Tuesday, April 10, 2012
Tuesday, February 7, 2012
Welcome to the Sports Center,.. Proceed with CautionThere
There are all sorts of news stories and public service announcements talking about getting outside and playing with your children. With childhood obesity on the rise –the CDC reports that since 1980, obesity prevalence among children and adolescents has almost tripled – it is important to make moving and exercising fun. But I am here to provide an important PSA directed specifically toward you: you are no longer the spring chicken you think you are.
I am all for putting down that electronic device you are addicted to (and you know you are) and playing with your kids. But let me offer you the 10 rules for playing with your children:
10. If your child is the quarterback of his football team and he asks you to play catch; don’t. The work lost by jamming all your fingers as you attempt to grab that little rocket is too expensive at your age. You need all those productive work days in order to pay for that little cherub’s college.
9. When playing Twister, if the move to put your ‘left hand on yellow’ requires you to contort in such a way that you can’t tell your hands from your feet, gracefully bow out. Believe me, between all the vegetables and ground sirloin in your freezer, you don’t have room for those big ice packs your physical therapist is going to require you to use at home in between sessions.
8. Monkey bars? This is a perfect opportunity for ‘do as I say, not as I do,’ unless you want to have double jointed shoulders for the remainder of your adult life.
7. If you think that ‘double under’ refers to your chin and not a jump rope; please don’t attempt any rope jumping at home alone. You will require a spotter.
6. If your youngster is calling you a ‘wuss’ for not trying to balance on a floatable board on a swell of water on anything other than your belly, smile politely and sit your butt right back down on that towel.
5. Same thing goes for boards that move on concrete. Do I need to say concrete one more time?
4. Do you know when a diamond is not a girl’s best friend? When the girl is pushing forty, they are black and they come in multiples. This is a time when more is not necessarily better.
3. Trying to return any sort of ball with your head is not encouraged. Children’s brains do not fully develop until they are well out of their teens. I think this began with the prevalence of soccer.
2. If the last time you went roller skating it was referred to as er,.. roller skating and you needed a key, take it slow.
1. Proceed with caution when taking your high schooler to the gym. Exercises don’t always match their names. For example, cutely named ‘jumpies’ and ‘burpies’ aren’t quite so cute after you’ve survived 50 of them. However, other exercises, like ‘suicides’ are exactly as they sound.
Other than that, tie up those shoes, put on those knee pads, pop some Advil and have fun!
I am all for putting down that electronic device you are addicted to (and you know you are) and playing with your kids. But let me offer you the 10 rules for playing with your children:
10. If your child is the quarterback of his football team and he asks you to play catch; don’t. The work lost by jamming all your fingers as you attempt to grab that little rocket is too expensive at your age. You need all those productive work days in order to pay for that little cherub’s college.
9. When playing Twister, if the move to put your ‘left hand on yellow’ requires you to contort in such a way that you can’t tell your hands from your feet, gracefully bow out. Believe me, between all the vegetables and ground sirloin in your freezer, you don’t have room for those big ice packs your physical therapist is going to require you to use at home in between sessions.
8. Monkey bars? This is a perfect opportunity for ‘do as I say, not as I do,’ unless you want to have double jointed shoulders for the remainder of your adult life.
7. If you think that ‘double under’ refers to your chin and not a jump rope; please don’t attempt any rope jumping at home alone. You will require a spotter.
6. If your youngster is calling you a ‘wuss’ for not trying to balance on a floatable board on a swell of water on anything other than your belly, smile politely and sit your butt right back down on that towel.
5. Same thing goes for boards that move on concrete. Do I need to say concrete one more time?
4. Do you know when a diamond is not a girl’s best friend? When the girl is pushing forty, they are black and they come in multiples. This is a time when more is not necessarily better.
3. Trying to return any sort of ball with your head is not encouraged. Children’s brains do not fully develop until they are well out of their teens. I think this began with the prevalence of soccer.
2. If the last time you went roller skating it was referred to as er,.. roller skating and you needed a key, take it slow.
1. Proceed with caution when taking your high schooler to the gym. Exercises don’t always match their names. For example, cutely named ‘jumpies’ and ‘burpies’ aren’t quite so cute after you’ve survived 50 of them. However, other exercises, like ‘suicides’ are exactly as they sound.
Other than that, tie up those shoes, put on those knee pads, pop some Advil and have fun!
Wednesday, November 16, 2011
Full of Thanks
November is the month many people take time to think of what they are grateful for in their lives. The latest phenomenon is updating Facebook statuses every day with something that has made the person posting full of gratitude.
I’m not that organized. My first post of the month was something about giving a shout out to the employees at Home Depot for not pretending I was invisible. This is what usually happens when I venture into the cavernous maw of that store. Honestly, I can’t think of anything more boring to shop for than home improvement items, so I spend as little time as I can in those kinds of establishments. Probably because while I always knew I didn’t have a green thumb, in my maturity (okay, old age), I also realize I do not have a home improvement thumb, either.
However, for this trip I was looking for seeds for a kindergarten science lesson. Not only did the friendly employee help me find some big seeds that little five year old fingers could deftly plant in a paper cup, he pointed out an easy care shrub. I made a pact with myself that if I could keep the shrub alive for a month, it was a sign that my aptitude for homecare was changing and I might venture on to a flowering plant, vegetables, or even a home project.
Well, it’s almost a month later and the shrub is still alive! I am considering this my Grandma Moses moment – she didn’t start painting until she was in her 90’s. I even have a few decades on her for my personal revelation. So, shout out to you Home Depot.
The next day, I believe I posted that I was thankful it was no longer October. That is because after a month of scary movies, scary pumpkin patches, and scary decorations everywhere, I had reached my scary limit. I realized this after I spent a half hour trying to prod a Barbie car into the bathroom with an extended light saber. You see, there was a long, dark leg peeking out from behind the console in the car. My mind extrapolated how big the body would have to be of whatever mutant spider was attached to that leg, and I tell you, it was as big as my German Shepherd.
Once I had maneuvered the car into the bathroom, I had to muster up the courage to actually touch the Barbie car in order to put it into the bathtub. Then, I had to muster up more courage to turn on the shower water – but I had visions of the very large spider leaping out and attacking me.
After five more minutes of deep breathing and trying to look cool, calm and collected in front of my three year old, I turned on the water. I waited for the Barbie car to fill and flood, killing the mutant spider. You know that saying – you learn something new every day? Well, it’s true. I learned that Barbie cars don’t hold water. After about five minutes of soaking that car in a boiling hot shower, the water level never got above the white plastic seats.
Even though the Barbie car didn’t flood, about five more minutes passed and I was sure the spider was dead. The beast’s leg bobbed up and down, but didn’t move. I must have scalded the thing to death. Now was the time for me to meet it face to face, but I didn’t even want to see its lifeless form. Until this moment, I thought I only had an irrational fear of dentists and heights. Now I know I am also deathly afraid of spiders.
Taking the light saber, I removed the dripping car from the bathtub. Carefully, slowly I lifted the front end of the car up, so the drowned spider would tumble forward into my view. Do you know what came sliding out onto the bathmat? It was a spider alright - a plastic Halloween spider ring. I had wasted 45 minutes and given myself heart palpitations from stress – all from doing battle with a plastic Halloween spider ring. So, once I finally disposed of the ring, I gave thanks that I could put my frazzled nerves to rest until the next year’s Halloween activities.
The third day of November, I think I gave thanks that I could react quickly to parenting situations. Like when I decided against leaving my five- and three- year olds girls unattended for a few minutes in their room while I did laundry, after hearing a conversation that required them to say the words “dog” and “makeup” in the same sentence.
On the fourth day of giving thanks, I gave a silent high five to the universe for being a safety net to my own stupidity as I try to raise five kids. Our family was gathered– all seven of us – in the T.V. room. I had a glow about me as I surveyed my brood – together and cozy. My husband was reading a book to the little girls. My oldest two sons were glued to a football game. My middle boy was watching a Netflix movie on my iPad. I was updating my Facebook status.
Then my middle son ripped out his earbuds and exclaimed,” That was the best movie EVER!”
It was at this moment I realized that even though I was no more than eight feet away from my kid, I had no idea what he had been watching.
Afraid to ask, but knowing I should, I posed him the question: “What movie were you watching?”
He responded, very excited, “Beavers!”
I think I was a little ashen when I asked, “Uhm, was it about animals?”
Thankfully it was and I vowed never again to not flex my full parental rights before a person under the age of 18 used any device in my house again.
Those four days about ended my stamina for being thankful. Thirty days of thankfulness? I think I’ll stick to just the twelve days of Christmas, thank you very much.
I’m not that organized. My first post of the month was something about giving a shout out to the employees at Home Depot for not pretending I was invisible. This is what usually happens when I venture into the cavernous maw of that store. Honestly, I can’t think of anything more boring to shop for than home improvement items, so I spend as little time as I can in those kinds of establishments. Probably because while I always knew I didn’t have a green thumb, in my maturity (okay, old age), I also realize I do not have a home improvement thumb, either.
However, for this trip I was looking for seeds for a kindergarten science lesson. Not only did the friendly employee help me find some big seeds that little five year old fingers could deftly plant in a paper cup, he pointed out an easy care shrub. I made a pact with myself that if I could keep the shrub alive for a month, it was a sign that my aptitude for homecare was changing and I might venture on to a flowering plant, vegetables, or even a home project.
Well, it’s almost a month later and the shrub is still alive! I am considering this my Grandma Moses moment – she didn’t start painting until she was in her 90’s. I even have a few decades on her for my personal revelation. So, shout out to you Home Depot.
The next day, I believe I posted that I was thankful it was no longer October. That is because after a month of scary movies, scary pumpkin patches, and scary decorations everywhere, I had reached my scary limit. I realized this after I spent a half hour trying to prod a Barbie car into the bathroom with an extended light saber. You see, there was a long, dark leg peeking out from behind the console in the car. My mind extrapolated how big the body would have to be of whatever mutant spider was attached to that leg, and I tell you, it was as big as my German Shepherd.
Once I had maneuvered the car into the bathroom, I had to muster up the courage to actually touch the Barbie car in order to put it into the bathtub. Then, I had to muster up more courage to turn on the shower water – but I had visions of the very large spider leaping out and attacking me.
After five more minutes of deep breathing and trying to look cool, calm and collected in front of my three year old, I turned on the water. I waited for the Barbie car to fill and flood, killing the mutant spider. You know that saying – you learn something new every day? Well, it’s true. I learned that Barbie cars don’t hold water. After about five minutes of soaking that car in a boiling hot shower, the water level never got above the white plastic seats.
Even though the Barbie car didn’t flood, about five more minutes passed and I was sure the spider was dead. The beast’s leg bobbed up and down, but didn’t move. I must have scalded the thing to death. Now was the time for me to meet it face to face, but I didn’t even want to see its lifeless form. Until this moment, I thought I only had an irrational fear of dentists and heights. Now I know I am also deathly afraid of spiders.
Taking the light saber, I removed the dripping car from the bathtub. Carefully, slowly I lifted the front end of the car up, so the drowned spider would tumble forward into my view. Do you know what came sliding out onto the bathmat? It was a spider alright - a plastic Halloween spider ring. I had wasted 45 minutes and given myself heart palpitations from stress – all from doing battle with a plastic Halloween spider ring. So, once I finally disposed of the ring, I gave thanks that I could put my frazzled nerves to rest until the next year’s Halloween activities.
The third day of November, I think I gave thanks that I could react quickly to parenting situations. Like when I decided against leaving my five- and three- year olds girls unattended for a few minutes in their room while I did laundry, after hearing a conversation that required them to say the words “dog” and “makeup” in the same sentence.
On the fourth day of giving thanks, I gave a silent high five to the universe for being a safety net to my own stupidity as I try to raise five kids. Our family was gathered– all seven of us – in the T.V. room. I had a glow about me as I surveyed my brood – together and cozy. My husband was reading a book to the little girls. My oldest two sons were glued to a football game. My middle boy was watching a Netflix movie on my iPad. I was updating my Facebook status.
Then my middle son ripped out his earbuds and exclaimed,” That was the best movie EVER!”
It was at this moment I realized that even though I was no more than eight feet away from my kid, I had no idea what he had been watching.
Afraid to ask, but knowing I should, I posed him the question: “What movie were you watching?”
He responded, very excited, “Beavers!”
I think I was a little ashen when I asked, “Uhm, was it about animals?”
Thankfully it was and I vowed never again to not flex my full parental rights before a person under the age of 18 used any device in my house again.
Those four days about ended my stamina for being thankful. Thirty days of thankfulness? I think I’ll stick to just the twelve days of Christmas, thank you very much.
Wednesday, August 24, 2011
Earthquake,.. on the East Coast?!
Yes, it's true. We Californians like to share, I guess. Did you know that one of North America's biggest earthquakes actually occurred on the Mississippi River in the early 1800's? So this is not unprecedented, although unexpected.
I love this map, which includes what we call 'authoritative' data sources (from USGS data feeds and others - agencies that are responsible for tracking this type of information and we know we can rely on) and then data from the general public - you really get a sense of how strong the liquifaction of this quake was (so much soil on the East coast! Not as much rock as we Californians have) and how far away it was felt. Seeing information in geographic space can give you a better sense of an event, a deeper understanding of what happened.
Monday, August 15, 2011
Monday already?
Father Robert Joerger, Debbie Philips, Father Edward Beck. Picture taken from Philips' blog.
Seems so, so I'll just send you directly over here to read a nice blog post to get you through today and many days to come - inspiring words from Father Edward Beck, a Passionist Priest in New York from a retreat he gave on Martha's Vineyard. Rob and I first met Father Edward at a retreat he gave at our Church. We are able to visit him periodically, primarily when he comes to the West Coast, but this past summer we bugged both him and Father Robert over in New York.
Thursday, August 4, 2011
River Rats
Our awesome home away from home! Yep, we had the double wide and we wore it well!
Seriously, the only thing I can focus on in this picture is that Froshy is really getting close to being even with me. Yipes.
Yeah, they look ready for bed, right? I don't think they can get any blonder without being dayglo colored.
I actually look... relaxed! Could it be because of no wifi or cell phone towers anywhere? Brown beast is peering over my shoulder.
Parker Dam, where we'd zoom to, cut the engine and fling small, life jacketed bodies out of the boat and into the river. I flund myself in as well, to keep the small ones from drifting far, far away.
Collecting river shells on the shore.This is what summer time is all about! We had such a great time! Besides the sand bar incident. And the bouy incident. I didn't mind falling off the seadoos a few times. And I survived Froshy driving me into every wake imaginable when it was his turn on the 'watery-vehicle-of-death.'
Friday, July 8, 2011
Of dog poop and chicken lips
So, the eldest, who is entering his freshman year of highschool and shall from here on out be known as Froshy, is taking summer school. Because he takes after his nutty parents, he is an overachiever. It helps that his best friend is also an overachiever, so I can pass the blame later on.
His summer school class is health. Which he told me today that wasn't as easy as he thought it would be. I don't think anything is easy when you have tests each week that have more than 80 questions on them.
He watched the movie Food, Inc. which I love, because a lot of the foodie authors I read are in the film. People like Michael Pollan who created the great Omnivore's Dilemma. I own the young reader edition (I know my own intellectual limits. Actually, it was the only version available when I had the urge to read it) I fail horribly, but I know how important good food is and I have five kids, so I really can't afford to be a delinquent in the nutrition department. I do my best.
Froshy and I are having a bit of a fencing match in the kitchen these days -
"Mom, which is better for you - ketchup or mustard?"
"Is there high fructose corn syrup in that?"
"Guess how many grams of sugar are in this serving!"
I'm loving it!
Tonight was a cafeteria style dinner with everyone eating a different time, between football and cheer practices and pick ups at friend's houses. Froshy told me he didn't want to eat red meat, since he'd eaten carne asada four times this week, and even he has his limits, I guess. So, I offered him my dinner - chicken and brown rice, sans the Trader Joe's Red Thai Curry sauce.
I fed the dogs some of the raw chicken that had too much fat on it for me to handle. He asked if we would get sick if we ate raw chicken. Then he asked why dogs don't get sick. "Well, they eat their own poop, Froshy, they have stomachs of steel."
Don't bring poop up to a kid taking a health class. I had to listen to a diatribe on how poop won't make you sick since it comes from your own body. Yes, I know that, but I'm not going to eat poop any time soon.
Anyway, we got through the poop discussion. I added some watermelon to his dinner of chicken breast and brown rice. He actually told me thank you for dinner. We have crossed a huge chasm people. I simply can not wait for the other kids to come to the mother ship so I don't have to make mac and cheese or mickey mouse shaped chicken nuggets anymore. Patience, grasshopper.
The three year old, who hadn't eaten four meals of carne asada in the last few days, was eating left over tri tip. She had a question. "Why don't chickens talk?" (I'm assuming because we were talking about eating raw chicken.)
I've learned to keep quiet as long as possible, because I have become very uncreative in my 14 years of having to answer these types of questions. Froshy as a preschooler would drive me to tears with questions and insisting I read every street signs as we flew down the Interstate.
I waited for hubby to answer. "Because chickens don't have vocal chords," he responds.
To which Froshy responded, "Actually chickens do have vocal chords. They don't have lips." (don't you love teenagers?)
And then hubby, being very mature asked,"Then where did the term chicken lips come from?"
At this point it really went downhill, so I fed them all ice cream.
"
His summer school class is health. Which he told me today that wasn't as easy as he thought it would be. I don't think anything is easy when you have tests each week that have more than 80 questions on them.
He watched the movie Food, Inc. which I love, because a lot of the foodie authors I read are in the film. People like Michael Pollan who created the great Omnivore's Dilemma. I own the young reader edition (I know my own intellectual limits. Actually, it was the only version available when I had the urge to read it) I fail horribly, but I know how important good food is and I have five kids, so I really can't afford to be a delinquent in the nutrition department. I do my best.
Froshy and I are having a bit of a fencing match in the kitchen these days -
"Mom, which is better for you - ketchup or mustard?"
"Is there high fructose corn syrup in that?"
"Guess how many grams of sugar are in this serving!"
I'm loving it!
Tonight was a cafeteria style dinner with everyone eating a different time, between football and cheer practices and pick ups at friend's houses. Froshy told me he didn't want to eat red meat, since he'd eaten carne asada four times this week, and even he has his limits, I guess. So, I offered him my dinner - chicken and brown rice, sans the Trader Joe's Red Thai Curry sauce.
I fed the dogs some of the raw chicken that had too much fat on it for me to handle. He asked if we would get sick if we ate raw chicken. Then he asked why dogs don't get sick. "Well, they eat their own poop, Froshy, they have stomachs of steel."
Don't bring poop up to a kid taking a health class. I had to listen to a diatribe on how poop won't make you sick since it comes from your own body. Yes, I know that, but I'm not going to eat poop any time soon.
Anyway, we got through the poop discussion. I added some watermelon to his dinner of chicken breast and brown rice. He actually told me thank you for dinner. We have crossed a huge chasm people. I simply can not wait for the other kids to come to the mother ship so I don't have to make mac and cheese or mickey mouse shaped chicken nuggets anymore. Patience, grasshopper.
The three year old, who hadn't eaten four meals of carne asada in the last few days, was eating left over tri tip. She had a question. "Why don't chickens talk?" (I'm assuming because we were talking about eating raw chicken.)
I've learned to keep quiet as long as possible, because I have become very uncreative in my 14 years of having to answer these types of questions. Froshy as a preschooler would drive me to tears with questions and insisting I read every street signs as we flew down the Interstate.
I waited for hubby to answer. "Because chickens don't have vocal chords," he responds.
To which Froshy responded, "Actually chickens do have vocal chords. They don't have lips." (don't you love teenagers?)
And then hubby, being very mature asked,"Then where did the term chicken lips come from?"
At this point it really went downhill, so I fed them all ice cream.
"
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