On Hold

My mom is in the hospital. Will be back when I can.

The Very Dead Caterpillar

What was once a very hungry caterpillar didn't stand a chance and I knew it. Lauren, Olivia and a 4-year old friend were playing outside when they discovered this teeny-tiny, green critter innocently going about his day. Happily cavorting in our backyard, he had more than he needed to grow into a plump caterpillar and magically turn himself into a beautiful butterfly one day. If only he was more careful in planning his route that day; he really should have steered clear of the swing set.

The three scientists immediately scooped him up and set about making a comfortable home for the poor, homeless Lepidoptera. No matter how I insisted that the ENTIRE OUTDOORS is his home, they were equally determined to give him a posh habitat to make all his friends jealous. They kept coming in to get cupfuls of water, kleenex to make a cozy bed, celery for fresh food, and a box to contain his once free-to-roam self. He was all set, living it up in a shoe box with a plastic bowl serving as a refreshing pool, complete with a stick for a diving board.

They desperately wanted me to come take a look at this magnificent mansion they had created, but I was busy getting dinner into the dutch-oven for an all-day simmer. I promised as soon as I was done, I'd come right out to see. For over an hour, they tenderly cared for the insect wondering if it was a boy or a girl, deciding if he needed more or less leaves, a bigger stick, flowers for the empty corner of the box, or if he wanted sunshine or shade.

Tired of waiting for me to finish the Jambalaya, they decided to bring their fuzzy friend inside to show me. Perched on the side of a stick, he was only about a half-inch long and skinny. A baby, he had many days of eating ahead of him. But as Lauren turned to take him back outside, he fell to the kitchen floor. The search and rescue began. On their hands and knees, they were desperate to find him.

And then I heard, "Uh-oh."

The very hungry caterpillar with such promise was now a very dead caterpillar, smushed into a nice green smudge on the kitchen rug. All that tender, loving care turned into a real tragedy. Stunned for only a moment, they were off to find their next victim, leaving me to clean up the very not beautiful mess. As tiny as he was, the splat he left behind was enormous.

I sure hope the next one doesn't die in my house.

You Can Forget That Million Bucks

Elementary school lessons, as it turns out, are not so elementary at all. And as such, any chance I had of being smarter than my fifth grader has gone completely out the window, along with that million dollar prize for answering such elementary questions.

Last evening, as Sean and I (thank GOD, I am not alone in my stupidity!) were helping our third-grader with some review worksheets for the dreaded state testing, it came to our attention that not only do we no longer have NINE planets, but some other major thing has changed in this ever evolving world.

With the very public event of Pluto's demotion in the universe, we were aware of that fact at least. But when we got to the question of naming the four oceans, we ended up with egg on our faces. After Julianna correctly spewed off all FOUR very elementary answers (Pacific, Atlantic, Arctic and Indian, DUH!), we praised her for her knowledge and set about on the next question.

However, our smarty-pants fifth grader interrupted the review when he piped up with the fact that, "Nuh-uh. There are FIVE oceans."

We insisted, in all our superior parental knowledge, that "NO, THERE ARE ONLY FOUR OCEANS YOU NIMWIT." As you can guess, there was a bit of back and forth with each side alternately calling the other on their obvious error.

No there's not. Yes there is. No there's not. Yes there is. You're out of your mind, Jackson. No I'm not; you can ask my teacher. To which we did the next best thing: we asked the internet. And you know what the internet said?

There are five oceans.

Designated as such in the year 2000, the ______ ocean is the fourth largest at 20,327,000 square kilometers.

Can you name it?

I'm convinced that unless you ARE A FIFTH GRADER, there is no possible way you can be smarter than one. As soon as you step foot into your sixth grade classroom and certainly by the time you step into adulthood, my friends, you can forget all about that million bucks.

Oh, and also? This third grade review sheet? Why doesn't IT have the new, updated information on the world's FIVE OCEANS? Fifth graders are the only ones allowed to be privy to this information? Is Jeff Foxworthy involved in some sort of conspiracy to make us all look dumb? Where was the media for this world changing news? Did Katie Couric and Dan Rather not care that the other ocean's were downsized to make room for this new body of water? Where is the fairness for Pluto, which was publicly humiliated for weeks after its title was taken away?

There are still seven continents, right? 50 states? One moon? Seven dwarfs?

My Kids Are Keepers

Our weekends are filled with soccer and I wouldn't have it any other way. I love the sport and I love the excitement of cheering for my kids and their teams.

Jackson is the goalkeeper for a new travel team he joined just this season. His old team never played him in the goal because he was more valuable on the field; no matter how much he begged his coach, it just wasn't happening. Goalkeeping is a position that he is passionate about partly because his dad was a keeper back in the day. He is really good at it.

He gets right in there without much concern for body or limb.

Sometimes, like two weekends ago when he was torn apart by one player on three separate, illegal hits, one of which landed a cleat squarely in the side of Jackson's head as he was saving a break-away play and caused immediate swelling behind his ear, my face winces more than this.

I bring my camera to every game. I love freezing all the action.

He has had a perfect season so far, allowing no shots on goal to escape him. Well, except for the three penalty kicks, one in each game so far. It is hard to save a penalty kick, man. He has since dubbed this the "PK curse" and is sure that there will be one in every single game for the rest of the season. Poor guy better work on that strategy.

Julianna, also a rock star in the goal, loves the sport as well. Here, she is just hoping that she doesn't take one in the head like her brother did.

Look at those muscles. My, how I wish I had such form and ability. She can kick the ball clear across the field and into the goal on the opposite side.

A diving save that never made it into the goal thanks to her face being in the way. She is not a full-time goalkeeper, yet. She also likes scoring goals, like this weekend's game where she racked up 5.

Lauren is in her second season of playing. She is like lightening dribbling past her opponents.

She also has this magnetic relationship with the goal. She is a high-scoring freak. While there are no official goalkeepers at this age level, when she is in defense mode she is a natural at planting herself in front of the goal and booting the ball out of there.


And then there is Olivia, who only watches from the sidelines. However, her turn is coming this fall and she is more than ready. I'm just wondering if our schedule is.

Too Bad She Doesn't Realize The Irony

Olivia was diligently sweeping the floors the other day while I was chopping up the 7000 ingredients for this delicious salad in preparation of company arriving later that evening for dinner. The floors were pretty darn messy as I hadn't swept in at least 2 hours 2 days. Her pile of debris was growing and I was using that as motivation for her to keep going. Oh no, don't quit. I bet if you sweep over there you can make that pile even bigger! Let's see how BIG you can get it. This is so much fun, isn't it?

She was on her way to some sort of world record for household dirt piles, no doubt. But she kept getting interrupted by the doorbell ringing. It was an unusual day of special deliveries here as UPS, Fed-Ex and the United States Postal Service had packages to bring us. Being a 4-year old and all, she drops whatever it is she is doing because certainly, the doorbell means that whoever it is on the other side of the door has some sort of business requiring her presence. But there are only so many ding-dongs a young girl can take in a 20-minute period of time before she gets heavily annoyed.

When the bell rang for the third time, poor Cinderella declared, "I'm trying to sweep here, you know! Why is everybody bothering me?!"

To which I say: EXACTLY!

Thought

What's more important?

Having an organized silverware drawer or children who empty the dishwasher?

Because it is impossible to have both.

Yeah, He's One Of Those Tough Guys

My sister called me yesterday to inform me of her 7-year-old son's visit to the doctor. Her kids are on spring break this week and in our family spring break means it is time for injuries requiring emergency medical care. Quick! Kids! Go crack your head open or something so we can pass the time in the E.R.

The first thing you should know is that this boy of hers does not cry unless it is an absolute necessity. Like when he is told he has to sit down and spend an entire afternoon doing a science project for school or when he is required to get dressed in a suit and tie for a family wedding. You know, he saves his tears for the REALLY PAINFUL events in his life. The second thing you should know is that HE DOES NOT CRY for the really painful events in his life. Like broken bones.

Apparently, several days, at least 5, before the visit to the doctor, he tripped over one of his well-placed cars in the middle of the living room floor and saved himself from completely biting it by catching his fall by placing his hand on the couch. No big deal, right? I mean, he went to bed that night without any complaints of pain or soreness. And then he repeated this for about 4 more nights until one day, when he was attempting to buckle up his seatbelt, he winced.

This wince caught the attention of his VERY OBSERVANT mother who questioned his groaning. The boy, shrugging off any real worry, just told her that his hand hurt. My sister asked why. He told her the story of how he fell a few days ago and that his hand was still sore. Well, looking at his hand, she noticed that it was quite swollen to, oh, about twice the size of his healthy appendage.

So off to the doctor they went.

As the very gentle M.D. pulled and squeezed his over-sized hand, she asked the boy if any of her maneuvers caused any pain. The boy just giggled. The smart doctor turned to my sister and inquired, "He's not one of those tough guys, is he?" "Well, yeah, he is," she replied.

X-rays were ordered and sure enough, a complete break of his metacarpal connecting to his index finger.

Yep, that boy is one of those tough guys alright. Only, I think the tears will come when he is told he won't be able to ride his four-wheeler for 6 weeks.