10 ways to get out of being a line judge at a volleyball game

Tonight was the first volleyball game Charlie got to play in. I was so happy that I volunteered to help the coach in whatever way she needed help. That turned out to be line judge. Oh, anything but that. I think I'd rather pick up the entire team's dirty sweat socks than have to be the line judge.

The job of the line judge is to stand at one corner of the volleyball court and to wave your flag in various directions to indicate that the ball is in or out or that the server stepped on the line or that the wisp of someone's fingernail touched the ball before it sailed out of bounds. Being the line judge is completely stressful. Winners and losers can be decided all based on what one line judge did or did not see. Plus, being a line judge totally interferes with the chatty mom role I prefer to play during volleyball games.

So while I was doing my line judging duty, I used lulls in the action to think up ways that I could get out of the job. Here's what I came up with:

1. Wet my pants enough to cause a puddle to form beneath me. (That wouldn't have been much of a stretch...note to all future line judges: pee first.)
2. Throw up on the court. Definitely not sanitary, but a sure-fire way to make sure no one argued with me about stepping down.
3. Re-enact the high school drill team's half-time flag routine with the small red flag I was supposed to use to indicate in, out and whatever else the flag is for.
4. Cheer loudly for the home team. As a line judge, you are supposed to remain impartial. 
5. Yell "miss it" in the middle of an opposing player's serve (see above re: impartiality).
6. Stand with my knees locked and will myself to faint right on the spot. 
7. Call for a do-over several plays in a row, saying "I really should have worn my glasses for the game."
8. Yell "Way to go, Paul" every time a player messes up. 
9. Order a pizza to be delivered mid-game and assure the official that I am an excellent multi-tasker.
10. Duck and scream every time the ball comes within 3 feet of me.

Alas, I did none of these. Instead I stuck out the shift, did not have to make any controversial calls, and made a mental note to be first in line to sign up for ticket sales at the next game.

Answering the call, 14yo boy style

It's not a secret that I have had a long-held belief that Charlie, my now 14-year-old, would make a good priest. Everyone who knows this and who also knows Charlie believes there is no hope that this might happen. But as his mother, I still gently offer the idea from time to time.

Today Charlie had a friend over to work on a school project. When they were finished, the boys tossed the football for a while and played video games. I invited the friend to stay for dinner, then after he accepted sprang it on him that we were having breakfast for dinner. (C'mon, who doesn't love eggs, sausage links and English muffins on a chilly, dark evening?)

At one point during dinner, I looked over and saw Charlie shoving an entire sausage link in his mouth.

"Charlie," I said, half joking, " you're gonna have to be a priest because no girl is going to want to marry you with those terrible table manners."

Therran (the friend) laughed a bit and I said, "Don't you think Charlie would make a good priest? I mean think about it, 'Fr. Charlie.'"

Now I had Therran between a rock and a hard place. He didn't want to pigeon-hole his friend into the priesthood, even hypothetically, but he didn't want to disagree with an adult either. So after I let him squirm for a minute, I said "Maybe you could be a priest, too. Fr. Charlie and Fr. Therran. You guys could be coolest priests around."

They both began a bit of a protest so I lightened up.

"What I really want for you guys -- for all you boys -- is that you will just be open to hearing God's call in your life wherever that might take you. Whether that's being a priest or getting married or..."

Charlie interrupted and said, "Right now I hear God calling us to the basement to play video games." With that Charlie jumped up, Therran following him, and called "I'm coming Lord!"

I'm not worried. That story will make a great homily some day.

I get you a little better now, Austin Collie.

In 2009, Austin Collie, a wide receiver, signed with the Indianapolis Colts. He quickly became Charlie's favorite player. In fact, when we ordered Charlie a Collie jersey for Christmas that year, I had to special order one because he was too new and not proven enough in the NFL to justify an inventory of jerseys bearing the name "Collie."

In 2010, Austin Collie suffered two bell-ringer concussions. During a 2012 preseason game, he got clocked again and recorded his third concussion in 3 seasons. A lot of people, me included, thought Collie should hang up the pigskin. But he was determined to play. It was during the third game of the 2012 season that Collie suffered a season-ending knee injury. I was pretty vocal to the people that I kibbutz about football with that the injury was probably divine intervention, delivered as a loud and clear message that Austin Collie should not be playing football.

I argued that he should quit for the benefit of his wife and kids, although I wasn't entirely sure (and still am not) he has a wife and kids. I said that surely he had enough money and all the money in the world wasn't worth living with a jello brain. I just could not understand why he would even consider getting back on the field.

Then 3 weeks ago, Charlie got a concussion playing soccer. I wasn't there when it happened and was a little skeptical when the coach told me that Charlie couldn't tell them his address or phone number when he came off the field. Still, after calls from two parents and the coach, I opted to take him to urgent care to be checked out. From an emergent standpoint, he was ok, but our pediatrician told us to take him to the sports medicine doc for ImPACT testing the next day.

The neurological exam the sports med doc gave him was pretty interesting. He asked him to remember a list of six words and then would randomly ask him to recall the list during the appointment. He gave Charlie a string of numbers 1-9-3-8-2-7-4 and asked Charlie to repeat those backwards. (At that point, I was beginning to think I was concussed, as I don't think I could have done it.) Say the months of the year backwards.

It was the balance exercises that really shocked me. He asked Charlie to stand with his feet together and close his eyes. With his eyes open, he was a little wobbly. With his eyes closed, Charlie couldn't stand up straight for more than a few seconds.

The Rx for concussion: brain rest. I listened as the doc told Charlie, "If you wake up and you have a headache, dizziness or nausea, you can't go to school. If you are at school and you start to get a headache, dizziness, or nauseated, you have to go home." There were also limitations to note taking and homework as well.

As Charlie tried to contain his smile, I was shooting daggers at the doctor. Seriously, please don't tell my kid all that. I was envisioning him home from school for a week. Then it was my turn to smile...in addition to all the "good" things (in Charlie's mind), the doctor also said no TV, video games, computers or texting and no physical activity for a week. I could see it on Charlie's face. Suddenly, this concussion wasn't such a sweet deal.

Truthfully, the restrictions weren't too hard for Charlie. His collision happened on a Sunday. It wasn't until the following Saturday that the fog seemed to lift from his brain and his personality. We could just tell he was a half-step behind and he slept...a lot.

But the next two weeks were harder. Each week, we took Charlie back to the doctor for the neuro exam and for the computerized IMPACT testing. Each week, his scores on the IMPACT test were not high enough to be considered "recovered."

Meanwhile -- and this is where I'm finally getting back to Austin Collie -- Charlie's team's soccer season was marching on. He was resigned to the fact that he wouldn't make it back to the field in time for any of the remaining regular season games, but he was -- and Mike, I and the coach were -- hopeful he'd be cleared in time for the tournament.

Charlie was feeling better and not having any concussion symptoms. He was following the graduated physical activities the doctor had prescribed. He. was. READY. Except he wasn't. At least not as far as that darn IMPACT test was concerned.

The morning of the first tournament game, Charlie pleaded with us. "Please. Call the doctor. Tell him I don't have symptoms. Tell him to clear me."

"Charlie, if you get hurt again, you will miss basketball tryouts and probably the whole basketball season."

He wasn't happy, but he took his lumps.

The next day, his team was geared up for the two final tournament games. The first game was a slugfest. Charlie dutifully sat on the bench in street clothes, cheering his team on. I sat with the other parents and made mental notes of places where Charlie could have made plays. Finally, the ref blew the final whistle and Charlie's team had won 5-4. On to the championships!

The championship game was against the Lightning's league rivals, the team that always wins the tournament. I thought to myself that I wished I'd put Charlie's soccer uniform and gear in the car, that maybe he could have played just a few minutes.

It was a very physical game. Our team played good defense, but had a hard time mounting a coordinated offense. I would glance from time to time at Charlie sitting on the bench, symptom-free, and think of what he could have brought to the field. I'm not trying to overestimate Charlie's skills, but last season he did score twice in one game on this team's goalie, a kid who had only given up six goals all season.

I daydreamed a little about telling the coach that Charlie was ok to go in. That he was symptom-free and the doctor was being too conservative. That's when I began to understand Austin Collie just a little bit better. I was having these thoughts about a kid's soccer game, when all that was at stake was a cheap plastic trophy and my 14-year-old's immediate gratification over getting a chance to play.

Collie had a decision to make -- to play or not to play -- from the vantage point of looking out over his career, his livelihood, not just over some rec league game. Ultimately, I know we made the right decision in keeping Charlie on the bench. And I still think Collie would have served his body and his family better if he'd bowed out of the NFL. But at least now I understand the wide receiver a little bit better.

(Note: Austin Collie no longer plays for the Indianapolis Colts. He was signed this season to the New England Pat......" )

Double digits

Today is kind of a big deal at our house, not just because it is both Annie's and Robbie's birthdays. Not just because it's Annie's Sweet 16. Not just because today is Robbie's 10th birthday. But because,  as of 9:51pm tonight, all of my kids will be in double digits.

For some reason, this milestone has caused me to be a little weepy today. I'm not sad that they are getting older. That's what my job as their mom is, right? To raise them to be independent, contributing members of society. Rather, I'm a bit teary-eyed because I am so proud of who they are as people. And not just my birthday kids, but Charlie too.

Annie is funny and dutiful and caring. She is the one other kids turn to when they need an ear to vent to or a shoulder to cry on.

Charlie is my roll with the punches kind of kid. He doesn't know a stranger and is comfortable in almost any situation. He's my tough guy athlete with a sensitive soul.

Robbie. Oh, Robbie. Robbie is the one who keeps me up at night, who I worry about most of all, maybe because he is my baby. But he is goofy and resilient and shows me every day that there is more than one definition of success.

Way back when my life revolved around sippy cups and diaper bags, preschool Valentine parties and mother's day out, I could not have imagined this day of double digits. I'm glad for that. I'm sure my imaginings would have been far off base.

16. 13. 10. All of them, double digits. Thank you, God.

When the school nurse calls

and tells you that your son said he hit his head on the floor in gym class and is now in the clinic, do you:

a.) Gush, "Oh my baby! I'll be right there."
b.) Ask rational questions about his current symptoms.
c.) Want to know if there were any witnesses to the alleged fall.

Does it make a difference if you are new to the school and the school nurse doesn't know you yet? So she doesn't know that you really are a good mom but that you are also wise to a kid who likes attention and dislikes school.

Does it make a difference that your child recently wrote a report on concussions and is reasonably well-versed in the symptoms of concussion?

To be fair, he did head straight for the couch when we got home and hasn't moved from that spot. The TV is not on and the iPod Touch is not within reach. We have an appointment at the doctor's office at 2pm. But I'm still a little skeptical.

Of course, I've been wrong before.

UPDATE: According to the pediatrician, the diagnosis is mild concussion. No gym or physical activity for one week. She said she didn't think that there was anything severe going on, but that he did get his bell rung pretty hard.

New school jitters

I mentioned earlier that Charlie is going to a new school this year. After several years of him asking to switch to the public school, we have decided to give it a try.

We didn't make the decision lightly. Mike, Charlie and I met with a family therapist to talk about the decision and the reasons behind it. We prayed. We thought about it. And ultimately, we decided that it was the right choice for Charlie.

The day came to go pick up his schedule. We were in the building for about an hour. He didn't say more than 10 words. Maybe he was having second thoughts? If he'd said, "Mom, I changed my mind," I would have had him out of there and back in a Catholic school uniform faster than you can say "Pope Benedict the sixteenth." But he didn't.

Later that night, Mike asked him how he liked it. His response was classic Charlie:

"It was awesome, Dad. There were SO MANY pretty girls there."

Still, I was nervous. He moved from a school of about 500 kids to a 7th grade of nearly the same number. He had a healthy dose of nerves, but was mostly excited about the opportunity. The first day, our neighbors and his good friends met him in the driveway to walk with him to the bus stop. He wasn't too happy that I was hanging out at the bus stop, but other mothers were, so I figured it was ok. (I haven't gone back since then.)

When he came home after the first day, he said it was great...but when I asked about lunch he said he'd eaten alone. My heart sank a little bit. He didn't seem too bothered by it, so I tried not to be.

That first week, Charlie would come home and talk about teachers whose faces I didn't know, whose names I'd only seen typed out on his class schedule. About the third day of school, I realized I didn't even know the principal's name or the names of the school office staff. That just felt wrong.

The school he came from -- where Robbie still goes -- is like home to me. We've been there since Annie was 5 years old. I know the staff and the teachers. They know me. Why did I let myself be convinced that this whole switching schools business was a good idea?

Early the next week came back-to-school night. It was the same night Mike broke his ankle, so I was flying solo. I arrived a little early to attend a new family meet & greet. The principal was there, so I at least knew his name now. I talked to three or four families of other new students and then it was time to join the masses of humanity streaming through the halls, following their own students schedules.

I walked into the first classroom and introduced myself to the teacher. Much to my happiness, she knew exactly who Charlie was and told me we have a connection. Her sister-in-law teaches at Charlie's old school and her brother is our eye doctor. The massive public school world got just a little bit smaller and more personal then.

The rest of the night brought more surprises. A science teacher who is good friends with Charlie's former art teacher. An English teacher who I just wanted to hug because of her obvious passion for teaching and love of the students. A social studies teacher who clearly knows her stuff. A math teacher who made it a point to ask about Charlie's transition. And in the hallways, faces of neighbors I know by sight, but not by name because our kids have always gone to different schools.

Back-to-school night may as well have been named "Mom Breathes Easier Night." Yes, the school is BIG. Yes, I will make a point of wearing tennis shoes whenever I have to go trek across that building.  But I can say with certainty, it's a good place. And the right place for Charlie right now.

So maybe he's not cut out for the priesthood

Priesthood might require a miracle.

Since Charlie was a little boy, I've thought (dreamed, maybe?) that he might one day end up being known as Father Charlie. Not that he loves church -- he doesn't, but he's always had a sensitive and spiritual side to him that makes me think he might be a good candidate for the priesthood.

I would never force him to be a priest, but I do slip the possibility into conversation from time to time. Charlie, however, has so far proven to be an unwilling character in this every-Catholic-mom fantasy. His hang-up with the idea is solidly grounded in the whole celibacy thing.

He's always had an eye for the girls, starting with his preschool crush, Mary Charlotte (at least she had a good Catholic name).

When he was 11 years old, Charlie was talking about what he might be when he grows up. Professional basketball player and professional football player were both on the list. I gently suggested that he might be open to the idea that he could be called to the priesthood. His response?

"Mom, do you really expect me to go without a woman for the rest of my life?" He was 11, people.

Last winter, Mike took him to the Super Bowl Experience when the big game was in Indianapolis. He loved getting to participate in a workshop with real NFL players, but when I asked him about his favorite part of the day?

"I got my picture taken with some New Orleans Saints cheerleaders and when one of them stood next to me, I could feel her boob on my arm."

Heaven help me.

But I didn't give up. Every once in a while, when the moment is right and the conversation lends itself, I remind him that someday God might call him to be Father Charlie. He remains unfazed and unconvinced.

Last weekend, he went to Dave & Buster's entertainment center with a friend and he came back with a bunch of junky stuff he bought with the tickets he won playing the games. Around his neck was a strand of cheap, plastic silver beads.

"I got these from a hot Dave & Buster's girl," he told me.

"You got those from a pretty Dave & Buster's girl," I corrected him.

"Ok. But Mom, she was smokin' pretty!"

Hmmm...maybe I better start working on Sister Annie or Father Robbie.

How do I feed this thing?

I've been a parent for a little more than 15 years. So I know things. Parental type, family care type things. But one thing I haven't quite figured out is how to feed this:

My first child is a girl. Annie is a predictable eater. Yogurt, cheese, apples, pretzels, cucumber, ham sandwiches. When it comes to meal time, with the exception of breakfast which she prefers not to eat, when it's time to eat, she eats. Robbie, the little guy, a steady diet of cereal and he's happy.

This one? He is a tricky one. Ring the dinner bell and he comes to the table, protests already forming on his tongue.

"I don't like broccoli."

"Rice? Ewww."

"Can I make myself a sandwich?"

If the meal is not pasta, tacos or pizza, forget it.

Then there are all those other edible moments of the day -- after school, before and after soccer practice, before bed. Oh, he'll eat then. But not before he complains about the lack of food in the house.

Today for example. "Mom, you have to go to the store to buy more food," he whined in a more angry than whiny voice.

"I just went to the store."

"But there's nothing here."

Well, son, it may seem that there is nothing here because at this point you have eaten 3 popsicles, 4 bags of fruit snacks and 2 granola bars in the last 10 minutes. All of which was said in my head because I really wasn't in the mood to argue.

"Have a sandwich. There's peanut butter and jelly, and ham and cheese."

One PB&J later, he was still grousing about never having food in the house. And he does have a small point. I don't generally buy volumes of food at once. Usually about $100 worth at a time. That's for two reasons. 1. If I buy it, they will eat it. And 2. I try to space out our food expenditures over the month. Food is expensive, yo.

He is a really active kid, so I don't doubt that he gets hungry. Famished, even. But feeding our family of five, one of whom is a near-teenaged boy, is like feeding a family of nine.

It all makes me feel a little guilty. I can see him stretched out on some therapist's couch tracing his life troubles to the fact that his mother never had enough food in the house. In my own defense, our definitions of portion sizes differ. A serving of strawberries to me is 5- 6 strawberries. To Charlie, a serving of strawberries is a 1lb. clamshell package.
 
So today I asked him to make a list of the things he thinks should be available at our house at all times. This is what he came up with:

• apples
• bananas
• strawberries
• blueberries
• jelly, more jars
• mio shock (whatever nonsense that is)
• a lot of giant boxes of cereal
• chocolate chip, blueberry, and plain waffles
• protein bars -- labeled for Charlie and Dad
• energy drinks
• hot dogs
• brats
• cheese
• a lot more bread
• bagels
• hot chocolate

 So he likes fruits, crappy meats, carbs and stuff hawked by professional athletes on TV. In abundance.

I think I might need another part time job.

Yes, Virginia, there is something more important than the Super Bowl

Today is February 5. Super Bowl Sunday. It's also the first Sunday of the month -- the day that Charlie is scheduled to be an altar server at the 6pm Mass. Super Bowl kick-off is at 6:30pm. Mass will get out around 7pm. Does anyone see the conflict here?

When I realized about two weeks ago that Charlie was scheduled to serve during the Super Bowl -- the one that is in our very own city -- I flew to the computer to send an e-mail to the list of servers' families.

"Wanted: Server sub who doesn't care about the Super Bowl."

I sent the message twice and got zero responses. I wasn't surprised, even though I had been holding on to a tiny sliver of hope that I'd get someone who didn't know the difference between a touchdown and a field goal and who didn't care.

Charlie tried to argue that Mass could go on just fine with only two servers, instead of the usual three. And while he is right, I told him "what if the other two servers thought the same thing?"  So I was resigned to DVRing the Super Bowl, not listening to the radio in the car, staying off Facebook and watching the game on delay. Too bad this is one time you don't want to fast forward through the commercials.

Then, last night I received an e-mail from the server coordinator, asking if we'd found anyone willing to sub for Charlie at Mass tonight. I told her no, unless she knew of someone, we would be there.

She replied that she confirmed that the other two servers would indeed be there and they could probably handle Mass with just two servers if we couldn't make it.

Woohoo! Game on!

Until Mike had to open his big (and in this case, right) mouth. He pointed out that the issue is not that we can't make it -- we don't have tickets to the game, we don't have company coming over -- we just don't want to make it. By bailing on the 6pm Mass and Charlie's responsibility as an altar server, we would be sending him -- and the other kids -- a message that it's ok to shirk your responsibilities if something better comes along or if you simply don't feel like doing what you're supposed to.

So, Super Bowl XLVI is tonight. Kick-off is at 6:30pm, unless you're at our house, where kick-off will be slightly later and the first call is "Touchdown, Jesus."

Diagnosis: Hypochondriacal Imagination

Not me. My kid.

My middle kid to be exact. (Although my husband and my mother might suggest that he takes after me. I can't help it if I earned my medical degree from Google University.)

In the past 7 days, Charlie has had:

• A "tweaked" ankle
• A bruised "bone that sticks out under your shoulder"
• Nausea
• Headache
• A bleeding mole
• A sore throat
• Deafness in his right ear

Often, these complaints come at the end of a sports practice or game. Mostly, my response is "that's part of playing sports. Either deal with it or don't play." Compassion is apparently not my strong suit.

Yet, I am not totally without mercy. I don't want to dismiss every complaint as a figment of his imagination. I have, on occasion, been wrong when I've alleged that he is just fine.

After a few days of complaining about the tweaked ankle, I did buy him an ankle support to wear during practice and games.

His comment after the first game? "This ankle brace hurts my foot."

Seriously?!

Then, there are the situational afflictions -- namely nausea and headache that seemed to perfectly coincide with a class for which he had not done the homework.

Honestly, if I had a quarter for every time he complained about an ache, a pain, a twinge or a tweak, I could probably single-handedly fund national healthcare.

Am I alone in this? Do any of your kids do this? What would your take on it be? Attention-seeking? Boredom? Overactive imagination? Or maybe he's been secretly attending Google University too?

What was I so afraid of?

I've had a long-standing personal rule: No boy parties at my house. I know it's unfair and probably sexist, but groups of boys scare me. They're loud. They tackle things. They eat a lot. They're stinky.  Last weekend, I decided I needed to get over myself. Seriously, I'm a 41-year old woman. I can handle a few boys, can't I?

It turns out I can!

Charlie invited friends to spend the night on Saturday. I was nervous because Mike was out with Annie, so it was just me and 6 boys (Robbie included). Even Charlie was a little unsure. "Mom, you're good at inviting people, but Dad is good at the actual sleepover."  I really couldn't argue.

But I've figured out the magic formula for surviving a boys' sleepover:

Basement + Video Games = Easy Peasy

While I put the pizzas in the oven, the boys headed downstairs to play video games -- Cars 2, Michael Jackson's dance off or something like that, and some sports game. As I cut carrots and apples to serve with the pizza, I heard the boys squaring off in tournament-like pairings for the video games. Those who weren't playing at the time were tossing the football -- a common occurrence in our house.

I braced myself for the stampede when I called them up to eat. You could have knocked me over with a feather:

These growing boys ate less than Annie's friends did at her last sleepover. There was pizza, cheese curls, a few carrots, some apples and root beer left after they got up from the table.

Post-dinner activities included a movie, more video games and some chatter. Oh, a few times I had to remind them that the basement wall wasn't so good at catching the football. And I did have to extract Robbie from the fun so he wouldn't cramp his big brother's style. At 11:30pm, I gave them the 30-minute lights out warning. An hour in the dark later, there was still some laughing going on, so I had to put on my "mom voice" and be firm about them going to sleep. But that was it.

There was no cackling and squealing. I did not find myself in search of the ibuprofen. And no one asked me to make a last minute maxi-pad and candy run. In fact, the second bag of cheese curls, a bag of caramel popcorn and a family-size pack of Twizzlers went untouched!

The morning brought more video games, a backyard game of football and breakfast. Those boys may not have been big on snacking, but their breakfast consumption was more in line with my expectations. A dozen eggs, a loaf of cinnamon bread, milk, OJ and two pounds of bacon. They wanted donuts too, but because sometime around 7am they'd found and eaten some cupcakes, I put the kibosh on the donuts.

After the last boy went home, I found myself wondering what the heck I'd been afraid of?

What came home from camp

Last Sunday I sent to camp:

* 1 pair of sheets, two blankets and a pillow
* 1 pair of Keen-knockoff shoes, never worn and purchased the night before
* 6 pairs of socks
* T-shirts and shorts
* Toothbrush, toothpaste, deodorant, soap and shampoo, though didn't know if there would be anyone at camp to nag...I mean remind...my camper to put them to use.

All with a boy who, despite his tendency to be a little boastful, could be sometimes meek and longing for approval and acceptance and who always wanted to be playing video games.

Yesterday, I picked up from camp:

* 1 pair of sheets and 1 blanket -- maybe a bear ran off with the pillow and the other blanket?
* 1 pair of Keen-knockoff shoes, muddy with the evidence of creek-stomping, crawdad catching and nightly bonfiring
* 3-1/2 pair of socks
* T-shirts and shorts that corroborated the story told by the shoes
* Toothbrush, toothpaste, deodorant, soap and shampoo that had amazingly been used, apparently with some regularity

And a kid who seemed to not only have grown two inches in the space of 6 days, but who also had a new confidence, not swagger but a self-assuredness, about him. What's more, he didn't even ask to see an iPhone until we'd been in the car for more than 30 minutes. And he's voluntarily taken a shower two nights in a row.

To borrow the words to a song he learned while at camp:

Amen. Amen. H-A-P-P-Y! Yay God!

Separation anxiety

We took Charlie to his first sleep-away camp yesterday.

We arrived toward the tail end of check-in, thanks in part to some shoddy navigation by someone who should have been paying attention to the Google map instead of playing 13 games of Words with Friends on the phone. By the time we checked in and walked up (and up and up) to his cabin, his group was gathered out front, ready to go to the pool. While he changed into his swimsuit, Mike and I made his bed and tucked his suitcase away.

Charlie seemed a little nervous,  but mostly ready to go make some new friends. I gave him a quick kiss and hug and off he went. There wasn't a lot of time for long goodbyes and really, I was excited for him to have the opportunity.

By bedtime last night, though, I was starting to miss him. It's not like Charlie's never slept away from home before. In fact, he spent Friday night at a slumber party. I'm not sure "missing him" is the right phrase. I just wondered whether he was warm or cool enough in the cabin, if he'd liked what they served for dinner, how he was getting along with the other boys in his group. I said a quick prayer for his safety and his experience and went to bed.

This morning, "missing him" certainly fit the bill. Did he sleep ok? Did his pillow fall off the end of the bunk bed? Did the nurse remember to give him his allergy medicine? Had he lost anything yet? (I'm pretty sure he won't come home with everything we packed.)

As I walked from the parking lot to my office building, I was thinking that this will be the longest period of time in Charlie's whole life that I've gone without talking to him. Again, I said a prayer for him and walked into the building.

When I got to my desk, the red voicemail message light was lit up. As I waited for the laptop to warm up, I punched in my voicemail access code to listen to the message. It was Charlie! He'd left the message for me after I'd left the office on Friday, so the question he was asking was no longer relevant. But the sound of his voice was just what I needed to hear.

I smiled as I listened to it and thanked God for this small reminder of his faithfulness and for that kid at sleep-away camp.

Late night fragments

Well, it's actually not that terribly late by my standards. Only 10:47pm. I'm just getting warmed up. Whether you're stopping by here late at night or early in the morning, welcome to Friday Fragments, hosted as always by Mrs. 4444s.

I bought a new pair of tennis shoes last week. I'm ashamed to say (but of course I'm going to say it) that I haven't been exercising because I lost one of my tennis shoes. And it's been gone for a LONG time. So last week, Mike and I rode up to Marshall's and bought a new pair for $30. The dog is happy about that. And I even went out walking on my lunch hour the other day. Good investment for sure.

We took Robbie to see Zookeeper, the movie, tonight. I got free passes from Gofobo. I smuggled in some fruit snacks and we were set for a cheap night at the theater. When we got there, we saw a poster advertising free popcorn. So while we waited in line, Mike and I each fired up our iPhones and went to popcorn.yahoo.com and got instant coupons for free popcorn. Woohoo! The popcorn was the small size -- about the same size as a brown paper lunch sack. Do you know how much they wanted for that stinkin' bag of popcorn if you actually had to pay for it? $6/bag! For about 25 cents worth of popcorn kernels. I'll keep walking softly and carrying a big purse, thankyouverymuch.

Charlie comes home tomorrow. He's been at my parents house since Monday, going to basketball camp at my high school. I miss that kid.

Is anyone else shaking their head, wondering how it's already July 7th already? The kids go back to school in just 5 and 6 weeks! I feel like I'm just getting warmed up to summer. Time to get out the calendar, try to squeeze in some memory-making activities and start watching for back to school sales. Where is the "pause" button?


Next week, I'm headed to Cincinnati to attend Bloggy Conference. (See the button to the right. I tried to paste it in here and it kept jacking up my entry.) I got my conference registration in exchange for volunteering to work the conference. And I'm sharing a room with another blogger, Judy, who writes at Dirt Road Musings. We've only spoken on the phone, but I'm pretty sure she's not a serial killer. She is younger and skinnier than I am, but I'll try not to hold that against her. Funny thing is that Judy is from the same town as one of my favorite bloggers, Annie, of Annie Weighs, but they don't know each other...yet. Bloggy Con will be the first not-for-business social media conferences I've gone to. I'm excited (and a little nervous). Anyone else going?

Don't forget to enter the Chex Mix Muddy Buddies giveaway. I'll draw the winner Saturday night at 9pm EST.

One last thing before I wrap up. God is good, all the time. All the time, God is good. No details necessary (no job offers for Mike to share, either), just thankful to be on the receiving end of His faithfulness today. 

Be sure to stop by Mrs. 4444s's place for more Friday Fragments.

A Cubs win for the birthday

Charlie turns 12 years old today. (Turned, actually, at 9:05am) To celebrate the occasion...and Mike's 40th...and Father's Day, I sent them on the Megabus to Chicago for  a Cubs game last night. In honor of my guys, the Cubs pulled out a win in extra innings.

I think this picture is a winner too:

Happy Birthday, Charlie!

Career advice from a 14-year-old

We were talking about places the kids can work when they get a little older. I told them they were lucky to have so many places near us where they could get a job.

“You could work at Target or Marsh or Subway…” I offered.

“I’m gonna work at a video game store,” said Charlie.

“But, you could a bag boy at the grocery," I said. "That would be a great job for you. You get to move around and go outside all day.”

“Nope,” Charlie insisted. “I’m gonna work at a video game store.”

Which is when Annie chimed in.

“Charlie, at least at the grocery store you could meet girls. At the video game store, you’ll only meet geeks.”

How Facebook saved my son's ear

Yesterday, Charlie started complaining that his left ear was hurting. Because his complaint came about 10 minutes before it was time to walk out the door for school, I smelled a rat -- or at least a faker. I gave him a dose of ibuprofen and sent him on his way.

No word from the school nurse yesterday. No complaints after school. He played without hesitation in his basketball game last night. (We won! On to the semi-finals!) He didn't say another thing about his ear and I forgot about it.

Until 3:30am. When else do those things flair up? I was asleep on the couch, so I didn't hear him calling for me at first. But eventually he got my attention and was obviously feeling the pain. I gave him some ibuprofen, pulled out the heating pad, and laid down next to him. 30 minutes or so later, he was still crying out, so I gave him some cold medicine to clear out any congestion in his head. Good idea, Mom.

Except that 20 minutes after that, he was crying that his stomach was hurting. Probably from all that medicine on an empty stomach. Ugh. I sent him to the bathroom. Rubbed his back when he returned, and headed for my own bed after he finally fell asleep.

(If you're still waiting for the part where Facebook saves the day, stay with me. I'm getting there.)

I try not to run my kids to the doctor for every little thing. But I have a rule for ear pain, coughs, etc. : If it interrupts MY sleep, off to the doc we go.

We've been down the ear infection road plenty of times before, so I was pretty sure that's what it was. So this morning, before I even got out of bed, I called the pediatrician's office and made arrangements to bring Charlie in to the drop-in clinic. I told them we could be there in 20 minutes, which was a little short-sided, given that I wasn't even dressed and we live 15 minutes away from the office.

Charlie and I were ready to go when I realized that Mike had gone to work in the car where I had left my keys last night. No problem. He works about 5 minutes from home. I called his cell phone to ask him to run the keys home.

Ring! Riiinnng!  Riiiiiiiinnnnng! His cell phone was sitting on the charger in the kitchen. (It really doesn't "ring," but I can't remember what his ringtone is right now. Probably some Star Trekkian sound.)

Crap. I called him at work, marginally optimistic that I would get through the after hours answering machine. No luck.

Now what? The doctor's office hours on Saturday aren't very long and I really wanted to avoid a more costly trip to the urgent care.

Enter e-mail, Facebook and Twitter.

I knew that Mike would likely see a message there on his computer at work. So I sent three messages:

E-mail: NEED KEYS. Mike, I need the keys to take Charlie to the doctor. Hope you see this.

On his Facebook wall: You have my keys. I need to take Charlie to the doctor. Please call/come home.

To his Twitter account: CALL HOME. YOU HAVE MY KEYS.

Sure enough, about 5 minutes later, he called and said, yes, he had my keys and would come home. However, I must not have conveyed that I was in a hurry because 15 or 20 minutes went by and he still wasn't home. So back to the technology I went.

Facebook: Almost home? (I was trying not to seem naggy.)

Twitter:  REALLY need to GO! (Obviously a little more impatient.)

Within a few minutes, he was home. Charlie and I were off to the doctor where she had to dig a bunch of wax out of his ear before she confirmed that Dr. Mom was right -- ear infection.

So thanks to Al Gore, Mark Zuckerberg and anyone else who had something to do with the invention of the internet, Facebook and Twitter, Charlie should be feeling better soon and I hope to get some sleep tonight.

Modern definition

Charlie: "Mom, what does 'legitimate' mean?

Me: "It means real or truthful."

No response from Charlie.

Annie: "It means 'fo shizz."

Charlie: "Oh, thanks."

11-year-old boy on life

Today, Charlie turned 11. As his mother, I thought it would be good to know what he thinks about a variety of topics. His answers, unedited, are below:

Girls: Nice and sweet and stuff.

Money: Use it only for good reasons, like to buy video games.

Basketball: You should pass a lot so other people will pass to you.

Football: You have to make the right plays to make it to the right place.

Favorite color: Butler blue.

Favorite food: Lasagna and pizza.

Favorite day of the week: Wednesday, because it's gym day in school.

Favorite book: I'm not a big fan of books.

Favorite movie: Iron Man 2 (Note from the mom: I sure hope that's age appropriate. If not, blame the dad.)

Least hated chore: Unloading the dishwasher, because it's fast.

Most hated chore: Everything else.

United States: We are awesome.

President Obama: He is awesome and I want to invite him to my birthday party. (For the record, he invited Dubya to his birthday party a few years ago.)

God: I love Him and He gave us all this (motioning to the space around him).

The oil spill in the Gulf: Sad, sad, sad.

School: Boring and stupid, except for the fun parts.

If you had a whole day to do whatever you wanted, what would you do: Play video games, play sports and boss Robbie around...no...I would have Robbie help me boss Annie around.

If you were in charge of making dinner, what would you make: I would order pizza.

If you had to give up one thing for the rest of your life, except school or chores, what would it be: SKIP! I'm not giving up anything.

If you were going to write a book, what would it be about: ME! and video games.

What do you want to be when you grow up: A sports player, then maybe an announcer when I retire.

If you could change your life in anyway, what would you do: Get a girlfriend.

That's where the line of questioning stopped because a.) I had to catch my breath after that last answer and b.) I had to launch my "you're too young for a girlfriend and you should just be yourself and be friends with girls" speech.

This one, yeah, he's gonna keep life interesting.

Then and now

Tonight as I tucked Charlie into bed, he was a little weepy. I asked him if he wanted me to sing him the songs I used to sing when he was a baby. He indulged me and said "yes."

I started patting his back -- patting, not rubbing. None of my kids like to have their backs rubbed. And I began to sing what I used to call my "love medley." It starts with "Jesus Loves the Little Children," then segue's into a song from a kid's music CD. The lyrics to that one go:

I love you so much, I love you so much,
I can't even tell you how much I love you.
You're special to me, you're special to me,
I'm lucky to have you as part of my life.
I love you, I love you, I love you.
I love you, I love you, I love you.
I love you so much, I love you so much. I can't even tell you how much. I. love. you.

After that one comes the Barney song. You know, "I love you, you love me..."

The moment with Charlie tonight was a comforting snapshot of "then."

The "now?" Not as comforting!

We went to my brother's graduation party last weekend. Charlie wanted to know if high school kids would be there. When I said yes, he got more specific. Would high school girls be there? Yes, Charlie.

So this was the scene for most of the evening:

When the audience wasn't quite as captive, Charlie came outside to where I was talking with my sister Shelley, who was holding her son one-year-old son Josh.

"Aunt Shell?" interrupted Charlie. "Can I take Josh inside?"

"Why do you need to take Josh inside," I asked.

"Well," he said without shame or hesitation, "the high school girls like babies and they think he's cute. So I want to take him in there with me."

I couldn't believe it. My not-yet-11-year-old son was using his cousin as a chick magnet! I'm gonna have to keep an eye on that kid. Anyone know a good all-boys school?