Here's just a random snippet...30 seconds of our lives. It doesn't seem to matter what we are doing...this is what it sounds like!
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
Pele? I think not.
Anybody recognize this kid? Well, we hardly do either. Yup, Mitch has started soccer. The beginning of a long and illustrious career....or the beginning of a few games where Mike and I want to stick bags on our heads and we tell him that the season is only 3 games long so that it can mercifully end. Too tough to call at the moment...Actually, he is doing fine. I mean, he does have some chips stacked against him. He is the youngest one by a good six months on his team. His team, which is supposed to be made up of 4 year olds, is comprised mostly of 5 year olds, and even one six year old, as the directors just sort of glommed kids onto teams willy nilly right before the season started. Way more kids signed up than they anticipated, and there were not enough coaches. They had to hunt everywhere to find some. Mitch's team coach is a super-darling 16 year old high school student...but she knows soccer, not what makes four year olds tick. And, of course, a large mitigating factor against Mitch excelling at soccer...half of his genes come from his uncoordinated clod of a mother.
His first exposure to soccer was a practice, and this is where he actually surprised me. He stood in line, took his turn to kick the ball into the net, and generally participated fairly well, despite words from his coach like, "Mitch you need to dribble. OK, Mitch, trap it!" OK- He has NO idea what these words mean. It would be like saying, "OK, Mitch. State the quadratic theorem, followed by the Preamble to the Constitution." Totally Greek to him. But at practice, he did fine, except for an unfortunate relay race incident when he just could not grasp the concept of waiting until the kid in front of him has finished before his turn to go. But oh well.
But then, we brought him to his first game. The whistle blew to start the game, and we quickly realized that practice just was not enough. All of a sudden, there were nine other kids running, lunging, generally being whirling dervishes, and Mitch...bless his heart, stood still. He basically stood still for most of the game, occasionally watching the action, but rarely attempting to join in.
He just sort of hung around the periphery, not really sure why kids were not lining up and taking turns kicking the ball. What was all this action about? He was sure that he had not signed up for that! He did not really seem to enjoy it, and we could honestly see him sinking into himself as the game wore on.
Well, we made it through the game. Passed out the treat, and headed back home to formulate our plan.
Last week, we had a few family soccer nights, where we would teach him to try to run up and kick the ball away from someone on the other team. That seemed to resonate with him. He is now our defensive specialist. He says that he has no interest in trying to score goals. He will let the other kids on the team do that. He will just try to kick it away from the other team, and if the other team gets a goal he is going to be MAD and not let them do that again! Folks- this is the first glimpse of athletic spirit that we have seen from him, ever, and boy, was his daddy proud.
Well, the next game was much better. Certainly he will not be mistaken for David Beckham, but he did actually stop two goals the other day, one time while yelling"Don't let them get a goal!" Also, toward the end of the game, he actually went into the mass of childhood humanity and we saw his foot MOVE TO TRY TO KICK THE BALL! It was beautiful! And, now he seems to be having more fun. Plus, there were Fritos for a snack. He was diggin' on the Fritos.
Of course, at one point during the game, he did start flapping his arms and running like a robot, but that just goes with the Mitch territory. I, did, however, also observe one boy take his arm out of his jersey sleeve and run around like that for a bit, as well as two boys on Mitch's team that were drawing pictures in the dirt with a stick while they were playing. On second thought, maybe Mitch is on the perfect team. Go Eagles!
Thursday, September 25, 2008
Important Theories
Relativity. Conservation of Matter. You will get sick after flying on an airplane.
These are theories, tried and tested, and found to be constant in everyday life. And guess what? I have my own. I believe it shall be termed, "The theory of the perfect throw."
I believe that God gives a once in a lifetime gift to all people. He, in his infinite wisdom and sense of humor, imparts to each of his Earthly beings, one seriously beautiful and perfect snowball throw. This does not, however, apply to NFL quarterbacks or jugglers. I am talking about your average, Joe Schmo layperson.
I do not know what has me thinking of this today. Perhaps it is the fall-type weather, which makes me think that winter is right around the corner. Who knows, but here is my tale.
I witnessed my father's snowball throw of perfection many, many years ago. Unfortunately, my mother also witnessed it. She played a very necessary role in it, actually, that being the role of target. I was a young teenager skiing with our family in Colorado, and my sister and I found ourselves waiting at the bottom for our parents. My dad had skied down and was waiting under the cover of a copse of trees, while my mother was making her way down. Now, not to say that she is slow on skis, because she is like lightning. Really, blazing down the slopes. Well, not really, but she does have perfect form. While we were watching, my dad scooped down, packed up a snowball, waited for the perfect moment, and then let it fly. From our vantage point, we watched the entire thing....made easier by the fact that the moment he let the snowball soar into the air, the world started moving in slow motion. There was my mother, making her way gorgeously down the slope, completely unsuspecting of the frozen object making its way toward her. There was my dad's face....at first, full of mirth, and then changing, ever so slowly into concern....distress...and then, outright horror. For the moment he sailed that snowball into the air, he knew. He knew with absolute certainty that it was on a mission, and it was going to hit its target (my mother's face) dead on. There was nothing more he could do but watch it sail 50 feet, and wait for the destruction.
And destruction it was. It head her full on in the face, knocking her glasses off. Remember Velma from Scooby Doo? This was worse. My dad high-tailed it over to the scene, apologizing, scooping up items of skier paraphernalia and returning them to the enraged owner, trying very hard not to giggle. My sister and I were uncontrollable, rolling in the snow, tears running down our faces. Sorry, mom, but it was really funny.
Well, I was fortunate enough to have my perfect snowball throw several years back as well. And this time, the target was my husband. We were in Korea. A fresh blanket of snow had fallen, covering the mud and ever-present burning garbage smell. We were in Seoul for a few days as a New Year's celebration. After checking into the hotel, we went for a walk around the grounds. While strolling, enjoying the fairly fresh air, an idea formed in my head. A very nasty idea. So mean. I walked away from Mike a bit...probably about 25-30 yards. I then said, "Oh look. Someone up there in the restaurant is waving to us." While he turned around to investigate, I quickly scooped up some snow and packed it into a snowball. Then, I measured, calculated, and let it go. It sailed high into the Korean air, and I knew it. Just knew that it was a direct hit. I waited and watched and it arched higher and higher, and then began making its initial descent into Mike's face. At precisely the right moment, I called, "Oh never mind. I think they were waving at someone else. Hey, Mike!" He then turned toward me, to be immediately pummeled in the face with a snowball. Oh man! It was a thing of beauty! Pow! Right in the kisser! And, while my father had graciously skied over to assist my mother, I knew better. I turned around and ran like Hell!
Well, it didn't take long before he caught me, and while I can not remember the exact details, I am sure I was subjected to some sort of juvenille snow facial or something of the sort, but, oh- it was so worth it. I had my one true and perfect throw- direct hit on the target. But, wait a minute, I don't think that Mike has had his yet....
These are theories, tried and tested, and found to be constant in everyday life. And guess what? I have my own. I believe it shall be termed, "The theory of the perfect throw."
I believe that God gives a once in a lifetime gift to all people. He, in his infinite wisdom and sense of humor, imparts to each of his Earthly beings, one seriously beautiful and perfect snowball throw. This does not, however, apply to NFL quarterbacks or jugglers. I am talking about your average, Joe Schmo layperson.
I do not know what has me thinking of this today. Perhaps it is the fall-type weather, which makes me think that winter is right around the corner. Who knows, but here is my tale.
I witnessed my father's snowball throw of perfection many, many years ago. Unfortunately, my mother also witnessed it. She played a very necessary role in it, actually, that being the role of target. I was a young teenager skiing with our family in Colorado, and my sister and I found ourselves waiting at the bottom for our parents. My dad had skied down and was waiting under the cover of a copse of trees, while my mother was making her way down. Now, not to say that she is slow on skis, because she is like lightning. Really, blazing down the slopes. Well, not really, but she does have perfect form. While we were watching, my dad scooped down, packed up a snowball, waited for the perfect moment, and then let it fly. From our vantage point, we watched the entire thing....made easier by the fact that the moment he let the snowball soar into the air, the world started moving in slow motion. There was my mother, making her way gorgeously down the slope, completely unsuspecting of the frozen object making its way toward her. There was my dad's face....at first, full of mirth, and then changing, ever so slowly into concern....distress...and then, outright horror. For the moment he sailed that snowball into the air, he knew. He knew with absolute certainty that it was on a mission, and it was going to hit its target (my mother's face) dead on. There was nothing more he could do but watch it sail 50 feet, and wait for the destruction.
And destruction it was. It head her full on in the face, knocking her glasses off. Remember Velma from Scooby Doo? This was worse. My dad high-tailed it over to the scene, apologizing, scooping up items of skier paraphernalia and returning them to the enraged owner, trying very hard not to giggle. My sister and I were uncontrollable, rolling in the snow, tears running down our faces. Sorry, mom, but it was really funny.
Well, I was fortunate enough to have my perfect snowball throw several years back as well. And this time, the target was my husband. We were in Korea. A fresh blanket of snow had fallen, covering the mud and ever-present burning garbage smell. We were in Seoul for a few days as a New Year's celebration. After checking into the hotel, we went for a walk around the grounds. While strolling, enjoying the fairly fresh air, an idea formed in my head. A very nasty idea. So mean. I walked away from Mike a bit...probably about 25-30 yards. I then said, "Oh look. Someone up there in the restaurant is waving to us." While he turned around to investigate, I quickly scooped up some snow and packed it into a snowball. Then, I measured, calculated, and let it go. It sailed high into the Korean air, and I knew it. Just knew that it was a direct hit. I waited and watched and it arched higher and higher, and then began making its initial descent into Mike's face. At precisely the right moment, I called, "Oh never mind. I think they were waving at someone else. Hey, Mike!" He then turned toward me, to be immediately pummeled in the face with a snowball. Oh man! It was a thing of beauty! Pow! Right in the kisser! And, while my father had graciously skied over to assist my mother, I knew better. I turned around and ran like Hell!
Well, it didn't take long before he caught me, and while I can not remember the exact details, I am sure I was subjected to some sort of juvenille snow facial or something of the sort, but, oh- it was so worth it. I had my one true and perfect throw- direct hit on the target. But, wait a minute, I don't think that Mike has had his yet....
Sunday, September 21, 2008
Glad I Could Help...
Mitch: "Mom, you sure picked us a great dad. You didn't pick us a serious one. You got us a really funny one."
Photorama...
Here are some catch-up photos. Sorry I have been delinquent.
This is what Mitch wears when left to his own devices. I need to have a word with his devices. They are weird.
Here are Mitch and kindred spirit Max, when our great friends came for a visit. It was fantastic to see them again! Susannah even came bearing green gifts!!! Thanks, Sus.
Here is about the best I can do at getting both boys in the same picture. I was shooting like a maniac, shouting, "Come on, boys. Give me wistful!"
Here they are on the first day of school. I am surprised I even took the time to take a picture in all of my giddy glee. Oops. I mean, "I missed them terribly. Wal-mart is just not the same without chasing them down and apologizing profusely to all the patrons."
Here are Mike and I after the Michigan-Utah game. We are pretending that Michigan won.
Rub-a-dub-dub. Mitch has aged in the tub.
This is what Mitch wears when left to his own devices. I need to have a word with his devices. They are weird.
Here are Mitch and kindred spirit Max, when our great friends came for a visit. It was fantastic to see them again! Susannah even came bearing green gifts!!! Thanks, Sus.
Here is about the best I can do at getting both boys in the same picture. I was shooting like a maniac, shouting, "Come on, boys. Give me wistful!"
Here they are on the first day of school. I am surprised I even took the time to take a picture in all of my giddy glee. Oops. I mean, "I missed them terribly. Wal-mart is just not the same without chasing them down and apologizing profusely to all the patrons."
Here are Mike and I after the Michigan-Utah game. We are pretending that Michigan won.
Rub-a-dub-dub. Mitch has aged in the tub.
What a Four-Year-Old Power Trip Sounds Like
Mitch: "Mom, I love you one inch. I love Dad and my grandma's and papa's 61 inches. I love Nunu (the cat) 16 inches, but I love you one inch."
Me: "That's fine. Eat your lunch."
Next day...
Mitch: "Mom, you were good today. Now, I love you two inches."
Me: "Oh, goodie. Now, put on your pajamas."
Today...
Mitch: "Mom, I love dad all the inches because he does tricks."
Me: "Yeah, great. Tricks."
Would you like to see the result of one of Mike's "tricks?" This is what happens when Mike says, "Hmmmm....I wonder how long I can stand on my head" in a small apartment. Tall man + tiny room = no return on security deposit, but infinite inches of a child's love
Me: "That's fine. Eat your lunch."
Next day...
Mitch: "Mom, you were good today. Now, I love you two inches."
Me: "Oh, goodie. Now, put on your pajamas."
Today...
Mitch: "Mom, I love dad all the inches because he does tricks."
Me: "Yeah, great. Tricks."
Would you like to see the result of one of Mike's "tricks?" This is what happens when Mike says, "Hmmmm....I wonder how long I can stand on my head" in a small apartment. Tall man + tiny room = no return on security deposit, but infinite inches of a child's love
The Butcher, The Baker, The Legoland Maker
Here's one for the grandparents. Just thought I would capture two minutes of our lives. H.ere are the boys doing what they do best.
Monday, September 15, 2008
Do Not Take Candy From This Stranger!
Who is this man?
Well, thanks to an incredibly popular new Air Force rule, Mike gets to don his "Blues" every Monday. We were both very, very surprised to see them hanging in the front closet of our apartment, as we were sure that we never would have brought them here, as we only brought "Bare Essentials...and Topiaries." However, there they were. Plastic shoes shining like the sun. And, oh yeah- it is Mike's orignial Blues uniform....from ROTC....circa 1992.
Nothing says "I've made it!" like donning a 16 year old uniform that you used to wear as an 18 year-old!
Sunday, September 14, 2008
Is there anthing worse...
than a four year old throwing up in his carseat? I mean, ugh. And double ugh. All the straps and cushions and everything. Completely nuked. I have it all taken apart and in the washing machine, but Mike is working and there is little prayer that I will be able to put it back together. Not that we need to go anywhere anyway.
Oh, I know what would be worse. Perhaps if the aforementioned four-year-old told you that his stomach hurt, but you didn't believe him and you made him go to the park and run around and play even though he told you 15,000 times that he didn't want to go and then he threw up on the way home and cried and apologized to you through sobs and said he was so sorry for getting the car all messy. That might be worse.
Oh, I know what would be worse. Perhaps if the aforementioned four-year-old told you that his stomach hurt, but you didn't believe him and you made him go to the park and run around and play even though he told you 15,000 times that he didn't want to go and then he threw up on the way home and cried and apologized to you through sobs and said he was so sorry for getting the car all messy. That might be worse.
Thursday, September 11, 2008
Matty, The Enterprising Farmer
The following is a conversation between Matty and me while driving home from the gym. It's so fun to see the problem solving wheels in motion, even if the "solution" is ridiculous!
Matty: "Wook! Wook! Corn in the water."
Me: (admiring the lily pads in the water) "Sure, buddy." (Trust me, we have argued about this for months. He refuses to accept these green floating things as lily pads, and insists that they must be corn plants. In the water. Whatever, it is easier to capitulate. He'll figure it out someday.)
Matty: "How they pick?"
Me: "How are the farmers going to pick it?"
Matty: "With a combine boat."
Hmmmm....I am sure Mitch will be whipping one up out of Lego's before the end of the day!
Matty: "Wook! Wook! Corn in the water."
Me: (admiring the lily pads in the water) "Sure, buddy." (Trust me, we have argued about this for months. He refuses to accept these green floating things as lily pads, and insists that they must be corn plants. In the water. Whatever, it is easier to capitulate. He'll figure it out someday.)
Matty: "How they pick?"
Me: "How are the farmers going to pick it?"
Matty: "With a combine boat."
Hmmmm....I am sure Mitch will be whipping one up out of Lego's before the end of the day!
Monday, September 8, 2008
Today, I did something really dumb...
I know. Not normally a news flash. More like a daily occurrence. Hum drum, really, but this one was pretty foolish, and I think I will be feeling the effects for quite a long time.
After dropping Mitch off at school., Matty and I headed to the gym. Now, I am not a work-out guru, but I do go. I have never been one to actually enjoy working out (I think my endorphins are broken) but once I discovered the free child care, I have become a believer! Body, mind, and spirit, right? Whatever, as long as I have a little break from the hooligans!
I do get to the gym generally 5 times a week, and either run three or four miles each time or become one with the elliptical machine. So, not exactly a novice to exercise, but no iron man either.
Well, here comes the mistake. After dropping Matty off to the wilds of the childcare area, I headed up upstairs to go to the treadmill. Then, I saw a nice group of ladies waiting outside a group fitness room. They looked like me. Non-matching gym clothes. Absolutely no spandex to be found. Hmmmmm...I wonder. "What class are you waiting for?" I ask, completely unaware of my impending fate. "Oh, it's a Cardio Meltdown. It's really good, but I think there is a substitute today." Hmmmm again. Cardio? I can do cardio. Meltdown? I could use some lovehandle meltdown. Substitute? Rockin'. This brings back images of the bad kids in school taking advantage of the oblivious subs, like when Sam Palmer stuck the science movie we were supposed to watch inside the ribcage of the giant plastic human body when the sub was out of the room, and poor 99-year-old Mr. Lyman had no idea what to do for an hour. See, subs are fun, right?
Well, the "sub" was Andy....an incredibly well-built, mid 20's black gentleman, with a giant smile and an even larger masochistic streak. His blood stream was obviously coursing with uppers. His energy and enthusiasm for breaking us nice stay-at-home moms was unsettling. I should have faked an injury or migraine or PTA meeting and turned around and run the other way, but I didn't. I stayed.
Andy said that we would need some things for the class. His version of instruments of torture were two sets of hand weights, a cardio step, and a jumprope. Well, he piped in some upbeat techno music, and the torture began. We lunged. We jumped. We stepped. We did push-ups. We leapt. We raised our hand weights high into the air. We curled. We kicked. We whined. We cried. Nothing had an effect on this man. One woman even looked at me and lamented, "I think I am going to throw up." Andy just kept yelling, smiling, and doling out the punishment. What did he have against us?
Andy could not count. Here is an example: "And, 8 more. 7....6...5...4...3...2...and 8...7...6" See?!?
He used every last second of the hour. No 15 minute stretch and cool down today. Nosiree. His definition of stretching and cooling down was to simply put in a calming CD, yet continue to make us lunge and leap. Never have I been so angry at Enya.
Well, it finally ended, and I somehow managed to roll my puddle of a body into the car. After Matty and I picked Mitch up from school, I unlocked the door and truly contemplated the 18 steps required to get up to our apartment. What if I just lay at the bottom? Would the kids be self-sufficient enough? Could they put themselves to bed for a nap if I yelled loudly enough from my fetal position? Probably not, so I crawled up the stairs, being very careful not to make any sudden lunging movements. I then oozed into the shower, where I was not able to wash my hair, as I can not raise my arms any higher than my belly button. Just the act of typing right now is making me wince. Somehow, my fingers hurt. Or maybe they are just having sympathy pain for the rest of my muscles. I had no idea that the meltdown portion of Cardio Meltdown referred to a complete and total body shutdown.
Devil, thy name is Andy.
After dropping Mitch off at school., Matty and I headed to the gym. Now, I am not a work-out guru, but I do go. I have never been one to actually enjoy working out (I think my endorphins are broken) but once I discovered the free child care, I have become a believer! Body, mind, and spirit, right? Whatever, as long as I have a little break from the hooligans!
I do get to the gym generally 5 times a week, and either run three or four miles each time or become one with the elliptical machine. So, not exactly a novice to exercise, but no iron man either.
Well, here comes the mistake. After dropping Matty off to the wilds of the childcare area, I headed up upstairs to go to the treadmill. Then, I saw a nice group of ladies waiting outside a group fitness room. They looked like me. Non-matching gym clothes. Absolutely no spandex to be found. Hmmmmm...I wonder. "What class are you waiting for?" I ask, completely unaware of my impending fate. "Oh, it's a Cardio Meltdown. It's really good, but I think there is a substitute today." Hmmmm again. Cardio? I can do cardio. Meltdown? I could use some lovehandle meltdown. Substitute? Rockin'. This brings back images of the bad kids in school taking advantage of the oblivious subs, like when Sam Palmer stuck the science movie we were supposed to watch inside the ribcage of the giant plastic human body when the sub was out of the room, and poor 99-year-old Mr. Lyman had no idea what to do for an hour. See, subs are fun, right?
Well, the "sub" was Andy....an incredibly well-built, mid 20's black gentleman, with a giant smile and an even larger masochistic streak. His blood stream was obviously coursing with uppers. His energy and enthusiasm for breaking us nice stay-at-home moms was unsettling. I should have faked an injury or migraine or PTA meeting and turned around and run the other way, but I didn't. I stayed.
Andy said that we would need some things for the class. His version of instruments of torture were two sets of hand weights, a cardio step, and a jumprope. Well, he piped in some upbeat techno music, and the torture began. We lunged. We jumped. We stepped. We did push-ups. We leapt. We raised our hand weights high into the air. We curled. We kicked. We whined. We cried. Nothing had an effect on this man. One woman even looked at me and lamented, "I think I am going to throw up." Andy just kept yelling, smiling, and doling out the punishment. What did he have against us?
Andy could not count. Here is an example: "And, 8 more. 7....6...5...4...3...2...and 8...7...6" See?!?
He used every last second of the hour. No 15 minute stretch and cool down today. Nosiree. His definition of stretching and cooling down was to simply put in a calming CD, yet continue to make us lunge and leap. Never have I been so angry at Enya.
Well, it finally ended, and I somehow managed to roll my puddle of a body into the car. After Matty and I picked Mitch up from school, I unlocked the door and truly contemplated the 18 steps required to get up to our apartment. What if I just lay at the bottom? Would the kids be self-sufficient enough? Could they put themselves to bed for a nap if I yelled loudly enough from my fetal position? Probably not, so I crawled up the stairs, being very careful not to make any sudden lunging movements. I then oozed into the shower, where I was not able to wash my hair, as I can not raise my arms any higher than my belly button. Just the act of typing right now is making me wince. Somehow, my fingers hurt. Or maybe they are just having sympathy pain for the rest of my muscles. I had no idea that the meltdown portion of Cardio Meltdown referred to a complete and total body shutdown.
Devil, thy name is Andy.
Monday, September 1, 2008
Thanks, Uncle Sam, for the Boondoggle
Oh, Government. Let me thank you.
Because, because of you, my husband and his fellow Michigan Alumni Air Force cronies have access to jets, and this leads to the Annual Michigan Stadium Flyover Boondoggle.
For those who are unable to attend, a little background information, if you will.
14 years ago, sitting in the student section of Michigan stadium, there was a flyover, in which a much younger Michael Ferrario gazed up and stated, "Someday, I want to do that!"
Well, many years later, and it has happened. Again. Somehow, Mike and his buddies have once again managed to schmooze, coerce, and generally finagel their way into convincing commanders to give them jets to go cross country for the weekend and University personnel to sponsor a flyover.
And, the results were brilliant. After many meetings, tons of diagrams using words like "holding pattern" and "turn circle" the boys have managed another beautiful aerial spectacle. On time and in perfect formation. Way to go guys.
Some funny commentary:
The flyover process involves guys in the jets, and then a guy basically strapped to the top of the Michigan Stadium construction, somewhere in the girders, with handheld radios and such. Based on strict pre-game announcements and band procedures, the guy on the roof makes calls to the jets as to when there is exactly 3 minutes until flyover time. Then, depending upon where the jets are in the holding pattern, they base their turns accordingly and aim to be directly overhead the stadium for the "Home of the Brave..." Well, after the 3 minutes in called, there is not much to do except wait and hope that the plan is solid, and for the second year in the row, the guy on the roof has keyed up the microphone over Ann Arbor Tower frequency, and sung the National Anthem loudly in hopes to help the guys in the jets make it right on time.
I have watched my husband get in the car to prepare to go fly this mission twice now, and both times, I have never seen him so nervous! He totally agrees, and says that he is way more nervous for this mission than any combat sortie he has flown! Way too much chance for error....in front of 108,000 people!
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