay, fine. The grin, the dimples AND the fact that I don't punch my children in the nose. Sheesh.)

Emotional does not always mean tears. Sometimes it means someone gets punched in the nose.

Little of This, Little of That

Football camp started this morning. Some of you have maybe already heard my opinion on this, but I think football coaches are sadists. There really isn't a much better explanation for having a practice at 5:00 AM. (Quite aside from the fact that it's Arizona.... where even at 5:00 AM it's almost 100 degrees.)

Have you ever watched a really good zombie movie? Even, or maybe especially, a really bad one? You know that part where all the zombies are walking soooo slow, dragging their feet, and looking like a herd as they converge on some poor, unsuspecting soul? Yeah. That was the scene this morning at the high school. Approximately 150 boys, from all three teams (Freshman, JV and Varsity) converged on the weight room, looking like the walking dead. Made me giggle. Maybe because I knew I was going home to go back to bed for another hour or two.

------------------------------------------------------------

If I needed a reminder about how difficult it is to control my children's Internet exposure while at a friend's house, I got one the other night. Bug and I were sitting there talking, and he started telling me about that afternoon at his friend's house.

They had been going through YouTube, looking at videos of something that I don't even remember now. But in doing so, they came across a link for a clip of an old Oprah interview with Michael Jackson. Was there more than one? Was this one particularly long, or even just full of random bits of trivia that will continue to float around forever? Because if not, you might remember the clip I'm talking about. Now, we all know Oprah has a reputation for being able to get away with asking extremely personal questions of her guests, right? But you would think that even she would have hesitated to ask MJ if he was a virgin.

That's right. My 11 year old son and his 11 year old friend, heard Oprah ask MJ if he was a virgin. At which point, Bug's friend voiced the question What's a virgin? And Bug, very matter-of-factly, told him. Someone who hasn't ever had sex before.

Well, at least he got that right. And it proves he's listened to me. Or maybe his brother, which I will admit scares me just a bit.