Three Things

• Last weekend our little library hosted an Easter egg hunt.  The weather was beautiful, the Easter bunny creepy.

I was a little surprised when Atticus told me that yes, he did want his picture taken with the Easter bunny- but he waited until Caedmon was there to get in the picture, too.  No sense in getting that close to something so obviously inbred without the support of your brother, right?

• When I want to impart a message to our children, I might say something like, "Come here, guys!" or "Children, I have some important information I wish to impart!" or "STOP TRYING TO KILL EACH OTHER AND GET IN HERE!"  When Derek has something to say, he will sometimes say, "Kids, take a knee."

Sports-inspired parenting

• I've been looking for solutions to my current problem:  I don't have a whole lot of time to read right now.  Of course I can eek out a few minutes here and there, but when I'm trying to plow through a tome of a novel, I really prefer bigger chunks of time, for mental continuity and so I don't have to keep flipping back, repeatedly asking, "Now who is Sophie, again?"  

One solution:  Read young adult and juvenile fiction.  It's quick, yet you can still find just as many high-quality books as in the adult genres.

This book is a few years old now, but my gosh, is it good.  I recommend this one if:  Someone in your life has dyslexia, if you've ever felt different or left out or not good enough, if you have children, or if you yourself were once a child.  Click on the link for a proper synopsis.

I know I just recommended a slew of picture books in a recent post, but this one, this one you have to find.  It is clever.  It is hilarious.  The writing is so good, and the illustrations so perfect for the text, you'll read it over and over again, to a kid or maybe just to yourself.  

The end.

So You Married a Football Fan

When I was a kid, our Sunday schedule was pretty set:  Get up.  Go to church.  Go to Sunday school.  Come home.  Wait foreeeevvvveeer for lunch.  (It was maybe thirty minutes.)  Eat lunch.  Read the funnies.  Do whatever for the rest of the day.

I had no knowledge of football.  I did not know it had a season of its own, I did not know it was a thing that happened on Sundays, I did not know that there were people who placed any kind of importance on sports in their lives.  My family simply wasn't interested.  I was vaguely aware of the existence of sports only because there were a couple kids in my elementary school who wore Starter jackets with strange symbols on them.  There were a few front yards around town with arrowheads and the word "Chiefs" emblazoned on various things, but I thought that just meant Native Americans lived in those houses. (Well, "Indians" in my childhood brain.)  This isn't that strange, okay; it was southern Kansas, there were a few Native Americans in my school system, plus the Ponca nation just across the state border.

But as it turns out, there are people in this world who live and die (figuratively... for the most part) by their football team.  I know this because I married one of them.

First of all, my husband's come a long way in eleven years, mostly because he realized that Scary Monster Football Derek doesn't do much toward making warm, fatherly memories in the hearts of his children.  He still hollers and glowers and whoops during the games, but he intersperses it with games of catch with the kids and weird, forced smiles thrown in my direction to show that he is still aware of and thankful for my existence.  

But let's say you're still a newbie.  Sports, you say?  Oh, yes, I have heard of the sports.  They make for wonderfully emotional movies.  Isn't it remarkable how the good-hearted underdogs always win?

If this is you- me, a little more than a decade ago- there are some things that you need to know.

#1.  Your loved one is no longer your loved one.

If this sounds like crazy Jedi logic, that's because it is- crazy, that is, but also true.  That perfectly sane, reasonable human being you thought you knew?  They are gone, gone, gone, replaced by wild-eyed, irrational Sports Loved One, at least for the next few hours.  I recommend reading a little classic Robert Louis Stevenson to help you understand this phenomenon, because that is surely Mr. Hyde sitting in your chair, wearing a treasured NFL jersey that may or may not have been washed in quite some time, depending on the level of superstition in your Sports Loved One.  

#2.  You scratch my back, I scratch yours.  You watch sports, I get an extra hour of the Great British Baking Show.

Once you've accepted the reality of the presence of Sports Loved One, it's time to figure out just how you're going to get through this.  You could throw yourself a little fit, make Sports Loved One good and miserable with lots of sighing and eyerolling at key moments in the sports thing, but do you really want that kind of behavior boomeranging back at you when you're in the bookstore with a stack of new-found treasures and what you hope is a winning smile directed toward your loved one?  A little tolerance goes a long way and can be redeemed in a variety of ways, say, in hours-long wanderings together in an antique emporium. 

#3.  Engaging Your Sports Loved One

Okay, so you're ready to practice some tolerance.  But what does tolerance look like?  In the early years of our marriage, it was helpful to me to pretend Derek was a wild animal any time the Vikings were playing.  If you've ever read anything about approaching dangerous animals, you'll find that experts recommend what is known as an "open approach."  You'll find that many of the same principles apply to Sports Loved Ones:  First, you approach the animal/SLO openly, perhaps deliberately making a subtle noise to let them know you are there.  Try delicately crackling a chip bag, preferably in their diagonal line of sight.  Be very cautious about making eye contact.  If at all possible, AVOID CONTACT, but if you must, follow the previous guidelines, and above all, REMAIN CALM.  I do everything I can to stay away from my Sports Loved One, but Doritos are Doritos, man, and sometimes needs must.  

#5.  Immersion.

If you've ever invested time in learning a foreign language, you know that the best and fastest way to acquire this second language is through immersion.  Now, I don't want to alarm you, but merely by virtue of being in a relationship with your Sports Loved One, your own immersion has begun.  Don't fight it, dear.  Parts of your brain may find it slightly appalling that you now use such sports idioms as "throwing a Hail Mary" and "huddling up."  This is natural and expected, and will help make up for the errant All this fuss for a piece of overboiled leather, and It's just a game! that still occasionally slips through your lips.

#4.  Enforced Calm.    

If all else fails, start having babies.  Babies tend to cry when you let out heartfelt screams, even if it is because Adrian Peterson scored a touchdown for your beloved Vikings.  The parenting books don't say so, but infants provide wonderful aversion therapy for the excitable sports fan in your house.  If kids aren't really your thing, perhaps a high-strung dog would meet your family's needs.  Anything that will scream back and with greater intensity at your Sports Loved One will suffice, really; babies are just what we ended up with.

You can do this, sports novice.  If we all stick together, maybe come up with an official colored awareness ribbon for those of us who live with and support our Sports Loved ones, we, too, can have an entire sports event decked out in our chosen color.  I vote puce.  

Quoth the Atticus

Most of the family's tears/drama/insecurity flow from our daughter, but the other day we got home from running errands, and Atticus disappeared up the stairs for a while.  I called him down for lunch and was met with silence, which was unusual.  I went to the bottom of the stairs, prepared to holler up at him again, when he called down to me, in a voice broken with despair,

"Mommy, my muscles are really small."

Adelaide immediately started laughing, as notoriously unsympathetic older sisters are wont to do, so I shushed her before hastily covering my face in my scarf to smother my own giggling.  He sounded so pathetic.  When he finally made his way down the stairs, I could see how much his small muscles were bothering him by the way he buried his face in my stomach while simultaneously thrusting his left arm up for inspection.  

Now, there's no question, the kid is right:  Atticus is stringy.  I didn't want to lie to him, so I said things about muscles getting bigger as you grow and how Daddy exercises and does push ups and stuff to get bigger muscles, and how his muscles were going to end up just fine.  Thinking back on it now, I should have mentioned things like brains and kindness and trustworthiness being more important than muscles, but I don't always think so well on my feet.  I'll randomly bring it up out of nowhere soon and completely bewilder him instead.


He will have a chance to work some of his muscles here in a couple months, because he finally got wise and told his daddy that he wanted to play soccer, evidently figuring out that Mother will delay entry into organized sports for as long as possible- say, forever?  Derek promptly informed him that he could start in the spring when soccer started back up, I panicked just the tiniest bit having heard about how vicious those soccer moms can be (never mind that I'm already friends with several of them and know that they will, in fact, be holding my hand and patiently explaining all the sportsing rules to The Slow One), but just smiled to Atticus and started hunting for those garage sale soccer cleats I just knew would come in handy one day.

Atticus has been asking me all sorts of soccer-related questions ever since, and because I don't know the answers, I just kind of make things up.  His questions and something he said to his grandma the other day have alerted me to the fact that a mother with almost total apathy to all things sports-related and a sports-expert father make for a skewed image of what his own youth athletic career will look like:

"Grandma, you can come watch me at my games OR you can just watch me on tv."

"Mom, will there be cheerleaders at my soccer games?  A lot of cheerleaders?"  (Oh, gracious.)

"How will I run onto the field?  Will I run with all the other kids on my team, or by myself?  Will everyone cheer when they say my name?"

"What kind of seats will you sit in when you're watching me?  Will they be those tall seats?"

He seems to think his rec center soccer team is somehow affiliated with MLS or the NFL and will, of course, come with all the associated hoopla.  I'm hoping that reality won't be too much of a letdown, although I'm starting to think Derek's right and I won't be able to read a book the whole time he's playing (at the practices, friends, not the games.  I'm not that terrible a mother.  Probably.); I'll need to be watching him and making up for a decided lack of television cameras/cheerleaders/fans holding up homemade signs.  

Unless those things really are at small town kiddie soccer games?  I really have no way of knowing.

I DO know you don't wear ninja masks in soccer... right?

When Strange Is a Good Thing

Oh, Atticus.

Atticus, Atticus, Atticus.

You, sir, are such a puzzle to me.



More often than not, I really feel like I just don't understand our three-year-old son.  To be fair, I'm pretty sure he feels the same way about me.  Confused.  Bewildered.  Puzzled.

It's hard for me to tell how much of it is his boy-ness and how much is him as an individual.  I have no brothers, and was more or less surrounded by girls throughout my childhood.  So small boys don't really fall within my normal milieu.

It's different with Adelaide.  She's remarkably similar to me in many ways, so I find her to be easier to predict and understand (except for the whole dissolving-into-tears-all-the-time thing- I really don't get that).  And Caedmon is still young enough that we're still discovering his little personality (although he does request to be put to bed with one or two books at naptime and bedtime).

Atticus does lots of normal little boy things that I was pretty much expecting.  He loves sports, particularly golf.  He likes trains and trucks and getting dirty.

But then there's other stuff.  Take his clothing, for example.  He generally won't come down to breakfast until he's completely dressed in the outfit of his choosing.  When I do pick out his clothes, he'll often inform me that that shirt doesn't go with those shorts, or that he only wears this shirt with these pants.  His favorite shoes are his brown leather loafers, which he typically pairs with Derek's 20-year-old Vikings hat.  He disappears upstairs multiple times a day to change his outfit.  He recently asked me, "Can you look for a green belt at a garage sale?  And a green watch, please?"  Because he's obsessed with the color green.

How about music?  I check out a couple CD's every week from the library, trying to expose our kiddos to an array of music.  Atticus likes a lot of what we listen to, but his favorite is easily The Beatles.  Second favorite?  The Beach Boys.  You should hear him belt out "Barbara Ann."

And girls.  Oh, my.  I knew that with two sons, we would be addressing the issue of our son's eventual interest in the opposite sex.  But what I didn't know was that "eventual" would be three years old.

We watched quite a bit of the Olympics.  What was Atticus's favorite sport to watch?

If you guessed Rhythmic Gymnastics, then congratulations!  You guessed what I never would have.

The first time it came on, he was immediately entranced.  The commercials would interrupt his viewing pleasure, and he would ask (over and over and OVER), "When are those girls gonna be back on?"  Adelaide or Caedmon would try to say something, and he would say, "SSHHH!   I can't hear the girls!"  When he wasn't shushing the rest of us, he was saying things like, "I like the pink girl.  The pink girl's pretty," and "When I can see the pink-and-green girl again?"  He referred to them by the colors of their costumes, because he seemed most besotted by the Russian girls, and it was easier to call them according to color than actually try and pronounce their names.

While none of the other ladies in his life seem to measure up to Russian Rhythmic Gymnast standards, he will occasionally tell me, "I like So-And-So.  She's REALLY pretty."  (Pronounced, "I yike (insert name).  She's REEWEE pretty.")

I'm really hoping the whole girl thing is just a phase.  Because who wants their son to be known as the lecher on the playground?


I realize that lots of kids don't fit into a predictable mold.  Atticus often calls to mind a report card of my sister's that came home one day:  In the comments section, it simply said, "Kelli is a unique child."  'Unique' is Lutheran for "Your kid is so weird."  I take comfort in the fact that Kelli's turned out better than most of the people I know.



Conclusion:  I just love our Beatles-singing, loafer-wearing, Russian rhythmic gymnastic girls-loving boy.

He's just so unique.