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.
So, hey. I still am writing a big ole post about the Bishop’s Bike Ride, because yay, what an experience. But for now you get another monumentous occasion in biking history, the day my own kid flew on his own two wheels. Which, obviously, everyone takes this giant leap in their own childhoods or wherever, but this is MY KID and thus THE MOST IMPORTANT EVENT IN CYCLING HISTORY TODAY.
I don’t think Boog was even 3 when I jumped all over the “I will be the one to teach Boog how to ride without training wheels” tip. But I was pretty adamant about it, and thankfully Jeremy was kind enough to let me follow through. Biking is an incredibly huge part of my life, and I wanted to be the one to teach Boog this skill. It might seem a little petty and small, but hey, importance is relative, I guess.
I distinctly remember my dad teaching me how to ride. Up and down the sidewalk I went, feeling all badass until I went to do a turn in the Mellen’s gravel driveway and gashed the everliving fuck out of my knee.
D and I took Boog to a park nearby with a decent enough hill that also would not scare the crap out of him. Hills are so much better to teach a kid on than the traditional ‘hang onto the bike seat and run’ route, because gravity and momentum allow them to actually get an honest feel of balance, and when they crash, there’s not 5 miles of pavement waiting to peel their little faces off.
So we start up just a little way up the hill – didn’t want to go too far and have to pay for some therapy – and I gave him a few instructions on what he needed to do, and I wasn’t really precise with them because I figured this would probably take some time for him to learn. He got on that bike and rolled down and I figured again that he would just kinda fall over at the bottom.
But he didn’t. He kept going for an impressively long distance that invoked applause from a random lady who happened to be walking by with her dog. We brought him up again, and this time D took over near the bottom and ran in front of him, encouraging Boog to keep pedaling and try to catch him. And that got him even further and you could see the confidence building inside his little Boog head.
Soon we were off the hill and in the parking lot, where he could ride back into the grass. Then I’m finding myself only having to hold the bike steady to let him take off. Then he’s doing complete circles in the grass to get back onto the pavement. And then he’s completely ignoring the grass and doing laps in the parking lot, and he may or may not have had an unfortunate run in with a parked car, but we’ll just pretend that didn’t happen.
All of this amazingly happened in under an hour and a half. It staggers me just how quickly he picked everything up. He still has a few issues with getting himself started, but he’s working on it. I am completely proud of him, and he was so excited he called Jeremy to tell him to take the training wheels off his bike at Jeremy’s house and to throw them in the trash.
That’s my boy. Soon he’ll be tearing up the roads, more than likely alone, because all of his friends think he’s too fast for them and therefore pass on riding with him, much like what happens to mommy. But that’s ok, I’ll gladly let him ride with me.
I was watching some obscure cartoon on Nickelodeon with Boog last night, and I ask the question “whose Boog are you?” which he has dutifully been trained to say, “I’m mommy’s Boog!” Which, in the earlier years, obviously was a conditioned response, but now he does it with meaning and feeling. Good boy.
So I ask him if he’ll still say that he’s Mommy’s Boog when he’s 17, and of course he looks at me funny and replies with the Boog version of Well Duh Mom, Why Wouldn’t I? And I’m thinking, ah, child. Soon you will get older and you’ll venture into your own little pon farr and you’ll haaaaaaate everything and everyone, and especially your parents who are SO EMBARASSING. OH CHRIST MOM DONT MAKE ME SAY THAT IN FRONT OF MY FRIENDS.
And I will hold him to that, and I WILL make him say he’s Mommy’s Boog in front of his friends, and remind him of that night on the couch during the summer when he was six that he PINKY SWORE TO ME and he has a bound contract to fulfill. And partially because my parenting role model is Roseanne.
But, right now, he cannot possibly imagine why he would ever not say that he is Mommy’s Boog. I am cherishing it while it lasts.
T-ball has mutated into not an actual T-ball game where you get the ball if it’s coming to you and try to get it to first base, but rather a contest to see who can get the ball first and then keep score of how many times you got the ball first. Throwing it to a base is totally unnecessary. This has lead, in certain situations, like when the ball occasionally rolls into the outfield, to have every one of the 15-some-odd players to run out into the outfield to claim the ball. 15 child pileup. Also, crappy behavior from select children. Not the child’s fault, but a result of parents that reinforce the unique special snowflake syndrome, because reprimanding a child for bad behavior is wrong. Hooray, child! You got the ball! Good job! We’ll just gloss over the fact that you knocked down 3 of your teammates to get it. Oh, and it was hit to 3rd and you’re playing 1st.
Fortunately Coach has noticed this and continues to try to get the kids to, you know, actually play ball. He had a good talk with the team after the last disaster of a game to help them understand that they have certain spots on the field and that’s where they have to stay, regardless of where the ball goes. And if he has to, he’ll draw circles on the field so they know *exactly* where they have to stand and they CANNOT LEAVE THAT CIRCLE.
I really hope that happens, because it would be epic.
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.
A pair of boog sized KSOs arrived in the mail today, just in time for his 6th birthday Friday. His request.
He also wanted a fully functioning light saber, but that’s a little out of mommy’s price range.
I promise i’ll stop posting about goddamn minimalist footwear, but sweet crap are these things cute.
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:
Cray is healing.
She. Is. Healing.
In a last ditch effort, I removed all the bandages and let the wounds go to the open air and prayed. Every morning and evening, I dilligently spray her down with Bactine to reduce the risk of infection. Just the thought of her open wounds exposed like that squicks me the hell out. I mean, they’re covered by her flannel jammies so she won’t lick herself to death, but they’re still open. And wouldn’t you know it, they’re beginning to scar up. The biggest wound on her one side is about 30% scarred over now. She’s still eating like a pig and is using the litterbox again and back in her place with Boog in bed at night.
I think that was the biggest concern with me right there. Cray is Boog’s kitty, and he adores her. And during his week here this past week, he asked me about his name and the people he got it from [Jeremy's grandfather and my dad, respectively] and how those people aren’t with us, and how he does not like it when people die. And I know that death is all part of the greater scheme of things and these things happen – shit, my dad died when my sister was a bit older than Boog – but when you have some kind of control over that situation, things are a little different.
So I gave it one more try. And it seems to be working.
There’s a special sensitive skin formula made by Science Diet that owners in this situation said has helped, but looking at the list of ingredients, there was no way in hell I was subjecting my cats to that crap. I racked my brain thinking what else I could give her to help her skin, when all of a sudden I am all, “DUH, fish oil” so now the cats get a nice hefty dose of Wild Alaskan Salmon oil at mealtimes.
If anything, I’ll have the shiniest cats in Cleveland.
We’re not out of the woods yet here, but it’s certainly a hell of a lot better than it has been.
And I want to thank all of you for sending me your love and support in this. It means a lot.
A can of tuna, some snow peas, and an apple.
And right now you might be thinking, “what the shit is this? Da hell is Batty doing posting something so mediocre?”
And I will say “because my dang kid made it.”
Sunday night, Boog made some smarmy comment about dinner, and I said something to the effect of WELL WHY DONT YOU MAKE DINNER THEN. And he said I CANT BECAUSE I CANT USE THE STOVE and I am all WELL YOU DONT NEED THE STOVE and a plan was born.
Yes, we talk to each other in capslock.
After school yesterday, Boog and I hit the grocery store and he picked out the food we were going to eat for dinner. He made the complete meal for us, including zapping the veggies, setting the table, and served drinks.
The menu included Tuna In The Can. This one of his favorite things to eat. It HAS to be in the can. Snow peas, broccoli, cauliflower, and carrots, apples, and string cheese for the guys.
Oh, and orange juice. Cept me, I had water. I am proud of what he picked out. he asked me what kind of vegetables we liked instead of heading over to the row of shiny, frozen kid cuisines. Eugh.
It might not look that exciting, but it’s the best meal I’ve eaten all week.
Speaking of eating, I’ve taken up a challenge this month. Mind you, I eat real food, and I eat a lot of real food. Sometimes, I do like to eat not food. Recently, however, the proportion of not food has been increasing and it’s been making me feel like crap.
So I am taking up the Whole 30 Challenge. For 30 days, I go back to real food. No grains [not like I eat these to begin with], beans, certain legumes, processed food, dairy, booze, or sweeteners. Just lots of meat, eggs, vegetables, and fruit. No calorie counting, no measuring. Just making the proper food choices.
I’m cool with the booze, I’ve had a whopping 3 glasses of wine since New Year’s Eve. Dairy I can take or leave. I dont use honey let alone Splenda or Stevia. What might just kill me is not being able to indulge in my dark chocolate. And I’ve been kinda using my protein powder as a crutch, too. NO PROTEIN POWDER? SURELY I AM ON THE ONE WAY EXPRESS TRAIN TO CATABOLISM. Need to reset that. But, like Whole9 says, this ain’t hard. It isn’t like beating cancer.
We’ll see where this goes! I’m excited to be doing it. I know I still suffer from a lot of damage from the years I spent eating crap, and taking this challenge will definitely help me out. Wish me luck.