Boo-boos & questions

Injuries trump anecdotes, so here's the latest: Boy #2 took on the deck stairs at the home of some friends. . . and the stairs won.

And I'm not sure exactly when it happened, but The Questioner moved in with us sometime after school got out. I realized this only yesterday, after a 15-minute car ride that covered graffiti, gangs, The Mob and poison.

I have only myself to blame. We'd stopped for a train and, while I was remarking how all of the cars were empty, I added, "And did you notice the graffiti?" It was precisely the sort of invitation The Questioner likes best. "Graffiti? What's graffiti?" That explanation devolved into a discussion about gangs -- who's in them, what they do, why, etc.

"Are they like gang-sters?" Well, no, not really.

I'm not sure how that morphed into The Mob and what it's about -- in various incarnations -- but it did. He finally seemed satisfied with the idea that The Mob is like a company (sorta like where Daddy works) whose business is illegal stuff: selling drugs, guns. . . .

"And poison?" No, probably not poison, although lots of people say that drugs are poison.

"What about poison darts?" Oh look, we're home!

Our lunchtime discussion was brought to you by Nabisco and its America Idol sweepstakes; we covered "void where prohibited" -- which took much longer to be fully understood than you'd think -- and the District of Columbia, along with "Fremantle."

And to think, that was only Monday.

-ma'am

Ledge of success

By all measures, Boy #1's week of sleep-away camp was a success. Well, unless you consider eating regular meals a measure of success.

I'd appropriately prepped all branches of the Family, so he got plenty of mail. Of course, I failed to figure in the decades several years since I'd first gone to camp; he was able to call us several times, along with text reports from the kindly Cub Scout leaders accompanying him. In all honesty, these texts and calls went quite a ways toward calming my anxious heart, so that we all got some sleep that week.

The only other negative -- besides the worrisome pattern of calls coming later each night (We missed the Thurs. night call, which rang in at 11:30 p.m., I believe) -- was the heat. His week of camp came just as those record summer temps were ramping up, which brought them all home about 12 hours early. Perhaps the in-tent reading of 115 degrees had something to do with it.

My proudest moment was learning that he'd passed his swimming test after they got checked in. That's my boy! But the highlight of each day was his first statement when we answered the phone:

1. "I almost caught a whopper!" This was followed by a drawn-out littany of the fish that, literally, got away, as well as what its make and model could have been. . .never mind that he hadn't actually seen said fish. The best part was his elation at having been "on the ledge of success" before the trickster made his escape.
2. "Dinner was brussel sprouts and artichoke casserole!" Turns out it was turkey and dressing, although there was a side item that might have been something like this. Personally, I suspect it was broccoli casserole, but no matter.

Not to be outdone, Boy #2 has also added to the family lexicon of sayings.

We ventured to the Midwest to visit the Maternal Grandparents over the 4th of July. Since we've made the trip many times, we've learned where to stop along the way. As we were refueling, he must have recognized the gas station, because he remarked, "We're almost where we are!" To which my quick-witted Husband replied, "Yes, the 'here-ness' is all around us." Indeed.

And then he went to kindergarten camp. I picked him up after the first day, asking that age-old question, "So, what did you learn today?" He replied with the thoroughly disgusted tone that only a 5-year-old can muster, "We didn't learn nussing!" (Yep, still working on those 'th'-es.)

And so it goes.
-ma'am

Intestinal fortitude

It's been said that parenting isn't for wimps. I have to agree, mostly because this weekend brought to light 2 very different occasions to prove my courage.

First, our very favorite summer day camp of all time -- Camp All-American -- opened its pools and zip lines to all the families whose kids are attending this summer. I've wanted to do this for at least the past 3 years. . . and this year, I made it! Here's me climbing the 90+-foot cargo net to get up to that terrifyingly small platform, 60 feet up:

Now, I've been working out and figured I had some decent upper arm strength. But when I got about 2/3 of the way up, I started looking around -- but not looking down, for heaven's sake! -- for the friendly, muscle-bound guy who'd just haul me up the rest of the way. Sadly, it was not to be. I soldiered on.

At the top, it was quite warm after all the exertion, plus being closer to the sun. And it was crowded. Not sure if you can tell or not, but there were already 6 or 7 people up there when I arrived. The helpful pushers people-launchers asked me to just kindly stand next to the big pole, and I gladly hugged it tight.

The problem was that, just about that time, I looked down to the pool. There were The Husband and Boys #1 and #2, cheering for me; they had absolutely no idea that, had there been a chicken door*, I'd have taken it in a heartbeat. It was breezy. The platform seemed awfully insubstantial beneath my feet. And every additional person climbing up the blasted cargo net -- Where are they going to put all these people?? -- sent tremors and waves up the cables to shake and volley the platform.

And then it got better. 

Because I got to step up on an even tinier platform all by myself, with a hook ramming into the small of my back. (If you can see the 3 things that look like boxes jutting out of the front, that's what I'm talking about.) That lovely pole I'd been hugging was now behind me, making it next to impossible to hug securely. Then the pusher people-launcher unhooked my safety tether. They nonchalantly explained how to squat down and then, when you're ready, just lift your feet.

It truly sounded undoable, and the lady next to me was even more chicken than I was (which is one of my favorite gauges of success these days. See Facing fears for more detail). I was thinking maybe the 3 of us would go at the same time -- which seemed to be what her husband was coaching her to do -- but, when she failed his second countdown, I decided just to go and maybe spur her on.

Oh. My. Goodness. Once my feet left that cipher of a platform, it was truly glorious. Swooshing down 1300 feet over the pools and playing fields, thinking that must be how it feels to fly. Wow.

Getting down at the other end of the zipline was another trial, but much less traumatic. It involved a couple guys, one of those really tall, free-standing, movable ladders that you see at Lowe's, and trial-and-error.

In the second incident, I dropped off Boy #1 this morning for a week of Cub Scout camp. Sleep-away camp. For a week.

I know, I know. He's growing up, which is what he's supposed to do. He'll be safe. He'll be with friends -- those his age as well as their fathers, whom we know and trust. It'll be good for him. Build character. Learn about himself. Blah, blah, blah. All this mama's heart knows is that he's an hour and a half away, sleeping in a tent when it's 10,000 degrees outside, and I'm pretty sure they won't let him eat peanut butter for lunch every day. He's already skinny! Will he come home starved? Will he be homesick? If he is, will they let him call?

Yeah, yeah, I know. I know. The good news is he's been gone more than 8 hours and nobody's called (yet) to say we should meet them at the hospital.

-Ma'am

________________

*The chicken door is that camouflaged door near the getting-on place for rides, specifically at Disney World, but probably found elsewhere, that lets you leave if you chicken out at the last moment. Having recently visited the Mouse kingdom, our less-than-intrepid older son is now expert at finding -- and using -- the chicken door.