Teaching what matters

Yesterday, in a valiant effort to fight boredom, Ryan decided to set up a stand to sell her stuffed animals. She made a sign that read like this:

Anamul stor

ownd by
Ryan York

I helped her drag out a table, and off she went, lugging 8 stuffed animals behind her, into the ridiculously hot 3 pm Texas afternoon.

Five minutes later, she walked back in the house carrying her animals, lower lip dragging on the floor.

"What happened?" I asked.

"No one came. Stupid stuffed animals."


What a relief to see the amazing job I've done of instilling in her the virtues of impatience and blame. We wouldn't want her to be too well-developed, now would we? Got to give the other kids a chance and all that.

Even more encouraging was the conversation we had earlier this morning. Ryan had seen a mosquito and mentioned wanting to shoot all the mosquitos with a gun.

"That's a bit much, huh? Guns aren't funny. They take people's lives, and who's in charge of ending people's lives? "

"You?"

And don't you forget it....

Who's Your Daddy?

I really was just a carrier, wasn't I?

Big Balls In Cow Town

(Written Tuesday Night 6/17):

When I was in high school, there was this coach who taught economics. Complete stereotypical Texas coach -- big belly, tight pants, and a very heavy accent. And did I mention his NUTS WERE THE SIZE OF TENNIS BALLS? Well, they were. And when I say he wore his pants tight, I'm referring to Wranglers. The really really tight ones.

And do you want to guess where his favorite place to hang out in the clssroom was? Front and center, half-perched on a kitchen stool. As if to say, "See? See my ridiculously LARGE BALLS?See them. Love them. "

I never once got through that class without humming, Big balls in cowtown, we'll all go down...

Why am I subjecting you to these cruel, cruel visuals? Because until last night, I hadn't thought of him in years. In fact, there's another reason why I've desperately tried to banish him from my memory (as if that wasn't enough).

First, let me just say how pissed I am now that they let a coach like him teach economics. He was horrible. Didn't teach me one damn thing. I, of course, got an A in the class. (My project partner was the valedictorian--it was a tight race; he insisted on completing the project entirely on his own. He didn't trust the rest of us mere mortals. We, being 17 and months away from FREEDOM, sad "have fun" and kicked back. So now I know shit about economics, all because Big Bazlls didn't care enough to actually make me work. Or, perhps he was a phenomenal teacher -- I was most certainly so entranced by the lure of the loins that it all went right past me. Either way, I was short changed. (Put that in your economics pipe and smoke it)


Second, and most important, Big Ball's class was the scene of the FATAL FINGER FOLLY. It was a warm summer day, we were counting down the weeks until graduation, Valedictorian Boy was covering my ass in eco, so I, of course, was spending my class time severing the head of a min-Barbie doll (I'd had a Happy Meal for lunch that day... hmmm...not much has changed, has it?) with my mini Swiss Army knife. So there I was, happily sawing along, and Slip! Slice! Spurts of blood came shooting out of my middle finger, covering my books, desk, Valedictorian Boy in splashes of red. Big Balls, rolling his eyes at the weird girl playing with a pocket knife and a miniature Barbie, sent me straight to the nurse with strict instruction not to come back "until you've got all that crap cleaned up now, ya hear?" (Hauck, spit, adjust ENORMOUS BALLS)

Aside from the fact that my finger was throbbing and losing pints of blood by the minute, I was enjoying my break from class until I had to start explaining how it happened to everyone I saw in the hallway. And you know me, Miss TMI, I couldn't get away with simply telling people I cut myself; no, I had to stop and mime the actual activity, explaining it pretty much the same as I just did above. (Again, not much has changed on my end of things.)

Beyond the fact that after about the 3rd explnation, I began to catch on that people thought I was a bit off, and stopped thinking of it as a funny diversion from class, I also learned that there would be a possibility of stitches.

This was not turning into the fun joyride I'd thought it'd be.

Lucky for me, I ended up with just a butterfly bandaid thingy and some very funny "You Are The Dumbest Human On The Planet" cards from my closest friends.


Good Lord, this is longer story than I'd planned.

Anywy, the reason I thought about him was because I sliced my finger open earlier this week, blood spurted, it hurt, and this time, well this time I ended up with 6 stitches. REL ONES. The kind they do on tv. AND I hd to get a tetanus shot. TETANUS SHOTS HURT.

And then? And then he shot numbing stuff into each of my 2 huge, gaping cuts . WITH A NEEDLE. HARD.

I wasn't aware that this would be happening until about 2 seconds before it happened. Apparently Shawn knew, but I was clueless. It was after the 5th time the doctor asked if I was sure I would be okay, did I need to lie down? Throw up? that I finally said, "what the hell are you about to do to me?"

Then they told me, I lied down, almost threw up, told him just to do it, and squeezed the ever-living soul out of Shawn through his hand.

That was Tuesday morning at 1:30. We'd been there since 9:30 Monday night, but what with all the waiting and xrays and TETANUS SHOTS, you can understand how putting 6 stitches into a cut pinky finger would take 4 hours.

That's all I kept saying, by the way..."but I just cut my finger. I wasn't even going to come in." I think it was the shock. But this time? This time I had a much more valid, grown-up excuse: I was washing our glass blender in the sink, lost my grip, it shattered and sliced my pinky. Twice.

When I wasn't whining about all the fuss, I was humming...Big Balls in cowtown, we'll all go down...

I TOLD YOU SO

Forgive the title. It's directed at my soul mate, my best friend, my husband. The one family member who never reads this blog. My Shawn. It's referring to a little snippit of convo I just heard between Ryan and her friend Grace,

Grace: I like your Dad, but sometimes he scares me.

Ryan: Why?

Grace: You know, because he's...scary.

I've been telling Shawn this for the past two years. I've warned him of becoming Scary Grizzly Dad. And now he's done it.

All Dressed Up...

Hohum...Just getting all the finishing touches ready for the "theatre camp" I'm holding here this week. I'm really quite excited about it -- I haven't pulled some of this theatre stuff out in years. But now, I'm on this excited, anticipatory high, and I've got nothing left to do but log on and finally update the internets on what's been happening in our world as of late... (hang on, I may need to chug one more Macha Frappaccino before I go any further)

Last week was pretty decent -- Ryan was at Camp Doublecreek most of the time, while Jax and I took turns alternating between swimming at the pool and watching old school Scooby-Doo. He also spent two days at Kids Day Out, where he was hailed as "hysterical" and "so much fun."

Well sure, when, you surround him with other kids his age and tons of fun stuff to do...

Anyway, Saturday and Sunday were spent at the lake, where Jax is still residing until Friday afternoon at 12:30.

That's when we'll be performing our camp circus, so I might as well let him come -- he can be all "hysterical" and stuff. People will think we planned it. It'll be a hit.

02:14:32

I DID IT!! Not as fast as I would have liked, but that's what happens when you don't train hard enough, and then take a nasty spill on the bike course. I'm not at all surprised, what with my turbulent relationship with bikes and all. What? You've not heard the many hilarious stories of me falling off a bike? Well...

First, when I was about 5 0r 6, I received a boy's bike as a hand-me-down, and LOVED it. Until I took a major blow to the crotch, experiencing pain no little girl should ever have to experience.

Then there was the time I was "running away" on my 10 speed at the age of 10 or 11, got a bee in my hair, and in an attempt to shake it out, ate the road instead.

Then there was the time when, just minutes after having learned that Big Daddy had had his 3rd heart attack while at college, I went riding with my friend Brad and bit it on a downhill curve on the busiest road at SWT. Not at all embarassing.

So was I surprised that I crashed yesterday, taking a chunk out of my elbow, skinning my hip bone and ripping open the skin on my knee? Huh. I expected nothing less.

Anyway, here are a few pics from the big day:

One of those yellow caps is me!

Showing off my war wounds halfwy through the run (the pic does not do them justice!!)

And, finally, Big Booty Judy in all her glory, getting ready to cross the finish line.

Woohoo!! And just because I'm sooo happy to have this over with, I'm going to leave you with an OT, but very cute pic of Jax from the pool -- he sported that Alfalfa look the whole time we were swimming -- priceless!

HAVE A GREAT DAY!!!!

The Triathalon Cometh

Jesus, Mary and Joseph. I'm not so sure about this whole "triathalon" nonsense. I leave to pick up my race day packet in about 45 minutes, and as I'm perusing the map of the race site, I'm starting to think that I've lost my mind.

I'm not an athelete. I never got picked first for any sports, and it's been said that I may even have passed out 10 feet from the finish line during our district 400 meter run in Jr. High. (I was unaware of the term "carb-loading" at the time.)

Also? Just took the bike I'll be riding out for the first time last night. Great bike, easy to ride (thanks, Elisa!), but 3 miles in 20 minutes? At that rate, I'll finish in under 3 hours, not under 2 like I was hoping. If I even finish -- the swim looks like a BITCH. But, I've waited this long to start panicking, so I guess I can shove my emotions down down down and not think about it until tomorrow around 6 am....



This next part is mainly for my family, none of whom is willing to drag their respective butt's out of bed and cheer me on. Here's the map of the entire course. See that little spot where it says "Swim Exit"? That's where I'm thinking I will punk out and possibly die. If I don't cross the finish line, someone tell Shawn to look for me there.

Headbands and Hannah

This boy of ours slays me. He is so ridiculously rough and destructive one minute, and the next he's prancing around with Ryan, wearing one of her glitter headbands, repeating everything Ryan says, like: "WooHoo!! The Jonas Brothers!" or "Oh my Gosh! Tinkerbell!!" with as much emphasis and enthusiasm as any 6 yr old girl I know.



And then he snaps the headband in 2, throws it at his sister, and runs off, laughing and singing, "Booty Butt Ryan! Stinky booty! Booty Booty Booty!!!"