No talking, for real

From this week's Brentwood Home Page:

The first birthday card I gave my husband while we were dating was of the humorous variety. It said something like, “With you in my life I know there will always be joy in my heart,” then something else nice, followed by the inside punch line, “… and sports on my TV.”
I knew early on that Tim was crazy about sports, both watching and playing. The first time I ever saw him at UT Knoxville, he was heading into the Presidential cafeteria on his way back from an intramural softball game.
For some of our early dates, we’d watch the Vols basketball team, coached by Don Devoe, play in the new Thompson Boling Arena when so few fans attended that entire sections of seats were blocked off with a huge black curtain.
After Tim and I married, I often fell asleep to the voices of Dan Patrick and Keith Olbermann anchoring SportsCenter. Some of our most fun times involved his work softball teams and church basketball, and to this day weekend chores are planned around the Vols’ and Titans’ game times.
I know Tim has always dreamed of sharing those sports experiences with our boys, and to be honest I always looked forward to that day as well. I mean, how many games can one halfway-interested woman be expected to watch?
As often happens with dreams, though, reality doesn’t match the expectations.
Tim is picky about where and with whom he watches the Vols or Titans on TV, for example. He gets a little too intense to high-five a bunch of friends at a sports bar. We also don’t invite a lot of friends over for game-watching parties, either, because his laser focus is not conducive to friendship-building conversation.
I mean, such a serious fan can’t trust just anybody to enter the sacred zone of spectatorship. What if they talk about something besides what’s happening in the game at that moment?
Unfortunately, he can’t be so selective when it’s our own kids who’ve somehow gotten past the velvet rope.
The twins caught on to football at a young age, but they weren’t too distracting since their interest usually would fade after the first quarter and they’d go play elsewhere in the house.
They’re older now, though, so they stick around for the whole game. They also like to spout off their semi-informed 14-year-old observations about the plays and personnel like grumpy old men, much to the annoyance of their well-read father:
“That quarterback’s the worst! They need to get rid of him!” one of them will yell.
Of course, Tim can’t let it go.
“Why would you say that? His numbers are actually better than they’ve been all season!”
Tim attempts to educate them for a few plays before pulling rank: “You can think that if you want to, but I need silence now.” Then, 45 seconds later, he breaks his own rule when he says, “OK, this down is HUGE. We need this!” opening the floor for discussion once again.
Since 7-year-old Owen has played football, both the real and Madden-on-Xbox versions, he actually understands the game pretty well.
He also doesn’t leave the room. And he talks. A lot.
“Wow, there’s a lot of red in that stadium. I thought they were playing Alabama in Knoxville! 34-10. Oh no. We’re losing.”
This kind of exchange doesn’t lead to the father-son bonding experience where they all cheer the touchdowns and encourage each others’ predictions for the next play. It often ends with a series of comments like this:
“Owen, sit down.”
“Owen, please don’t walk in front of the TV.”
“Leave the dog alone, Owen.”
“Owen, sit down!”
“Owen, there are only 3 minutes and 18 seconds left in this game, and I want to watch them in peace!”
That’s when I attempt to distract them all by loudly unloading the dishwasher and carelessly tossing the silverware into the drawer.
On the field or off, nothing bonds a team like fighting a common enemy.

Yeah, I know Halloween's over, but I gotta say this

I know one thing my older boys did not do this Halloween: roll anyone’s yard.
Come to find out that there’s been a whole lotta nighttime pranking in my neighborhood lately. Most of it has NOT been as good-natured as the two times my own kids rolled someone, which I wrote about a couple of weeks ago.
Ever since I joked about our buying TP for my kids and a couple of their friends so they could roll another kid’s yard during a recent sleepover, I’ve gotten e-mails and Facebook messages detailing all manner of midnight vandalism.
Of course, everyone now assumes my kids did it all.
So I’ll just set their records straight. They rolled two friends. The friends know who they are. They did not touch anyone’s house or doorbell. They did not spread anything on the windows of anyone’s house. They did not touch anyone’s vehicle or patio furniture.
The only product my kids threw on anyone else’s property was toilet tissue, Publix brand two-ply. No eggs, no paint, no pickle relish. (I know, sick, right?)
They didn’t even fork anybody.
Needless to say, our family won’t be chuckling about our faux delinquents around the dinner table anymore, since my flip remarks probably made most of the people who live in my neighborhood assume my kids are straight outta juvie.
And why wouldn't they? After all, some idiot wrote about it in the (online) newspaper!
Many parents, however, have whispered to me tales of their own kids' failed attempts at neighborhood naughtiness and lessons learned the hard way.
For example, nothing ruins a fun night of TP-ing faster than dropping your cell phone in the bushes.
I also learned (second-hand) that if you plan a night of juvenile jocularity, your getaway vehicle should not have a loud, distinctive muffler that your neighbors hear regularly as you drive out of the subdivision on school mornings.
In fact, the closest thing my older kids came to committing a crime on Halloween is the fact that they are six feet tall and they still went trick-or-treating. Some towns have age limits on that.
They did make an attempt to go out in “costume,” but at age 14 Halloween’s not about dressing up anymore. It’s about getting candy. A LOT of candy.
I think next year we’ll encourage them to hang around here, maybe pull the old “live scarecrow on the porch” trick and leave the midnight TP runs to some other unsuspecting parents.
It just goes to show that one kid’s hilarious joke is another mom’s home maintenance nightmare.

Small victories

The best way to bond with your 13-year-old son is when he's home for a sick day.

One of my twins called me to come get him in the middle of the day Tuesday. He came home and was VERY ill all afternoon. Then he slept without moving one bit for two solid hours.

It was like one of those red storm lines loving across the TV weather radar screen. A few hours of upheaval and disturbance and then ... peace.

He couldn't go to school Wednesday because he was so weak and needed rest. So I took full advantage of his weakened state and babied him like he's never been babied before. I tucked him in, brought him gallons of Gatorade upon request and made the best toast in the history of toast. And he let me.

When he left for school this morning, I went in to hug him, and he didn't recoil the way he usually does.

I call that a breakthrough.

This week's BHP column

How much fun is life when your kids are seven years apart? Read all about it here.

Another reason moms aren't boys

For the record, telling boys, "You're shaking the whole house," will not discourage them from doing whatever loud, thumping, crashing activity they're doing. In fact, if they're like my boys, they'll probably say, "Cool!" and assume you're cheering them on.

I know this because I work from home. My desk backs up to the wall on which their new Nerf hoop is located.

I cannot concentrate during a game of what they call "Contact Basketball" because they do shake the whole house, and I cannot edit a magazine about Glasgow, Kentucky, when it sounds like they are literally killing each other.

When I do get up and check on them through the glass door, they all pop up with innocent smiles. The youngest gives me a thumbs up, saying cheerfully, "We're okay!!!"

BTW, do not Google "basketball injuries" if you're queasy about bone stuff.