Braving Boys

Photo: JSmith Photo, Flickr

My boys can be very dramatic at home. Joey just told me yesterday, “It’s not so fun to clean the boat, mom. I’d rather spray sunscreen right in my eyes!” For those who know just how much he hates sunscreen, this is a pretty powerful statement. Is it safe to assume, then, (given the flair for exaggeration) that Joey and Danny might shine bright in drama camp?

I think so.

And that’s why I signed them up for a one-week, all-day theater experience. The director of things told me that lots of kids are dramatic at home. It’s because they are comfortable. The key is making them just as secure on stage. So that’s my wish for this week: that my boys find drama just as fun while standing before an audience as they do performing in private quarters.

Today was Day No. 1 of Drama & Musical Theatre, and it seems all went well. Joey is now channeling Fabian, Danny is Troy, and they both will practice lines all week for a performance on Friday evening. They’ll also sing and dance. I can’t wait to witness it all, especially after Joey’s reaction as we pulled up to camp this morning:

On the outside of the gymnasium where we checked in was a sign that read, “Welcome to The Hall.” The school is called Oak Hall, so this makes sense. But Joey put his own spin on things: “Welcome to Hell,” he announced, hesitant to attend this week’s festivities.

Hell, it was not. Danny’s first-uttered words at pick-up were, “Mom, I liked it!” And Joey already has several of his lines committed to memory: “Yeah, I’m nervous too! Even my teeth are sweating!” and “Hey, Duke! It must be hard finding shoes that fit those two left feet!” He delivers his words with emotion and enthusiasm, and he hasn’t once complained about a trip back to “The Hall” tomorrow.

And so.

The show goes on.

Moments after laughing out loud at this video, Joey (9) shouted from the shower, “Mom, I made a mohawk.” Watch this, and I’m confident you will be chuckling right along with me!

The season is over, and boy, was it fun. Joey scored several touchdowns, pulled lots of flags, and improved lots. Danny pulled a few flags, too, ran his little heart out, and reveals that games were so much better than practices because of the snacks. He thinks he might be headed for a career as a professional snapper.

Photo: ashleigh290, Flickr

I just can’t tell him no, that cute little 6-year-old of mine, who challenges me every morning to swim 10 more laps than I did the previous day.

It all started with 24. Danny was home sick, and he came with me to the neighborhood pool where I’d planned to clock 20 laps. I jumped in the water, and he set himself up on a lounge chair with a towel. “Do 24!” he instructed, and I did. It was a nice push, and I felt pretty darn accomplished after my workout.

Still sick the next day, he was poolside again. “Do 30!” he declared. And so I did 30. It felt good.

Happily, Danny got better, and he eventually went back to school. It doesn’t matter if it’s a sick day, school day, or weekend, though, because the boy keeps barking orders — 40, 50, 60, 70, and today, I swam 80 laps. It took me an hour to finish, and while I tell Danny I might not be able to keep going up and up and up because of the time commitment (I do have a job, after all), I just can’t seem to refuse him. I guess it’s because I want him to see me accept the task. We like the “never-give-up” mantra in our house, and well, I don’t want him (or Joey) to see me quit or otherwise blow off an opportunity for exercise. My wish is that one day, when faced with something they think they can’t conquer, they remember their momma, chuggin’ through the water, swallowing mouthfuls of chlorine and hanging onto the side of the pool, sucking wind.

There are other reasons I don’t quit: I like having a goal, I like the motivation, and swimming like a crazy person is making me more fit — my biceps are better, my body feels more toned, and soaring through the water has been a great diversion from the running blues.

How far will I go with these laps? I’m not sure. But I do know this: I’ve got plans for 90 tomorrow.

Danny is such a good singer, and I really don’t think I’m saying that just because I’m his mom. He’s got that raspy, throaty sound, and when he belts out his favorite tunes, I just marvel at what he can deliver. He’s not convinced he’s all that good, and so he sneaks at singing, turns his vocals into baby babble when he knows we’re watching, and he flat out refuses to let us record him. “Hot Dog” was the last time we got a video camera near him.

Danny thinks football is in his future, because, well, he’s winding up his first season of flag, and that’s how he knows he probably has a shot at playing center as a pro. But me, well, I think he’s more likely to be a performer of some sort. And just as soon as I capture some more audio of my singing boy, I’ll be sure to share.

For now, though, just imagine a 6-year-old boy watching this video (his No. 1 pick at the moment), and cranking out the lyrics like a superstar.

Quote: Robert Brault, www.robertbrault.com

We planted a garden last summer, and while it looked promising for a good long time, ultimately, it failed. I think we got one pepper. And a few small tomatoes. But our corn never materialized. And cucumbers never surfaced. And. Wait. We had sunflowers. Yes, sunflowers.

We’re trying again this year. Actually, we are not trying. Joey is. He’s done it all — prepped the soil, dug little trenches for seeds, sprinkled them into the dirt, covered them, mulched walkways between rows, labeled and placed sticks near their respective fruits and veggies, and now, we wait. and water. and wait. and hope like heck that small animals and bugs don’t tear the whole thing apart, because Joey will just be overjoyed if his garden grows. And so will his great grandma, all the way up in Heaven, probably wearing her own straw gardening hat and admiring the work of the boy she knew for only two years.

I’m soft. I know this. And I’m OK with it. But it kind of goes against the grain of what John tries to teach the boys. Example: the other day, while at a lake for some fishing, Joey and Danny started whining about sunscreen. They hate it, especially the kind that sprays, because it gets in their eyes. So, we do our best to slather faces without blinding them, but as it always turns out, they are gun-shy and get all worked up about the event.

John is sick of it.

“You guys need to get hard,” he told them.

“Here’s how I do it,” he declared, then pretty much sprayed the stuff directly into his own baby blues to prove his point.

Explanation: John is a Marine, and he’s encountered some rough living. There was a period of time in boot camp when he was so hungry, he’d eat from sugar packets in the mess hall to fill the void in his gut. He hiked until his feet bled, marched until he couldn’t see straight, and for months on end, he was worn down and challenged to the core. He’s hard. He can spray sunscreen in his eyes.

Getting hard is good. It’s preparation for life’s tough times. It’s why Joey should eat fish, even though he doesn’t like it — because maybe, one day, fish will be the only thing available. It’s why learning to defend yourself is key, because when you’ve got to fight for your life, you’ll be ready.

I get it.

It’s just not me.

• I don’t like sunscreen in my eyes either. Bug spray is yucky, too.
• I do like fish, but I don’t like Chinese food, and heaven help me if, one day, it’s the only thing available.
• I don’t want to camp — I like running water and cozy beds too much — and I don’t want to climb a rock wall or a mountain or jump from a plane, a cliff, or anything, really.
• I am hesitant to play a “real” game of football with Joey, because he weighs 90 pounds and his power is pretty amazing.
• I shy away from “real” games of basketball, too, because I’ve had few balls smack me right in the face, and ouch!, that really hurts. (I am up for a mean game of catch or P-I-G, however).

Don’t get me wrong. I can be tough. I’ve white water rafted, parasailed, driven a jet ski, completed a few ropes courses, traveled Europe all by myself, run a 1/2 marathon, pushed two large babies from my body and fought breast cancer.

Still, soft is my fall-back.

This worries me, and sometimes I fear my boys will come to know me as the wimpy mom. It’s why I choose to engage in some battles. Will I ski down a snow-covered mountain when we finally take a ski vacation? No. But I am fully prepared to let the waves knock the crap out of me during our next beach trip. I’m also on board this year for a very long road trip (in one cramped mini-van), even though my better judgment says, “Don’t do it.” And this summer, I’ll take on one-too-many roller coasters with my little theme-park thrill seekers, even though these rides give me a throbbing head and wobbly knees.

It’s a good thing there’s a John and a Jacki in our family. It’s like we’re the anchors supporting our family tree. John is at the top (of course, he climbed up there), I’m at the bottom (because I don’t want to climb up there), and Joey and Danny are right in between, observing the qualities that define their parents and deciding which ones to embrace.

My wish is that Joey and Danny do get hard. I hope they also realize that, at times, it’s OK to be soft. Because really, I’m convinced there’s value in both.

Goodbye, birthday wall.
Hello, Easter wall.

We painted over the birthday wall.

We made an Easter wall.

End result: one very messy (and happy) boy!

Bear and the Cow / By Danny

People sometimes ask me when I’m going to write a book, and I always say I’m not sure I want to. I mean, all that work. It just seems so daunting.

Maybe I should follow in 6-year-old Danny’s footsteps, because the other day, he said he was going to write a book, and, well, he just plopped down and wrote one!

“Bear and the Cow” (he is both author and illustrator) goes like this:

Bear and the Cow

Bear and cow are walking.

Suddenly they saw a fox and they ran away.

They ran as fast as they could and the cow got lost in the woods.

Bear got lost.

Then they got saved.

The end.

"Cat Nights" by Jane Manning

Danny and I read a cute little book last night, and sandwiched inside the covers of this library find is an old Irish legend. We thought it was fitting, then, that we tell you about both the book and the legend (because good kid books are kind of hard to come by, you know, and because it is almost time for that special Irish holiday).

The Book: “Cat Nights” by Jane Manning. Felicity loves living as a witch by day and a cat by night. She can’t turn herself into a cat for too many nights, though, because if she does, she’ll become a cat forever. Does Felicity choose the forever life of a witch or a cat? You’ll have to read to find out!

The Legend: The phrase “cat nights” came about because apparently, a witch could turn herself into a cat 8 times, then she could still return to her witchy self. But if she turned a 9th time, there was no going back. That’s where “cat has nine lives” comes from. And since cats like to prowl around on hot, summer nights (like in August), nights at that time of year are referred to as “cat nights.”

Yep, we liked this book. Check it out, because you might, too.