This is a great read from The New Yorker.
Too many experts instruct adults to act like a piano whose soft pedal is permanently pressed down. It’s possible to find something sinister in the effort to hide half your emotional spectrum from your children. Sometimes it might be a good thing for a kid to hear, instead of polite evasions, an honest, full-throated “Cut it out!â€
Amen! I am so sick of Pussy Parenting.
Is this guy. Love him. He just doesn’t get enough credit here on Dogwood Girl. But he runs the show. Really.
I took Rollie to his baseball game today. It’s a t-ball league, and pretty laid back. They play to three outs or five runs per inning. Most of the time, the innings are over when someone gets five runs; the hitting is pretty good. The fielding is downright Bad News Bears material. (I am not kidding.) The kids take turns at each position, so that they all get to try them out (and so that everyone gets a chance at the ball – very rarely does the ball make it to the outfield. Usually, it goes blazing out to about half the distance between the plate and the pitching mound. So, the pitcher and the 3rd basemen usually field most of the balls and then (attempt) to throw the ball to make the out at first. Rarely does it get there.
So, Rollie was taking his turn at pitcher in the second inning. Note that pitcher is the person designated to stand at the mound, and has nothing to do with pitching the ball, because they use a t. So, this kid gets up to bat, and hits the ball right towards Rollie, it takes a funny hop at the mound and comes up and thwaps him in the face. I was v. proud of myself for just sitting on the bleachers and not moving, waiting to see if he cried, or bled, or passed out. None of these happened. Coach came over and looked at him, and i think that was when Rollie started crying, and they sent him to the dugout. I met him there, sat down on the bench and he crawled up in my lap and sobbed. I held him and petted his head, got him calmed down and then took a look at this cheek.
It looked fine. Maybe a little red.
“Does it hurt baby?”
“No,” he said, bursting into tears again.
“Well, then why are you crying?” I said, in my usual sweet, compassionate, and tactful manner. I got that feeling where you know the kid is just trying to get attention and you want to nip it in the bud. I decided an old joke was in order.
“You know, baby, when I said for you to get in front of the ball and make the stop, I didn’t mean with your head!”
Me and the dugout mom laughed our heads off at my joke, trying to get him to crack a smile.
Rollie burst into tears again.
“Baby, what is it? Are you embarrassed?”
“Noooo,” he wailed into my neck, “I don’t want to lose my turn at pitcher!”
The Show Dad (That’s what I call the t-ball world equivalent to the infamous show moms of the pageant world) in the dugout with us whipped his head around and eyed Rollie, then nodded approvingly.
I looked at Rollie in no little amazement. He wasn’t crying because he was hurt. He was crying because Coach had benched him and he wanted to stay in the game. He wanted back in the game!
Show Dad kneeled down next to us, looking at Rollie on eye-level: “You wanna go back in, kid?”
Rollie nodded, wiping the tears.
“Alright, son,” Show Dad nodded.
“COACH!” Show Dad yelled out to Rollie’s coach. “We need to make a substitution! Rollie’s coming back in at Pitcher!”
The Ump held up the batter, and we stuck Rollie’s hat back on his head, and handed him his glove. Dugout Mom opened the gate and we sent him back out to the mound amidst clapping, and cheering, and one, “Way to get back out there, kid!!!”
And my heart? It just about busted wide open with pride.
This mother had her son taken from her at Hartsfield, without her permission. By TSA agents! There is something seriously wrong in our world. Seriously wrong. How much you want to bet that those folks are never held accountable?
I hope this gets picked up by the big news folks, and some heads roll.
Update: And now it seems this nutjob may have embellished her story a bit. . . .
So, I haven’t been blogging much. For one thing, Georgia broke my heart and my will and I could barely lift a finger to play Bejeweled, much less write something, after the demoralizing loss of Saturday. I didn’t even get around to writing Tiller’s annual birthday post (get those tissues ready, ladies), due to complete and utter house renovation/in-laws/birthday party/my parents/work/laundry/vacation packing fucking chaos in my life.
But at least I’m not trying to conceive during football season. Jesus. What a losing battle. Especially this season. I will say this: Even in the depths of despair, when the world seems to be crumbling around you, or at least around your football team, it is comforting to know that someone gets you. Courtney, if you can’t conceive, I will carry your baby for you, sweetie. You speak to my soul.
Spent the whole day on the beach and then went to Indian Pass Raw Bar for a very late afternoon lunch. We hadn’t been there since before we had kids, so we kind of wondered how it would be with kids. No need to worry – The kids did awesome. We still didn’t get them to try oysters, so they had Grapico and Fanta Orange with a hot dog, while todd and I annihilated bay oysters. I am not kidding either. We had two dozen raw oysters for an app. Added some gumbo (honestly? Not that great.) Ate a dozen baked oysters. Then had another dozen raw and an dozen steamed for dessert. Best meal I’ve had in memory. (And I ate at Rathbun Steak this summer.)
It also has a wall of coolers, a la convenience store, where you grab your drink of choice (beer or soda). You then take your beer over and pop it open yourself on a bottle opener on column near the bar. They bring you oysters on lunch trays, with plastic forks, and paper towel rolls on each table. None of those silly two or four saltines to a package deals here. Each table gets a whole sleeve of saltines, with more if you need’em. Todd and I had a hot sauce tasting test. We both prefer Crystal for long-term eating, but the local Port St. Joe’s Ed’s Red is a fave for its heat; it goes well with oysters. I should also note that this is the kind of place where you ask the fisherman sitting at the table next to you what they are having, and they say, “Here,” and stick a fork in their food and hold it out for you. (It was crab-stuffed shrimp, and it was out of this world.) I laughed out loud when I heard the same fisherman remark to his fisherman friend that “this beer is making me sleepy. We need to start drinking liquor, clean out the boat, and get back out there!” Love that.
The kids loved the wall map with push pins marking customers’ hometowns. I enjoyed reading the notes from world travelers – I wondered what the germans and scots really thought of the place.
Me? I think it’s the bee’s knees. This place can’t be beat. Except for their Gator problem. It is heavily Gatorated, with a blue and orange checkerboard linoleum floor, and many Madonna con Tebows on the wall. I noticed a number of Georgia fans there. As I was leaving, I remarked to the one wearing an “Athens: College town with a football problem” that after the TN game, we did indeed have a football problem, and that I was going to tell Coach Richt that i saw them eating at a Gator establishment. A well-dressed, and kinda snooty-looking woman with them said, “I have a thing or two that I’d like to tell Coach Richt myself.” Well-said, Ma’am.
Last night, I had one of those perfect moments. I was supposed to be sauteing mushrooms, but I realized it was almost sunset, so I walked down to the beach with my camera, leaving Todd grilling steaks while the kids played frisbee. It was just me, the birds, the dolphins, and the ocean. Not another soul on the beach. I stayed as long as I could before complete darkness settled over the beach and I would not be able to make it back on the narrow path through the dunes.
As I was walking off the boardwalk towards the house, I saw Rollie walking towards me. Todd had sent him to get me and tell me that I needed to help with supper. Over dinner, Rollie asked what I was doing on the beach. Was I taking pictures with my camera? I told him I was mesmerized by the the waves and the dolphins.
He just decided to turn off his game in complete disgust and take the kids to the beach, thus leaving me alone with Quint the dog in an empty beach house, watching GA on the nice tv. Pouring my second Bloody Mary (V8 for vitamins and minerals, vodka to kill the cold) and thinking how awesome it must be to have the last name Rambo.
Does this sound like a bad idea to anyone else? The idea of shooting a rocket at the moon to break up the land mass at one of it’s poles and then study the debris for signs of water? I mean, I guess NASA knows what it’s doing, but it totally sounds like naive scientists at the beginning of an apocalypse movie. . . .
We had Tiller’s fourth birthday party on Sunday. The weather looked iffy, but it turned out just great. A little overcast but not hot and the mosquitoes weren’t too bad. Tiller wanted to do the costume party again this year, so that was fun, and makes for fun pictures, too. And of course, I love the Halloween stuff, so it is an excuse to buy more Halloween decorations.
Tiller wanted to be a Princess. Again. Rollie decided to be Spiderman. Again. Part of me wishes she would want to be something like a Doctor, or an Archaeologist, but when i see how into it she gets, with the crowns and the wand and the jewelry, and the ridiculous red Christmas socks with pink sneakers, I just give in to it. As a parent, I have to always remind myself that she needs to find her own interests and that anything that encourages her wild imagination is a good thing, even if it’s a damn Disney Princess. As long as she doesn’t start any Damsel-in-Distress crap, we’re all good.
All in all a good time.
