Juggling Life

In Which I (Pretty Much) Overcome My Vanity

There are not too many "bad" pictures me floating around the world. Up until I started blogging and getting together with other bloggers (who all had cameras as big as mine--or bigger (Aaryn!), I pretty much had total creative control.

I always took and developed the pictures and went through them before anyone else saw them. With the advent of digital photography it got even easier--delete!

Last summer a friend took the picture below, without my knowledge and e-mailed it to me. It was taken at about 6:00 p.m.at La Jolla Shores. I'd been at the beach since 5:50 a.m. The occasion was a bonfire for the boys and girls water polo teams; I wanted to give the Brazilians a quintessential San Diego experience. I had arranged food and drinks and rides for a party of what ended up being about 50 people. It was a blast! I had such a great time watching the teenagers--especially the antics of the girls who were meeting the Brazilians for the first time.

But I digress. Back to the picture. When I opened the e-mail I was all "Aaack! My nose! My crows feet! I need to whiten my teeth! I'm not wearing any makeup!" I came this close to deleting the e-mail.

 

Then I ran into the woman that took the photo at Vons. She was so excited to have taken the photo. She went on and on about what a great mother-daughter shot it was. How happy I looked. How great a picture her daughters thought it was.

She was right, I was happy. I was throwing a fantastic party, my family was there, these kids from another country were having this phenomenal time because I was willing to put some effort into making sure they had this experience (have I ever mentioned how I'm so not a morning person and hello? 5:50 a.m.!). And I was ready to hit delete just because I'm vain.

So not only did I keep the picture, I'm posting it for all to see. Why? I suspect I'm not the only person out there that's editing their life's record so that only the pretty pictures remain. I'm beginning to think that might not be such a good idea. Thanks, Susan, for opening my eyes.

A Tale of Two Brothers

Once upon a time, when MVP was almost 3 years old, his parents had another baby. That baby was MVP's baby brother; he would come to be known as Danger Boy.

 

One was a redhead, the other a blonde, but they both had big blue eyes and a sense of adventure. Their parents realized pretty quickly that DB was not going to let MVP leave him behind just because DB was 3 years younger. So DB learned to walk, run, swim, ride a bike, and throw a ball pretty damn quick--he was going to keep up with his big brother no matter how many trips to Urgent Care it necessitated!

MVP was pretty gracious about the whole thing; frankly, he seemed to get a kick out of it. With MVP's blessing, DB beat the pants off the entire 5th grade in tetherball as a 2nd grader.

As they grew, they mixed it up once in a while, but they were still pretty good friends. Their mother's heart sang every time they played long toss across the wide backyard of the pie-shaped lot upon which their suburban house stood. You see, she had dreamed that very scene the day she first looked at that backyard. It was high on the list of reasons their parents bought that house.

 

They shared a love of weaponry of all sorts, dogs, reptiles, baseball, beating the stuffing out of each other, and first doting on, then later tormenting, their baby sister. Their parents thought it might be best if they played different sports so as not to encourage unhealthy competition. Their plan failed miserably; whatever one tried, the other one wanted to try also.

MVP had always been a good athlete. Then a teacher talked him into trying Water Polo. Suddenly, he was a great athlete. It was the sport for which he was built and he loved it. In due time, as these things often went, Danger Boy tried Water Polo also. What do you know, it was his sport also, although for different reasons then it was MVP's sport. MVP had the build and the bulk, DB had the heart and intensity. Neither one of them ever backed down.

So it was that during MVP's senior year and Danger Boy's freshman year of high school, they played Water Polo for the same high school team. MVP was captain of the varsity squad and, no surprise here, MVP. Danger Boy was captain of the freshman team and MVP. He also played on the JV squad and in all the varsity tournaments. He got to play on the CIF team which went to the second round, a big accomplishment for their high school, under his big brother's leadership.

For the whole year before MVP was to leave for college, they rode to school together, rode to practice together, went out to eat with their teammates together, watched game film together, and generally spent a lot more time together than a 14 year old and a 17 year old might be expected to.

Like the long toss in the backyard when they were 6 and 9, watching them play Water Polo together made their mother's heart sing. In fact, someday she may have to tell the story of Danger Boy passing the ball to MVP who scored the winning goal in a tournament. Picture included.

In Which Social Butterfly and I Have 50 First Dates

I used to belong to a cult. Suz at Random Thoughts of a Busy Bee still belongs to the cult. Her posts have been making me think back on my time with the cult. Were we Moonies? Scientologists? No; we were part of the cult of Tournament Softball. Our sect was All-Stars; I believe she's in the more stringent Travel Ball sect.

It was our daughter that facilitated our departure--we were happy there. We had our peeps, we had our summer planned, we were drinking the kool-aid every weekend. She however, was done; she wanted to be a cheerleader. Which she is, but not before we tried to persuade her to be a volleyball player. It was a valiant effort, but no.

 

The Notorious All-Star Softball Cult. They will take your money and your free time. And you will like it!

Today's Flashback Friday is about an incident that happened in SB's last All-Star season; she was about 10+1/2. Old enough to be home alone for a short while, so when Mr. Fix-it was held up at work while Grown-up Girl and I were out shopping for bedding at a mall about 15 miles away from home, I told the mom that we carpooled with to drop her at home and let her know her Dad would be there soon. So that's what Carpool Mom did.

GuG and I are perusing the comforters at JCPenney when my cell phone rings.

SB: Mom, where are you?

Me: The mall. GuG and I are looking for a new comforter. Dad will be home any minute.

SB: Okay

Still perusing. Cell phone rings.

SB: Mom, where are you?

Me: ? I just told you, at the mall. Dad will be home soon.

SB: Okay.

Perusing. Ring.

SB: Mom, where are you?

Me: I just told you. What's going on? Are you fooling around?

SB: I don't know. I just don't know what's going on. I don't know who's here. I don't know anything. I'm scared.

No longer perusing. Walking rapidly toward exit. Give phone to GuG to talk to SB while I use GuG's phone to call OMomK (my bff, SB's other mother) to see if she can head over to stay with SB until one of us gets there. She's on her way. Call Carpool Mom to ask if her daughter knows if anything happened to SB at practice. Indeed. There was a collision between SB and a girl several inches taller than her during a drill. SB's chin hit taller girls shoulder and both girls went down.

As an aside, Carpool Mom's daughter complained about SB once she was out of the car. "Geez, mom, she was so annoying. She kept saying "I don't know how to play this game. Everyone was laughing at her." CM says to her daughter, "Maybe she was goofing around, pretending she had amnesia because she hit her head."

Or, maybe she had amnesia because she hit her head?!

OMomK stays with her while I drive down the freeway at 110 mph. We go to urgent care, but they send us to Children's Hospital. From the time I pick SB up at about 5:00 to the time she begins to retain memory at about 3:00 a.m. our conversations go like this. They happen at 3 minute intervals:

SB: Where am I?

Me: You are in the car/at urgent care/in the E.R./waiting for a CAT scan/ you hit your head on E's shoulder in practice and you have amnesia.

SB: Oh.

Would you be surprised to find that after about 5 hours I begin to giggle hysterically when she asks, "Where am I?"

Then there's the point where the CAT scan results are back and the neurologist diagnoses a Contrecoup, closed head injury with no internal bleeding (thank goodness, since the coach gave her Advil for her headache after the collision). She'll be out of commission for a week. I say, "So she won't be playing in Big Bear this weekend." She begins to sob (Big Bear is big fun). I pat her hand and say, "Don't worry honey, you're not going to remember this conversation in five minutes." I'm not sure the neurologist and I shared the same since of humor.

Her only memories of that day are of breakfast. Everything else is gone. It's been 3 years and she doesn't seem to have any ill effects from the concussion. The League instituted the Social Butterfly Player Collision Protocol, so no one gives Advil to hurt players or laughs at them when they say they don't know how to do a drill after being knocked to the ground after being hit on the head. We went to Big Bear to cheer the other players.

   Those long legs are now bare in a cheer uniform--no more softball tan!

              

                           Looks like she was throwing a strike!

The One In Which I Totally Saw It Coming

Danger Boy and Social Butterfly are 20 months apart in age. Because of their birthdays (in March and November respectively) they are only one grade apart.

This picture is from when they were 2 and 4. I remember looking at it and thinking that one day there was going to be a whole lot of teenage drama in my house.

That day has arrived. They're 13 and 15, 9th and 10th grade. So far it's not drama so much as it is "tension." Would it surprise you to find that both her friends and his friends like hanging out at our house? That there is much giggling and posturing involved?

The funniest kids are the ones who come from all girl or all boy families--they are fascinated and bewildered by the opposite sex. DB and SB have been seeing each others' friends in their p.j.'s for so long that it's old hat to them, but not so for some of their friends.

Some things haven't changed though--DB and SB are still driving each other (and me) crazy!

In Which This Fourth Will Be A Little Like A Lot Of Other Fourths

I still live in the community in which I grew up. Fourth of July is a big deal here, and is my favorite holiday. Independence Day in Scripps Ranch has lots going for it. The day starts with the Fun Run/Bike Ride at 7 a.m. (I don't run, I walk, but I do manage the 10K) After the run the tradition is to rehydrate in the Beer Garden--yes, the beer starts flowing at 8 a.m.!

This is followed by the old fashioned parade--we are lucky to live a block from the parade route.

 

There are marching bands, scouts, homemade neighborhood floats, fire trucks, politicians (for the record I knew Randy "Duke" Cunningham was bad news way before he was indicted), the hysterical Society For The Preservation of the Middle Class (lawnmowers and Budweiser) "dance" group, and much more. Social Butterfly will be outfitted in cheer gear and marching and cheering with the high school squad.

The parade ends at a park where there is an Ice Cream Social and a live band.

Our family tradition necessitates following all of this by a long nap. Then we pack up a picnic and troop off to Coronado where they let you spread out on the golf course. We eat, play bocce ball, listen to music, and moan about the downside of the whole thing being that drinking and port-a-potties just don't mix--at least for 40ish women! The payoff is the fireworks shot off from a barge in the bay. I do love me a spectacular fireworks display!

    

The golf course is just southwest of the Coronado Bay Bridge.  Can you say (multi) million-dollar view?

Because we've been doing this for so long we know just where to park, and we have our children trained in the pack-and-run--we're back home in our beds while others languish on the bridge.

This year will be a little different. Danger Boy left for Canada for Water Polo camp on Thursday. Grown-up Girl won't be home because she has a job (one of the side effects of being Grown-up). We won't be going to Coronado because the friends with whom we share this tradition will be in Lake Tahoe--it's necessary to shake up traditions when you've just lost your husband and father.

A couple of hours ago we were just going to have a low-key, change of pace, restful Fourth. After a few phone conversations we're now having a barbecue for 15. Carne Asada because my BIL wasn't getting much good Mexican food in Washington state. In San Diego Carne Asada is about as American as apple pie. MVP's got a couple of friends visiting from Chicago--I bet they don't get a lot of good Carne Asada there either. We'll still go see fireworks, but at the local high school instead of Coronado.

I always feel a little discombobulated when we're missing part of our crew. I don't want to do everything the same if I don't have all my peeps around. So we'll change things up a little, but the basic celebration will be the same--we'll be celebrating this great country of ours, warts and all.

This year especially I hope we'll be looking forward to turning a lot of things around as a country, facing up to some hard truths, and taking a new tack on the world stage. I hope that before long America the country returns to being more of a reflection of Americans than it has been for a while.

 

                            Hope You Have A Blast!

 

               

In Which It Is The Summer Of The Boys From Brazil

Do you remember the summer between 7th and 8th grades? The teeter-totter between child and teenager (or nowadays tween and teenager)? How you began to experiment with make-up and doing something with your hair other than putting it in a ponytail? Your body was likely changing, your friends became more important to you, you were really practically a high-schooler--it was only a year away. And all of the sudden boys--those smelly, noisy, loud, obnoxious creatures that had been hanging around your whole life with the purpose of being alternately playmates and annoyances (at least if you had older brothers)- began to look a little different to you. In fact some of them were kind of cute and sweet and interesting and wouldn't it be fun to get to know them a little better?

Okay, have I got you feeling 13 yet? Here's a reminder of what it might have looked a little like.

 

                       Social Butterfly and good friend, Peanut, last summer

Now imagine if your brothers' water polo team had a Brazilian coach who had a friend who was a coach in Brazil who had a team full of boys that wanted to come play water polo in San Diego for a few weeks in the summer. Then imagine that your mom (who really can't stand not having some volunteer commitment going at all times) said she'd be happy to be the trip coordinator. What if one of these Brazilian water polo players was going to stay with you for a month and your days would be jam-packed with water polo games and social activities like beach bonfires and jet-skiing at the bay and Padre games all with Brazilian water polo players that were 1-2 years older than you? And what if your friend could come with you for like the whole month? Do you think you'd like that?  You know you would (I'm thinking especially of Bad Mom and Mrs. G  and Debbie here--I know the secret boyfriend/man candy thing started somewhere)!

What if the boys showed up and looked a little something like this?

Imagine that they were very sweet and shy and polite and spoke broken English with Portuguese accents and had extraordinarily exotic sounding Portuguese names. Plus, they all wore the best-smelling cologne ever.

Imagine that the water polo team gives nicknames to freshmen every year and that year the nickname given to your next oldest brother, Danger Boy (the one that never gives you a break and is only one grade ahead of you), was "Baby _______" (where _______ = MVP's real first name). But the Brazilians just called him "Baby." Or, more accurately, "Bebee," in an utterly charming Portuguese accent.

How would you feel if every time Danger Boy gave you a hard time about anything for a solid month there was a cute Brazilian boy with a devastatingly sweet smile, saying "No, Bebee! Leave her alone, Be nice!"

Would you be pretty happy that even when they left they e-mailed you and visited your MySpace to say "hi"? Would you and your friend Peanut spend the next year exhorting your mother to figure out a way to get the Brazilians back next summer or better yet for the next school year (we're working on it)?!

Let's just say that SB and Peanut will remember last summer forever. First crushes are like that. Especially when they're innocent yet thrilling. It was a kick to watch--especially because the boys were just enough older that they would never look at the girls as anything other than little sister types.  If they were to come back now . . . ?! There may be some unattractive Brazilians, but apparently they only grant exit visas to the gorgeous ones.

 

 

 

 

 

Flashback Friday: My Husband's History As A Father

Father's Day 1995. For many years every Father's Day Mr. Fix-it would take them all out on a boat on the reservoir near our house. One year everyone was too big to fit in just one rental motorboat. Sigh.

 

I was one of those girls that always new she wanted kids, and always wanted to be a SAHM. My mother was a huge fan of all the domestic arts and would have made a perfect SAHM, but her life didn't work out that way. One of the reasons it didn't work out for her was that she made really bad choices in the men she married. Since my mama didn't raise no fool, I figured you needed to marry someone with the same life goals you had in order to be happy. I wanted whoever I married to be a great dad as well as a great husband.

Enter Mr. Fix-it. Since we knew each other for 7 years, dated for 5 years, and were engaged for 2 years before we got married, I knew our goals were the same. We wanted to have and raise a great family.

If I didn't already suspect I'd hit the jackpot with Mr. Fix-it in the fatherhood department, I knew it for sure when my niece was born. My sister was 18, I was 20, and Mr. Fix-it and I had been together for 2 years. My sister was troubled before she had a child, and she was even more troubled afterwards. My sister and the baby lived with my mother. Grown-up Girl was 2 when I moved back home to help my mother with her because my sister was heavily involved in drugs and was a neglectful parent. Anyway, all that's another story. The upshot is that my mother, me, and Mr. Fix-it became Grown-up girls de facto parents even before we were married.

After we were married, the four of us continued to be a tight-knit family. When opportunities for promotions for Mr. Fix-it arose that required relocating we barely discussed it; leaving Grown-up Girl was not an option and the complicated and tenuous guardianship relationship between my mom and GuG's parents was a boat that nobody wanted to rock. Without a backward glance, Mr. Fix-it sacrificed moving up rungs on the career ladder for our family. He's done that in other ways too; choosing to not be a workaholic, making spending time at home his biggest priority.

Soon, our own kids began to come along. MVP, followed 3 years later by Danger Boy, and then 20 months later Social Butterfly. We all lived together, 2 households, but 1 family. Big, mostly happy, definitely a family. When my mom died it was never a question of who Grown-up Girl would live with. She had always referred to her grandmother, me, and Mr. Fix-it as her "parents" and we were.

Mr. Fix-it is a great father in so many ways. As a provider, as an example of a responsible man, as a man that knows how to do a load of laundry and run a vacuum, as a coach, as a chauffeur, as a playmate, as a disciplinarian, as a good husband, as a gift-giver (the girls do love getting their jewelry), but mostly as a man that was a Dad, first, last, and always to all his kids, whether or not they were his biological offspring.

Today I salute you, Mr. Fix-it--Happy Father's Day--all the ones in the past and all the ones yet to come.

In Which I Am A Very Mean Person

I read this post by She's Just Another Manic Mommy the other day. It got me thinking about things I'm done that I'm not proud of. Her memory was from when she was a teenager--I don't think it's a coincidence that mine are also from the teenage years. Underdeveloped prefrontal cerebral cortex anyone?

Social Butterfly and I had a conversation about the school dress code and visible bra straps and how hard it is to be one of the girls in 8th grade that doesn't need a bra. That conversation reminded me of this incident, which took place in the summer between 7th and 8th grades.

Backstory: I moved to Scripps Ranch the summer before 7th grade. I was befriended by Kathy who in turn introduced me to her friend Teresa. Over the course of the school year Teresa and I became much closer than Kathy and Teresa and Kathy and I were. Not that big a deal when you're an adult, but when you're in 8th grade . . .

 

This is Jenn circa 1977. You can't see it in the picture, but I actually have a pretty good figure--okay, by 8th grade standards it was excellent because I had boobs. Teresa was similarly blessed. Kathy . . . not so much.

So, we're out shopping at the mall and we hit the fabric store. Does anyone remember the Insta-Dress?  Smocking at the top, pre-hemmed, all you needed was to sew a seam up the back, add ribbon straps, and you had an, well, you had an instant sundress.

           I  have no idea who this child is, but this is the dress I'm talking about.

We're browsing, we're fingering fabrics, we're talking about how much we looooooove the song "Heaven on the 7th Floor."

Kathy: I think I'll get this fabric for an Insta-Dress.

Mean, Horrible, Opens Mouth Before Engaging Brain, Anything For A Laugh Jenn: I think you need an Insta-Figure first.

Practically before it's out of my mouth I'm apologizing. Not before Teresa laughs though. I can't count the number of times I have felt bad for this, or the number of times I apologized for it. Still, some remarks you cannot take back.

The second incident happened one hot September day in the beginning of 8th grade. We were let out of school early when the temperature was predicted to rise over 100 degrees by 11 a.m. Teresa, her younger brother (by 1 year), and I walked to her house because she had a pool.

Hmmmm. I'm beginning to see a pattern here . . . Teresa. You would think that just because she was beautiful, had perfect Farrah hair, wore her Ditto jeans to perfection, and was drooled over by 10th grade guys that I was trying to impress her. Hmmmmm.

Teresa, Doug and I are splashing in the pool. Out to the back yard comes next door neighbor Vincent. Also an 8th grader. Doug's friend and Teresa's admirer. Definitely not up to our snotty, full-of-ourselves, 8th grade standards. Still, Teresa's known him her whole life, so we let him hang around once in a while. As long as he remains exquisitely aware of how lucky he is. And he does.

Vincent: Can I swim with you guys?

Teresa: Sure. There's just one catch. You have to go get your swim trunks by jumping over the fence.

Vincent: Ummm. The fence is 6 feet high.

Teresa and Jenn (wearing string bikinis and being 14): It's up to you.

So Vincent backs up, gets a running start, and leaps over the fence. We're duly impressed. Except, he never comes back. In fact, we don't see Vincent until the next day. When we do see him his leg is in a cast. Yes, he broke his leg when he hit the ground on the other side of the fence. And he waited three hours for his mother to come home to find him rather than ask us to call for help. What little bitches were we?

Teresa got pregnant and 18 and got married right away. I'm sure she's a grandmother by now. Vincent embraced his oddity, moved to Hollywood and is doing well as a special-effects technician. Jenn started a blog and is now milking the stories in which she was a horrible, awful, shallow adolescent with a quick wit for laughs.

 

In Which I Survive A Trip To The Mall

One night of heavy drinking and my blogging schedule has gone straight to hell. I wasn't thoughtful on Thursday and I'm not Flashing Back on Friday.  I guess such are the wages of sin.

So you know when you have a really bad hangover--there's usually about 2 hours late in the day when you feel like a functioning member of society before you go downhill again? I spent my 2 hours at the mall. One of my least favorite things to do evah.

That's Social Butterfly on the right. That dress was not that short a month ago when we bought it. I think maybe she is bamboo. Seriously, she's like 5'7 now which really irks my 5'3 & 3/4 self delights me. She used to be shorter than all her friends. Now, not so much.

We were successful in our quest for a Promotion Party outfit (not to be confused with the Promotion Ceremony dress). The Promotion Party is an extravaganza held at the Aztec Center at San Diego State University. This event features a D.J., bowling, pool tables, video games, prizes, food, drink, bussing and all of us parents dressed in coordinating outfits working our a**es off to ensure the kids have a great time. You should see what we come up with for Grad Night in high school. Homeschool, anyone?

 

We were in Forever 21 when my 2 hour time limit expired and the music and clothes and jewelry and perky young people became too much for me.

 

Is this so 2008 or what? Me taking a picture of them taking a picture of themselves. Right after this was taken my head exploded.

Back in the dark ages aka 1980, I met my future husband. I was 16, he was 17, and the locale was an ice skating rink (yuhuh!). Believe it or not, I knew the instant I set eyes on him that we would get married. Before I even knew his name. So it didn't really bother me when he started dating my best friend--I just figured things would work themselves out in time. And they did. Because he was dating my best friend we spent a lot of time together and became good friends in our own right. Eventually they broke up, she moved away and he invited me to my senior prom (he'd graduated the year before). I said, "Hell yes!"

So I dressed up in finest Jessica McClintock, put my hair in an Alice in Wonderland style (I know, WTF?) and he put on a tux and gave me a corsage.

 

Seriously, how could you not love an 18 year old guy with that much confidence?!

As mentioned last week, MVP is taking his date to the same place we went for dinner, Tom Ham's Lighthouse. While MVP and his friends are going in a limo, we went in a rental Olds Cutlass Supreme. Along with two other couples we were going to go to Disneyland after the prom. (Yes, our parents approved this plan(???) and our friend's mom rented the car since obviously none of us were over 25). Before taking off for Disneyland we went, still in prom attire, to park at Torrey Pines State Beach and have a glass or two of the bubbly Diet Coke.

So we park (angled parking, right off the road, above the rock that acts as a surf break in high surf).  The guys were standing in front of the car opening another bottle of Champagne Diet Coke. See the little x? That's our car. See the not so straight arrow? That's the drunk driver that came speeding down the hill, lost control of his car, spun out, and smashed into us.

All I saw was lights in the rearview mirror, then I simultaneously felt the impact of the crash and watched the future Mr. Fix-it and friends disappear over the edge of the parking area. We didn't know if they'd been hit or if they jumped (they jumped) and the rear doors in the car wouldn't open. Can you say freakout?

Can I tell you how fun it is to wait for the cops to come when you're underage and have just had a Champagne  Diet Coke shower? Even if it is totally the other guy that was drunk?

We ended up at Denny's and then sleeping in the car while the guy whose mom rented the car suffered  repeated waves of nausea as he anticipated telling his mother about the wrecked rental car and the police report that listed him as the driver.

Roughly five years after the above picture was taken, this picture was taken.

 

                             Now we're the ones taking the pictures.

                              More prom pics in a couple of weeks.