On My Mind

Love
Today while I was playing tennis I noticed two guys on the court next to mine. They were your typical somewhat mushy 40-somethings. Socks pulled up a tad too high. Shorts a bit too short. Hanging on to every last receding hair. Tummies a bit paunchy. I was admiring the ease with which they hit a slice, one after another barely grazing the net with such grace. Then I about lost it. After warming up and before playing for points, they met at the net, joined hands, and prayed. Prayed! Before a lousy tennis game between friends! Aloud! Overhearing the prayer session made me hit three balls over the fence in succession. I left with an empty can and a head ablaze. Is this normal? Suck as I might, even I don't pray before tennis. Dear God, please let me actually hit a proper topspin tonight. Don't let me play worse than the 10-year old girl in my class. Let me earn at least two points based on my sheer skill rather than opponent error. I hate to think what these guys are praying for before business meetings, meals, and their annual physicals.

Jake
Is it just me or does Henry on Ugly Betty remind you of a geeky version of Jake Ryan from Sixteen Candles? Oh, how my heart throbbed for Jake! Whatever became of him?


Woof Woof Howl
Do folks not hear their own pooches barking at all hours of the night? Must they think that no one outside the property lines hear? I assume the same when tantrum time hits, but that's just to save face as much as possible.


Forget Tantra, this is Tantrum.
Bird had the meltdown of the century this afternoon after karate class. We were playing perfectly happily at the playground with some friends. Then the killing began. Bird was squishing fuzzy caterpillar after fuzzy caterpillar. Each mini fur ball an innocent victim because someone told him that those creatures killed trees. When I told him to sit down and chill out for a bit, he lost his shit. I'm talkin' diarrhea proportions. He wailed to the car. He wailed in the car. He threw punches. He became the limp protester. He kicked my seat. He unbuckled his seatbelt. All without stopping to breathe amid the wailing. I had to pull over on a side street, stop the car, and yank him out. Don't think for a second that I handled it with the aplomb of Obama at the last debate. I told Bird to calm down and buckle up lest I leave him in the mulch of some neighborhood boulevard somewhere miles from home. Out of sheer fear (hey, whatever works), he acquiesced. Then he promptly fell asleep. Head tilted. Drool puddling in the folds of his neck.

Damn me for reacting, rather overreacting, to the moment instead of stopping to figure out what triggered such a crazed response, especially considering what an otherwise stellar day he had. I lost my shit. Yes, I admit it. When we got home we all recovered nicely and ended up having a grand time at Dance Party USA with some neighbors. We rocked out to Sweet Home Alabama, Suffragette City, and A Little Less Conversation. When Bird shimmied up to me to take my hand and dance, I knew all was OK.

Pooped.
I have abstained from writing about Deal's potty training ordeal because the mere thought has worn me out. He was fully trained for two weeks in January and decided that urinating and defecating in his pants was a better idea. Yup, I guess he missed diaper rash and the overall filth in his pants. Since then he has been vehemently opposed to all things potty, unlike Bird who couldn't wait to rid himself of the nastiness that is excrement. We tried every tactic with Deal - being his Suzy Cheesecake cheerleader, being a hard ass, being Super Nanny. Nothing. Nada. Zilch. We tossed out multiple pairs of Spiderman, Sponge Bob, Scooby Doo, and Thomas adorned underwear. Soiled beyond salvation. Suddenly, last Friday, he decided that peeing and pooping on the potty wasn't so bad afterall. That light clicked on, and Deal has been one potty machine. Accident free for seven days. OSHA should hang up a placard.