Boog just came home and handed me my Mother’s Day gift. In tears. As he is apt to do, he got a little rambunctious on the walk home, tripped, and my traditional Mother’s Day flower pot broke into pieces. He was devastated.
I gave him a big hug and told him that I loved it and he did such a beautiful job on the painting. We’re going to fix it and find a new flower to plant in it.
Things that break due to an epic fuckup are still worthy of love. Don’t forget that.
Given to me, by my son.
He picked this out himself. That is a print of a cat with batwings with bonus spider and creepy dude in back.
The awesomeness of this defies any kind of words I can put to it.
To all of you and yours: have a fantastic holiday season.
Boog’s really into minecraft. As in whoa-hold-up-lets-check-the-kitchen-for-b
Such a discussion surfaced this past evening, as Boog threw a royal shitfit when I told him it was beddytime. He wanted One More Video, and One More always leads itself to Five. Or 3 hours worth. Gotta cut em off somewhere.
During the conversation, he kept asking me what time I was going to bed. Over and over again. I found that to be odd as this wasn’t something he is typically obsessed with. Well, now I know why. At the apex of his shitfit, he told me that sometimes he waits for our bedroom light to go off, and he thinks he wants to sneak his laptop out and play some more minecraft. He *doesn’t* do it, but he thinks about it, and he wanted me to know.
My kid just totally ratted himself out.
There is not one malicious bone in this child’s body.
I’ve been catching boog sporting two pairs of underpants at a time. Like, more than once. His reasoning is the arduous task of removing the old underpants takes way too long, and just putting the new ones on over them gets him to his morning game of Minecraft about 10 seconds earlier.
Way to streamline operations there, son. Mommy is so proud.
Things in my life right now are either all at 0 or ALL THE THINGS NOW. This week is one of the latter. I am thoroughly enjoying my stint with the railroad, although 10 hours of it straight with NO BREAKS EVER leads to some interesting post train land sickness in the evenings. We’ve been graced with some pretty glorious weather so it’s not all bad. Hell, what am I talking about? There was a torrential downpour Friday and it was still glorious and pretty because hi, I’m in the woods. And I get to watch the bald eagles all day, when you can catch them. I have indeed seen the baby and one of the parents.
I am the only female bike handler. The rest of the females either work concessions or at the ticket booths. This is not a reflection of any systemic sexism within the railroad, it’s just that the hired females have preferred to sling M&Ms and beer instead of bikes. Obviously I do not want to sling M&Ms.
We were a heck of a lot of understaffed this morning, to the point where the conductor got involved. Upon seeing my lovely visage as the only hired hand, conductor got on the horn to get more people. I kind of overheard him on the radio when he exclaimed WE ONLY HAVE ONE FOR THE BIKE CAR. ITS A WOMAN.
OH MY GOD, A WOMAN, Y’ALL.
…this is NOT how he meant it, he just didn’t know my name. It just sounds funny. I *AM* the woman, thanks for noticing! I am sure I could have come up with an excuse to be offended or something, but I was still wafting on a high from benching 120 this morning. He *did* ask if I was ok with lifting the bikes into the car. Yeah, it’s ok, conductor. I think I got this. Thank you for your concern.
In all honesty, I do have issues with it at some of the stops because I’m shorter, and the floor of the car is sometimes forehead level. Sometimes I gotta shotput the damn things in there.
Later in the afternoon, a lady took a picture of me hoisting her bike in because she was very impressed and told me she had issues getting her bike just into the rack on the back of her car. It all balances out eventually.
Speaking of balance – I’ve got a string of guest posts lined up from people I admire, respect, and think you should listen to. These will be posted intermittently and with no real schedule. But I am excited to have such awesome folk make words for my webspace.
In case you’ve forgotten just how awesome this child is in real time, here’s some footage of him performing with his father:
According to Jeremy, this was his best performance to date.
Boog has a buddy down the street. He asked if he could go visit him. I say yes and that he needs to be home when it gets dark.
So the sun goes down, street lights come on. No sign of Boog. I give him another 10 minutes or so to see if he makes good on our agreement. He doesn’t. I walk down the street to find the boys playing in the front yard with light sabers.
I tell Boog that it’s time to come home and remind him that he needed to be home when it got dark.
His reply: I know! I CAN STILL SEE OUTSIDE!
Point, Boog: technicality.
I like to spend my Sundays in denial of what I need to prepare for the week.
I also do this on Saturdays.
I decided we needed to spend Sunday afternoon on our butts somewhere else, so I hauled Boog over for a ride on the Cuyahoga Valley Scenic Railroad. It was a nice 3 hour, air conditioned, holy-mother-of-god-get-me-away-from-this-c
We listened to the audio tour (woo! free headphones!) and enjoyed the air conditioning and the movement of the train, and the opportunity to just be. I might have succumbed to buying Boog a train lego set from the gift shop.
Boog’s favorite part? Using the bathroom. MOMMY, I’M PEEING ON A TRAIN. I’M PEEING AND MOVING AT THE SAME TIME! WHOOAAAAAA!
Yesterday was hot and annoying and so was Boog. I was in desperate need to get some work done, so I sent him out to the backyard to play with the dog. After working feverishly for about half an hour, I went to check on him. He was nowhere to be found in the backyard.
Checked the garage. Bike still there.
Checked the doghouse (um, yeah, he sometimes likes to hang out in there with Lady). Not there. Not in the basement, not in his room. Not in our room. Checked with the houses of his 3 friends and he was not there, either. Panic started to creep in as I wandered up and down the street calling his name at ever increasing volume.
Our neighbor across the street heard my calling and volunteered to get in his truck and scope the neighborhood and he did so. And that’s when I felt I had to initiate the most painful, scary, and mind blowing action that could ever, ever happen in a parent’s life: calling the police and telling them that you do not know where your child is.
I love our law enforcement here. Not a minute into my conversation with the dispatcher and 3 cars arrived at my house. One zoomed off to check his elementary school, another started his own search around the block. The third said, “let’s go in the house and look,” and i am thinking JESUS CHRIST DON’T YOU THINK I DID THAT ALREADY? 3 TIMES I DID. SHOUTING HIS NAME. A LOT. AND I LOOKED IN THE BASEMENT AND THE DOGHOUSE AND. HIS. ROOM. HE IS NOT THERE. NOT. THERE.
And thus, I opened the door to his room for the fourth time, this time with a cop there, too. As if by magic, the lumps of the sheets and comforter on his bed transformed into the shape of a 7 year old boy, quite obviously pooped out from his swimming lesson earlier that day and completely dead to the world.
No, seriously, the cop and I stood in his doorway and talked for like 3 minutes and my child did not. Wake. Up. Jeezus.
A HUGE wave of embarrassment and apologies followed as the cop got on the radio to call off the search. Like, I can count on my fingers just how many times I’ve had to call the cops, and I certainly don’t want to distract them with unnecessary things, especially ones that might say, “hi, I’m not very good at keeping track of my kid”
But that embarrassment quickly faded into gratitude. I am thankful we have kind and generous neighbors. I am thankful for the swift actions of the Lakewood Police Department. I am so fortunate that I have a child that does what he’s told. That he doesn’t wander, he doesn’t go anywhere unless he asks, and when he gets bored, he takes a nap. Tears of relief soon followed.
Boog woke up a whole hour later, and I told him what happened. He got a little look of worry on his face and said, “didn’t you see me go into my room?” and I told him no, I did not, and he hugged me. Because my child is awesome and compassionate and understood that his mommy was scared.
I know, as parents, we all will have these moments. It might be like this, or it might involve sneaking out of the house to go be debaucherous with teenage friends. These are sometimes things that we parents have to endure, as it’s the process of parenthood. Just like everything else in life, parenthood *is* a process – there’s never a time when you can claim ‘ultimate’ parenthood, because there will always be new things to experience and challenges to face, whether you’re 20 or 80. Regardless of where you’re at in your parenthood journey, you have to agree with me that the first time you have to go through something like this is absolutely, excruciatingly painful.
I am glad mine is over.
They’re having some kind of beach party today, so they were required to bring a beach towel. You can’t carry a beach towel without having a fabulous Hawaiian shirt. It just would not be right.
After today, I have a 2nd grader. This kid right here is turning out to be pretty alright.
Unseasonably warm weather is horribly deceptive. Here we have warmth, and sun, and blue sky, and people running around in shorts and out doing stuff on their bikes again – and it makes your body shift back to summer. Your head thinks it’s summer. Then you look around at the tomato plants that have long since crapped out expecting to see new blooms, or the zinnias that now look like they’ve been set on fire for any new growth. Brain goes, “Oh hey! It’s summer. Grow!” and, of course, that won’t happen, because the tilt of the earth’s axis is now in such a way that is depriving northern hemispheric plant life of crucially needed sunlight. Despite the mental rejuvenation of that summerlike day, EVERYTHING ELSE AROUND YOU IS SLOWLY DYING.
Lily isn't just a fabrication of some Sesame Street fantasy world. She is real life.
Sesame Street has introduced a new muppet. Lily is stricken with poverty and often goes hungry. She will make her debut in a prime time special called Growing Hope Against Hunger.
Just from what I have seen online so far, the reaction to this has been utterly ridiculous. Over on Facebook, our local Fox affiliate asked readers for their opinions on the matter. Now, I fully well recognize that Facebook ain’t exactly the Harvard of internet intelligence. You can argue “what did you expect from Facebook?” all you want, but the reality is that Facebook is probably THE most popular and widely used website for social interaction, and with that, it’s pretty safe to say that the Facebook population’s mindset reflects the general mindset of America.
I have failed to get back to the comments for this particular subject, so I’m going off of memory, so scuse because I cannot quote verbatim. However, here’s a selection of the comments I recall:
So, here we are with only two school days left before Boog becomes a FIRST GRADER. I could be all predictable and say inane shit like “WHERE DID THE TIME GO?” but that would be boring. It has been an absolute joy to see Boog grow and develop with his Kindergarten peers into the smart little buggers they are now.
But before we get into the inanity of FIRST GRADE, we obviously have to celebrate the first summer vacation and all the first things that go on there. And this is where I begin my journey into the world of being a T-BALL MOM. Because, you know, it’s all about me.
Lakewood Rec names all the teams after the pros, and I find it rather funny that Boog was placed on the Mets, because 1. my entire family is from NY, and 2. the Mets are my Aunt Carole’s favorite baseball team. (Hi Carole!)
Also awesome: girls and boys play together.
These aren’t really ‘games’ as we traditionally know it, seeing as these kids are, well, 5 and 6. Everyone gets to bat, everyone gets to play, which means everyone gets a chance to practice their skills and just have fun. Games only last about an hour (which so far constitutes only 2 innings), and I’m rather happy about that because if we went the traditional route, we’d probably be there all night.
Boog didn’t to too shabby for his first game. He played catcher for the first inning, then random spots for the second. I am also glad to say that I was not the only parent who found the whole thing absolutely hysterical. Where else are you going to see an entire field of players rush for the ball when it’s hit? My favorite player was on the other team – he’d make choo choo feet as he ran the bases. You know, just to make sure every ounce of dirt did not remain undisturbed.
After the game, boog went out in the backyard, uniform still on, and continued to hit balls until it was time for dinner and a good hose-off. He loves it, and I do too. Never will you see such a genuine display of effort. These kids try so hard and who cares if they miss the ball, or completely knock the tee over, or miss getting an out because they were too busy killing ants. They’re doing their best, and that’s the way it should be. And if you ask Boog, he will proudly tell you that he plays for the New York Mets.
He also got #1 for his shirt number. Because he is, of course, my #1 Boog.
‘Boog’ is short for ‘booger’, which is what I started calling him when he was 2 days old. I have called him that ever since. I have tried to call him Victor, but the last time I did that, he looked at me and said, “MOMMY. *You* call me Boog.” So I do.
And even though, like, 99% of all my friends also call him Boog, I see the name as my secret word for him. It’s our own little in joke. People might say they get the punchline but they really don’t because they’ll never know the whole story.
He brings me home tiny potted marigold seedlings wrapped up in a small canvas bag that he has decorated with rubber stamps. The marigold is rather unimpressive but yet it is the most precious thing ever and if I let it die I’ve failed as a mother. I’ve killed my kid’s love if I let it die. You bet your sweet shit this puppy is going to get as much time and attention as the garden outside.
And amidst the pile of work he brought home in his school folder is a drawing he did for me in his free time at school. It is full of hearts and fireworks. And the date, because they’re learning what that is, although he still has issues with time concepts like ‘tomorrow’ and ’3 days from now’ but he’s getting there.
And it’s not signed Victor, it’s signed Boog. Because he knows.
And this is why I don’t send him back to his own bed after he’s had a bad dream, or give him a hug instead of screaming at him for opening his brand spanking new box of glow in the dark sidewalk chalk that you have to mix yourself but he completely screwed up because Real Men Don’t Need To Read Directions.
One day this stuff won’t be around. One day, he’ll get completely pissed off at me for calling him Boog and bite my head off much like I did with my mom when she cried after dropping me off at college. He’ll stop getting it. But I’ll keep calling him Boog.
One day, though, he’ll get it again. He will get it and once again there will be a Polo to my Marco and he will be my Boog again. And I’ll be able to die happy knowing that I have left a wonderful little happy life to take my place.
Shit’s been busy. Over the past few weeks, I’ve managed to start a few blog posts, then something happens, so I save it with the intention of getting back to it later.
And you know what that got me? a page full of post drafts.
So here’s the quick and dirty:
I forgot to mention that Boog lost tooth #2 earlier this week. Its like the fates are smiling on the good environment that my ex and I work together on to make for him, and thus divide these little joys evenly. Jeremy got the first tooth, I got the second. Thank you, fates.
I got to play tooth fairy for the very first time. He received 8 quarters because he got a $2 bill for the first one [thanks a lot, Jeremy], and somehow got it in his head that with each consequent lost tooth, the rate of tooth fairy payment increases exponentially. So, when the very last one pops out, I think he’s expecting his college tuition to be paid in full. I guess I took advantage of that because in Boog Math, 8 quarters is more than one $2 bill. I am a horrible, horrible mom.
I have his little tooth sitting here and I have no inclination to throw it away. In fact, I am probably going to go to the craft store to get the necessities to make a pendant out of it, so I can wear it proudly and subliminally proclaim: THIS! THIS IS THE PRODUCT OF MY OFFSPRING! THE OFFSPRING OF WHICH I GESTATED. BEHOLD THE WONDERS OF MY UTERINE CAPABILITIES!
Which of course, could probably be better conveyed by hanging up some of the drawings he did at school, but, yanno, that’s just not *me*.
Boog likes to be in charge of writing down the grocery list on the whiteboard on the fridge. Usually STRING CHEESE is on the list, but not this time.
That’s supposed to say ‘orange juice’, but he wrote it backwards. I told him you can’t get money at the grocery store. He said, in his well-duh-mom-shows-what-you-know Boog voice:
“Yes you can! When you go to pay for your groceries, the lady gives you money!”
So remember that the next time you go to pick up some asparagus.
Oh, and Dan? That’s the guy with the diabolical moustache at the bottom. I think he was actually drawing his Uncle Justin.
His other latest project involved an old picture mat that D was going to discard. He folded it in half and asked if we could keep it and hang it on his wall.
“It’s a recognizer!”
Being the overachieving overachiever that I am, I volunteered to be a room parent for Boog’s class. Well, I was assigned the honor of HEAD ROOM PARENT. And, as I now have experienced, being HEAD ROOM PARENT actually means PICKING UP THE SLACK OF THE OTHER PARENTS WHO VOLUNTEERED BUT WONT RETURN YOUR CALLS.
Today is the last day of school for the year. Boog’s class is having a party at the end of the day, where they will decorate cookies. [yeah, dont get me started. heh] Because of budgets, pretty much everything has to be donated – cookies, frosting, etc. Cue the ROOM PARENTS. They help provide these things so that the little ones can have a good time. I did my HEAD ROOM PARENT duties and feverishly called the other parents for assistance, and the response was rather underwhelming.
So I did it myself. Mind you, I have not touched any conventional baking dough in over a year. After about 3 burned batches, I mustered up 36 cookies, and put them in bags, along with little treat bags that included winter stickers and silly bands. And maybe a candy cane or two. Each bag got each child’s name along with some extra stickers. And prepared cups of sprinkles for the tables, and frosting, and cups for the drinks, and fun straws.
I walked the supplies up to the school this morning. Apparently it’s also jammie day, as I entered a room full of kindergarteners in their jammies. And they came up to me and said HELLO BOOG’S MOMMY and showed me their stuffed animals. Boog’s teacher was wearing a rather nifty pair of red leopard print pajamas that I covet. And I gave her the rundown on what was in the boxes, and she was ever so grateful and gave me a hug. Being the huggy person I am, I appreciated that.
Boog is with Jeremy this week so I enjoyed seeing Boog even if it was brief. I would also like to give a shoutout to Jeremy for stepping up to the plate with helping at the party because I could not make it.
All of this came out of my own pocket. Did I mention that my contract with UH ends at the end of the year? Right now, though, I was just happy I could help.
In the winter, we tend to hole ourselves up a little more, maybe spend too much time in front of the computer, are less inclined to go outside as much, maybe slack on interaction with other people. The time spent wrapped up in our own heads might be a little too much, and maybe our perspective of the world shifts as our only witness to the outside world is the douchebaggery going on in the news.
And sometimes all it takes to rejuvenate your perspective is taking a bunch of cookies to a room full of kindergarteners.
If you’re feeling the same, go do good for someone today. No act of kindness is too small. Hold the door open for someone. Bring soup to a friend. Do good for someone else so they, in turn, can do good for someone else, and maybe this world can suck less.
Anyone can write a check. Do something.
After a weekend of slight humiliation with Jeremy, boog was pretty down when he arrived at our house Sunday night. I also had him write apology letters to his teacher and to the kid he spit on. I think it’s not only important to make sure the kid knows he did something wrong, but also help him realize that his actions do affect others. I also think more people in this world need to remember that last part for themselves.
The result: lots of hugs. His teacher gave him a thank you hug, he got a hug from the spittee, and boog got a star on his hand yesterday for good behavior. We’re good for at least another week or two.
Oh, and the boy he spit on? His father hands me my venti bold at starbucks almost every morning. Here’s hoping he does not believe in retribution.
So I had my first parent teacher conference ever a few weeks ago. I felt so….motherly. What is this ‘responsibility’ nonsense and why am I smack dab in the middle of it? Anyway, I got to sit in the little chairs in a school late at night and go over boog’s work. I am fascinated by the artwork of kindergarteners. I kind of want to be able to harness that reality-but-yet-not perspective again, where the sky is always blue lines on the top of the page, and it is perfectly OK for robots to have two heads.
Boog is doing brilliantly as expected. He got the equivalent of all A’s in his classes, and he is so advanced in reading that the teacher is pulling him aside with the other advanced readers to make sure they keep that up. Boog’s teacher? awesome. She’s just going on about how great boog is, and how well he catches on, and she wishes she had a callsroom full of him. Admittedly, my reaction to that was “OH TRUST ME YOU DONT,” which, after that just kinda fell out of my mouth, probably sounded really bad. But anyway.
I’m sitting there all beamy and giving myself mental high-5s and congratulating myself for gestating such genetically superior offspring, and that’s when everything just kinda stopped and the teacher put in that big “BUT…” and insert record scratch here.
He’s spitting at people in class. Spitting. Mind you, I didn’t expect boog to sail through school being a perfect angel. In fact, I have spent many a moment wondering just what boog sized havoc he was going to wreak upon his unsuspecting teacher. ‘Spitting’ never made that list.
Well, it’s gotten to a point where Jeremy received a call from boog during the day Friday, where he had - yet again – launched his salivary product at one of his cohorts, and his teacher marched his little butt straight to the principal’s office and have him call Jeremy to tell him exactly what he did.
We are both baffled as to why he is doing this, as he doesn’t do this at either of our homes. It all reminds me of that episode of Roseanne where Darlene barks in class. Roseanne is my parenting role model, btw.
We’ve discussed and executed suitable punishments, but the mystery continues, and I gotta find slight amusement in this. Spitting? Really, boog? Surely you can come up with something more ingenious. You can mow the lawn and use belligerent correctly in a sentence, for crap’s sake.
I am contemplating making a sandwich board with the words I SPIT on it and making him stand out in the front yard after school.
Ok, not really. But the thought of it amuses me.
I got a buttload of recipes to unload, so keep an eye out for those.
the teeth are comical. tomorrow when he actually goes trick or treating, we’re replacing the cheapo plastic fangs with chewing gum molded onto his teeth.
boog has his first loose tooth. when jeremy told me, i swear to god my entire life flashed before my eyes. what the crap, i am not prepared to be the tooth fairy yet. this is happening because i’m still paying off the bill from his last dental appointment.
also i keep taking pictures at angles like a blogger. i gotta stop that.
I had this ungodly fear of having my face near water when I was growing up. I don’t really know why. All I know is that I would flip my shit even if my mom washed my hair.
I think I tried swimming lessons at the Y. At least, I remember going there. I wouldn’t let go of the edge of the pool without something floaty. I eventually overcame the fear, but it wasn’t until summer camp when I was, uh, 13 or something. and even then, it involved a noseplug and goggles at all times.
Yeah, that certainly helped my social life.
Anyway, I noticed boog exhibiting the same symptoms, and like most parents, you recognize the same issues in your offspring that you had as a child, and valiantly try to cure them of those issues so they don’t have to go through the same things you did. This usually ends in them acquiring an entirely new and different set of issues, and the circle of life goes on.
Between p-pa’s charter boat and D’s obsession with windsurfing, boog spends a lot of time around water. We have him on Tuesdays now [bowling season, yanno], and D discovered that the Y offered lessons on Tuesdays, so we signed him up.
He’s doing awesome. Of course he is, he’s my kid. But the one thing I was really proud of was this:
He is sticking his face in the water without the prepubescent awkwardness of noseplugs or goggles. He doesn’t like doing this and he tells me, but he does it anyway. He’s good at that and it makes me proud, and on the surface, I’m just helping him acquire new skills, but in reality it’s giving me reassurance that if the Kingpin [p-pa's boat] capsized during a random excursion out on Lake Erie, boog could confidently swim back to shore.
Ah, projection. Even better when you have kids.
During the weeks that I have him, we walk to school, rain or shine. So I bought him his own umbrella. And, of course, wrote his name on it, because in this day and age, you have to write your kid’s name on everything. He was concerned that someone might take my own umbrella, so he offered to write my name on mine for me.
Remember this: if you find a leopard print umbrella with MOMMY written on it, it belongs to MOMMY. Please return it to MOMMY.
This past weekend, he spent some time with meemaw [my mom] and acquired a little jack-o-lantern with a flashing light inside. Boog wanted to stick it out on the porch to haunt the neighborhood, but D didn’t think that was a good idea, and told boog as much, saying that someone might take it.
Boog said, “That’s ok, I’ll write my name on it so people know it’s mine.”
If only things worked like that.
For the record, its currently haunting us from the fireplace.
Just in the past month or so, boog’s skills in – well, pretty much everything – have just exploded. Instead of random scribbling, he’s making actual pictures now. He starts swimming lessons at the Y tomorrow, despite his insistence that he already knows how to swim. He also says he already knows how to drive. It’s easy. Last night in the car, he spontaneously belted out a few rounds of Yankee Doodle.
And, in case you were worried that I was becoming one of THOSE moms, he was singing along to Twisted Sister 5 minutes previous.
My cats have been living in the upstairs apartment for almost a year now, and its been bugging me because the poor things are so isolated up there. I’ve been hesitant about bringing them down due to how lady reacts to cats that she sees in the backyard. Well, after a few months of training, we decided to let the cats downstairs. Initially, it was a lot of this:
Well, except for cray. She marched her 14 year old cat ass downstairs and plopped it right on the kitchen floor. Then lady showed up, and I held my breath in expectation of a blood filled hiss and bark fest.
Guess who won?
I have never, ever seen a dog be so wussy about small furry things before in my life. In all honesty, she is just REALLY EXCITED about having those….SMALL THINGS! WITH LONG TAILS! around her, and all she wants to do is stick her nose up their butts. Of course, the cats aren’t having any of that.
So, integration obtained, I guess. That’s probably the best we’re gonna get. Man. Cray’s getting old.
Things have been all crazy busy. I’m currently on a gig with university hospitals assisting with their website, and it’s been quite pleasant. I am redoing our church’s website as well. I am getting more involved with boog’s school [Twisted Sister. Twisted Sister.] and still lifting heavy and being all obsessed about eating well and still taking life by the nads, just in different, more productive ways from what I used to. And it seems that a lot of my life has been slipping by, undocumented. So here I am, documenting.
The entire family was hugely busy this weekend. Rockstar Conner not only had matrching band, but also performed at the winchester with one of his bands. Sadly I lack photos. Boog also graced the stage this weekend with Jeremy’s band:
He knows the lyrics to a few of the songs, so Jeremy has him join them up on stage.
On top of that, camping with the adventure group at west branch state park, the cadillac of ohio’s state parks. It is maintained by the army corps of engineers, so it is really, really nice. It’s almost not like camping. West branch is located a bit south of Ravenna. With over 5000 acres of park and 2000 acres of water, the park offers over 20 miles of bridle trails, 7 miles of MTB trails, 12 miles of hiking trails, and a whole bunch of other stuff. In addition to all this awesomesauce, the weather was incredibly cooperative and a good time was had by all.
I slightly remember my first day of kindergarten. It was 1978. My house wasn’t even a block away from the elementary school, so I got to walk. I remember heading out of the house with my backpack and my metal snoopy lunchbox, and my mom said goodbye and watched me depart. And she just stood on the porch, watching. And I’d walk a bit and turn around to look at the house and she was still there. Walk a bit more, look back, STILL THERE. GET IN THE HOUSE, MA.
And that is my memory of my first day of kindergarten.
Today was boog’s first day. It was Jeremy’s week, however he brought boog over to the house, we got all of his supplies together, and Jeremy, D and I walked boog up to the school.
The sidewalks were crowded this morning. It was like every single house had at least one kid in elementary school. Everyone was really friendly. The crossing guards introduced themselves and became familiar with the kids.
We unloaded boog’s stuff and he found his seat. Parents were allowed to stick around for a little bit, just in case.
boog’s teacher has been teaching for pretty much as long as I’ve been alive. She’s a powerhouse, has a very strong personality and definitely knows how to handle the wee ones.
We said our goodbyes to boog and let him get on with his day, and we went to a reception in the auditorium for the parents, where I did not eat any of the donuts. After that, we headed home and sat on the porch for a bit, drinking more coffee and bullshitted a bit more before heading to work.
I am really excited about starting this chapter of boog’s life. This is where he really begins to grow and learn and become his own little autonomous person. MY KID IS IN KINDERGARTEN, PEOPLE.
I got to talk to boog on the phone tonight to see how his day went. He said they went outside 3 times and he colored an apple with red, brown, and green crayons. *And*, he said, he didn’t have to sit in the time out chair.
Days Without Incident: 1