"Bring it!"

We're collecting "Little League-isms" -- those commands shouted from bleachers, lawn chairs, and fence lines. And "bring it," was our favorite of the night. I think that's what The Big One is doing here.

Cardboard as art

"Mommy, look ... can I touch that? What is it?"

"Well, son ... it's either art ... or the crate it came in."

We went w/ "art" and didn't touch.

The place was cool ... and I said that WAY too many times today. Free. Cool, as in "air conditioned." And full of contemporary art that made my kids THINK ... and me think, "Huh?"

Go there.

Deeeeelicious ...

We've only been to a couple of art exhibits this year. One that took our breath away at the Museum of Fine Art, Houston. And today. And I'll be darned if today's exhibit of 20th Century photography at the AMOA wasn't the SAME DANG exhibit we'd seen in Houston ... in the same building, different floor, as our breathtaking one. It reminded me of the time the boys, as toddler and infant, and I visited the Bush Library in College Station IN DRIVING RAIN w/ the sole purpose of me viewing the 9/11 exhibit ... and specifically the megaphone ... you know the one ... from Ground Zero. For some reason that megaphone seemed a tangible bit of pop culture from those dark days ... and I'm MORE than a bit of a pop culture freak. Turns out, while we were in College Station, the megaphone resided in DC at the Smithsonian. Years later, I was IN DC and dashed into the Massive Museum of Whatever ... IN DRIVING RAIN ... and the exhibit was in its last days and they'd sent the damn megaphone ... to Texas ... to "retire." In a dark warehouse. I wandered thru the same pieces of twisted metal I'd seen in Texas ... feeling disbelieving and goofy.

Today we just got goofy ... Looked at a little art. Made a little art. Listened to some art. And then splashed in some really big puddles.

Wanted: A Beach Read

In a week or so, we're loading our beach gear and our beagle into a motor home and heading to the gulf coast. I don't usually get a lot of reading done at the beach because I spend most of my time wildly waving my children BACK to our beach camp from where they've washed out of the surf many yards down ... ever oblivious to the fact that that's NOT our tent, NOT our food, NOT our kiddie pool full of tortured bait fish that they're eyeing. You'd think they have a "What tha?" look on their faces when they wash up in a new location, but they don't seem to notice or care.

So, usually it's easier to just read a magazine that I can throw down on the wet sand when I jump up screaming for them to, "GET. BACK. DOWN. HERE. THOSE. ARE. NOT. OUR. HOT. DOGS!"

And who can follow a plot more difficult than, "Hot Male Babysitters" when you just KNOW you hear Jaws theme music over the din of the waves?

So, this is a first here at Cool Boots. My "comments" are turned ON ... and I need your suggestions for a 2007 Beach Read. Sweet. Simple. Thought-provoking ... sorta. A series? Essays. Your favorite reads of the season.

Before I turned to you, I turned to the venerable NYT Bestseller List. GAWD!! Death. Dying. Destruction. Terrrorism. Hatred. The Taliban. Unrequited love. A lifetime of guilt. Neglect. "Gruesome childhood accident ..."

No thank you very much. That just reeks too much of the actual goings on AT our beach camp. I need something to take me away from my actual state!

Fire away. Madre and Bubble Girl, I'm countin' on ya here ...

This is your brain on buttercream frosting ...

... if you're days away from turning five years old and have spent the afternoon with 29 of your closest pals "bouncy-housing" your molecules into complete disarray and then trying to calm those flying particles w/ crunchy Cheetos, juice boxes and a football cake darn near the size of the real playing surface.

You are blessed w/ generous, kind, funny -- the very BOUNCIEST -- kinda friends.



You tore into and played in your new sprinkler ... in the rain ...

At bedtime, you fell asleep holding a piece of Venom SpiderMan's skull, surrounded on the floor by pieces of the Krusty Krab in Lego Land.

The faintest scent of frosting and candles hung out around your head ...

The sweetest of dreams ...

Dude! I almost forgot ...

In all fairness to summer movies, I'll say that this little diddy FAR surpassed our last visit to the big screen.

I really didn't think I could DO penguins again. Even w/ a chicken thrown in for variety. I'd read it was a good show ... kids liked it and reviewers seemed to like it. Adult reviewers, that is.

And it WAS sweet. Touching. Kind. And more importantly where MY children were concerned, FUNNY.

The penguins could've been any animal, really. They just happened to be penguins on surfboards. I'm thinking beagles would've been cute. But, I know from experience that beagles are NOT very aerodynamic or agile, so maybe penguins WERE a good choice.

I appreciated the language, the tone of voice, the respect (generally) for one another, the loyalty, the humor of these particular penguins ... oh, and chicken. They had kind faces. Contemplative faces.

And the chicken didn't come off NEARLY as "pot headed" as I'd expected ...

Cute movie.

There's A/C. And it's HOT out ...

Thatsa Way to Haul Off and Smack Melanoma Upside the Head!!

circa 80s ... ya think?

Earlier on this day, before we "styled" the bangs in this picture, we probably sprayed them w/ lemon juice while laying atop a roof on something akin to aluminum foil all the while slathering our bodies w/ baby oil ... or, heck, maybe even Wesson.

I'm sorry our teenage stupidity caused you such heartache (and body ache) this past year. Thankfully, all that's left of that nasty disease in your life are the lessons that we have learned. (Cancer treatments, weekly and daily shots, worry, sadness ... ALL a thing of the past. We REALLY need to toast that!! Let's put on big hats, SPF, and order extra salt on our 'ritas.)

The boys and I were "scanned" by a dermatologist today. They, for benchmark measurements of their baby-sized freckles and moles to keep 'em in check and make sure the spots don't grow big and ugly enough to sit up and cuss. (And a stern warning not to "fight w/ your mother" when she tells you to put on sunscreen.) Me, to check AGAIN and every year for any damage those rooftop broiling sessions may have caused.

We've learned. And we're smarter now. And we're proud of you ...

Pucker Up

The Tall One to whom I am married tells such a funny story of having a SEVERE case of chapped lips as a child at boy scout camp. It's one of my favorites. Right up there w/ the story of his mom sending her little boy spaghetti and meatballs to cook over the campfire. NOT Spaghetti-O's in a can. REAL LIVE SPAGHETTI. The hard kind. The poor child was expected to boil water! And make ... and cook ... BALLS!
Back to lips.
The Short One has a set to rival his boy scout daddy's. He and I are suffering from the same runny nose, and while I know not to rub and wipe, excessively, all ... day ... long, The Short One struggles w/ that.
He also struggles w/ applying lip balm w/o eating it. So does the dog. But, at least my child is neater about it.
Sometimes he struggles w/ applying it AT ALL if it's not flavored just so. So much so that I often have to sneak into his bedroom at nite once he's sucking and blowing thru his sleepy, stuffy nose to apply Neosporin or some other heavy-duty ointment to his lips and surrounding area.
Today, I prepped him for the impending application.
"Tonite when we put on PJs and tuck into bed, you and Mommy are going to both put on our 'lipstick,' okee dokee?"
He seemed keen on the idea, especially when he realized he'd be able to choose the flavor from MY container of gimme balms from every race or event I've ever entered.
He chose one w/ a logo of a red bicycle. I think it promotes a beer.
He wanted that one because it was "bike flavored."
Bike flavored.
I like that one too. Heckuva lot better than sweaty running shoe flavored, or mildewy swimsuit flavored.
Or campfire spaghetti flavored.
My pooooor boys ...

A New Leaf

I've exhausted the lined pages in my old "To Do Book" and located a fresh, blank planner for my life's work this morning. This really excites me more than it should. I feel refreshed. Invigorated. A clean slate before me. Even tho' the pain of a sore throat and heavy chest cold today make me want to punch someone.

I guess I tend to measure my worth in how seamlessly I keep myself and my family on task. (Sick.)

My daily calendar, in a separate book, holds the days' appointments, but it's the "To Do Book" that records the mundane morsels and scraps of our lives. In the beginning, when the pages are bright white, flat, lined w/ thick blue bubbles of lines, and not smudged w/ wet drink circles and errant coffee drips, it holds our future in its binding. Things we (I!) need to accomplish TODAY. Calls to make. Messages to send. Party presents to buy. Appointments to schedule.

And, in the newborn days of my "To Do Book," my writing is neat. Tasks written w/ a special pen. Or my favorite pink pencil. I might even draw squares to put my carefully drawn completion check. But, as our lives become busier, so do my pages. Post-It notes litter the pages. Sharpie or crayon might take the place of my favorite writing tools. Long scrawls of lines might take the place of careful checkmarks.

When its pages are full ... when all the items are checked as completed and the pages are filled with random scratchings, lists and names of customer service people, AND obvious water damage, it becomes a fine reminder of our past. A diary of our days. And I don't ever throw one away.

My book is always some cast off that was really never supposed to be a "To Do Book." I've used fancy journals w/ fabric covers ... gifts in which I never found time to journal ... but in a way, that's what it's become. A quick glance at its pages show shopping lists for several summers' worth of beach vacations. Room reservations from the time we stayed at an Econolodge for a family wedding. Or was it a funeral? The notes from the time I demanded a refund from Cingular Wireless. Birthday party invitees from The Short One's third birthday. Christmas lists from years past. Paint colors from our living and dining rooms. And my triathlon results from the last three years.

Notes to buy baby gifts for babies who are no longer babies. Wedding gifts for those who have celebrated several years of wedding bliss. And some ... not so much.

Lookee, there's where I got those towels embroidered. There are all my computer passwords.

There's a reminder to visit the ducks in the city park for a summer fun thing.

There aren't any marks yet in my new "To Do Book." It's an extra spiral notebook from The Big One's 2nd grade year.

I'll try to keep those pages clean as long as this hot summer will allow.

WAHOO!!

I've been shouting this "word" and slinging my imaginary lasso all week at vacation bible school, so I'll just close the week by saying (after catching a glimpse of the US Open on TV) ..."WAHOO!! Tiger Woods looks dang handsome in yellow!"
I'm tired. But, I speak the truth.

Batter Up

The Big One is playing baseball. For the first time ever. Never played T-Ball. Never played in a league where the coaches pitch to the little-league-ers. Never wanted to. BEGGED me not to sign him up. He SHORE didn't have to beg ME not to make him play.
My mom used to say she asked my brother this question round about the time baseball sign-ups started ... "You DON'T reeaaallllly want to play baseball do you?" All the while shaking her head vigorously from side to side. My brother's happy to please. He just said no. And played soccer instead. And chased butterflies. And ate snacks. And looked so cute in short pants.
The Big One has always shunned sports w/ funny pants and one where he might stand out. Or strike out. Or where, heaven forbid, I might CHEER for him. Cheering things like ... "GET A PIECE OF IT!!"
Or. "WAIT FOR A GOOD ONE!"
That's just nasty.
But, he's playing ball. He's good. He's darn good. He wants to pitch more than anything.
He'll be the starting pitcher in the next game.
He's likely pitch to a girl w/ a pink bat, pink cleats, and a ponytail sticking out the back of a pink batting helmet.
I'll be rootin' for him to strike her butt ouuuuuuttt!!

This just takes the cake ...

Today the boys and I were leaving the pool and stopped by the playground for 10 MINUTES. "DO YOU HEAR MEEEE??? TEEEEENNN MINUTES!!!" A mommy in the heat for an afternoon can only take so much more ...
So, I flop upon a bench and open my large-print novel.
There's an obvious birthday party set-up behind me. Cake. Mustard. Catsup. I'm guessing there are hot dogs chilling somewhere.
An early-ish teen girl w/a CROWN on her head designating her as the birthday chica.
Her head is heavily and sullenly sunk into a cell phone. She's wearing white, Paris Hilton shades.
"Well, that's THREE that ain't comin'," she announces as she clicks her phone shut. "Jaime got SICK, or so he says," she says to her family who have gathered in the HEAT around grocery sacks and a cake.
She goes on to make more calls. Announces more comings and goings -- who's coming. Who's not.
DANGIT!! Somebody COME TO HER PARTY!!
It's every girl's worst nightmare. You throw a party and no one comes.
I'll be thinking of her all evening and hoping SOMEONE is munching on her hot dogs ...

Ah, good times ...

*Update at bottom ...

So, this story is making news in our fair city. A black man w/ a criminal history is shot and killed by a white cop w/ his own history of being a bit too rough and tough on crime.

You can check the news for all the facts of the case. It's ugly ... and sad.

What I'm all about today is the story of how the family and "supporters" of the dead guy want him to be remembered. It's either gonna make you mad or make you laugh, and for me, today, it's done a little of both.

First, Kevin Brown is dead. And I'm sorry for his mother. And I'm sorry for his 5-year-old son ... I think.

In the five years since his son has been alive, the father has:

1. Been sentenced to four months for misdemeanor charges involving drugs and auto burglary

2. Been convicted of unauthorized use of a vehicle (does this mean he didn't ask permission first?)

3. Been sentenced to 11 mos. in jail for being one of a group who pistol-whipped another guy after a "bad drug deal." (Do they give hugs after a "good drug deal?")

4. Right before he died, run from a cop for allegedly having marijuana.

He was 25. He was unemployed. He lived most recently at home w/ his mother. He liked to play video games and sports.

And, did I mention he had a 5-year-old son?

Here's the thing. His father says, "He was a great kid." And he wants us to remember Brown as "a human being" instead of a drug dealer.

That's handy. And I can sort of appreciate that coming from his grieving father, but NOT from a group of sign-totin', hell-raisin' activists hell-bent on making this guy a martyr. Instead of remembering him as a car thief, we should remember him as human being. Instead of remembering him as a drug dealer ... human being. Instead of a pistol-whipping bad ass ... just a good ol' home boy.

That's crap. There have been plenty of gnarly, violent criminals of ALL shades of skin who will damn well be remembered for more, or less, than being a HUMAN BEING. They'll be remembered for hurting, maiming, killing, kidnapping, and just breaking the law in general. The two sickos who took little girls in the past year who have made the news in the past two days were "human beings." Breathed the same air we do. Have mothers who love them. And probably have kids ... or at least young people who have looked up to them at one time or another. But, that doesn't mean they escape their crime. Or their legacy.

Mothers who have killed their children. Justifiably called animals ... mentally ill or not. Children who have killed their parents. Murderers. And rightly so.

'Course those were the KILLERS and not the DEAD. Kevin Brown is the dead ... a black guy shot by a white cop. The stuff of movies. And the love-child of the NAACP and Jesse Jackson ... oh, and that other guy ... with the hair ... what's his name?

So, because he's dead he should escape all culpability? Because he died w/ a white cop's bullets in his back? Because the cop thought the runner, who was detained in a routine traffic stop, was reaching for his pocket or his belt ... or his gun.

He'll die a martyr in his community -- a "great kid" who was leaving a seedy nighclub w/ drugs in his pocket, purportedly. A club w/ a history of fights and "bad drug deals." A "great kid" who ran from a cop, for a reason his family can't explain. (Marijuana in his pocket, maybe?)

I not long ago posted my thoughts on the death of a high school classmate of mine and the guilt that the media had assigned him in death and the fact that he'd never be able to defend himself because he hadn't been convicted or acquitted of the crime before he drank antifreeze. And his legacy would fairly/or unfairly live on as that of a child molester. He, too, was a human being. And a son in the eyes of his mother and father.

I guess most of my anger in this case, which has grown since I've typed, is NOT that Kevin Brown's parents seek solace from the community in the death of their son; it's not that the NAACP and others seek an ear for their voice in high-profile cases involving "civil rights"; and it's not even that a human being is dead for a cause none other than a senseless series of events.

It's that a little boy will grow up w/o a father who evidently wasn't much of a father anyway and w/o a father that little boy is likely to follow in that same father's footsteps. Kevin Brown may have been a "great kid," but he sucked as a father and there's not a stiff enough sentence for that.

And that "guy w/ the hair" I was trying to recall is probably Al Sharpton.

...but I've got him confused w/ Don King.

(*I typed this last nite, and deleted it this morning after laying awake in the night and thinking it was a bit harsh. This morning I wake to the news that he was killed from gunshots to the back, which I knew, but after being questioned briefly by the cop in the case outside the seedy club, not in a traffic stop. He IS human, and he WAS scared, likely. This town is getting a wrap in the media for white cops shooting black suspects. My comments aren't racially motivated, or politically motivated, or civically motivated ... they're parentally motivated. That's all. Makes me mad this "human being" didn't live up to his potential ... or his responsibility to his son. His funeral was today. I'll be interested to hear how the cop defends his actions.)

Sweeeet Victory!!

Thank you, Sweet Jesus!! For FINALLY sending your elusive, mobile "Kid Heaven" so that The Short One could partake of all its goodness.

How we've WAITED and WAITED for a sign from you that the Ice Cream Senorita would avail herself to us. So many tears have been shed. All hope seemed lost.

When she finally appeared, The Short One TRIED to obey the rules of the pool and WALK over to her. He really did. But, the power of the sweet vision was just too great. He moved in kind of a walk, hop, skip, run ... oops ..., skip, hop on one foot, then the other, shift, shift, scoot motion. I remember the same allure reeling me into the record store when I was young. The prospect of 3/$.99 45s was too great. I couldn't walk. I HAD to run.

For The Short One, you provided a bounty of flavors from which to choose. Fudge pops, Choco Tacos, Li'l Bratz bars complete w/ poofy lips and gumball bling. The Short One settled on a "Danny Phantom" ice cream pop w/ "eye gums" that I got to HOLD while he licked and slurped, since the elemental composition of your novelties change from a solid to a liquid the MINUTE the package is removed. It's CRAZY how fast they melt. Crazy.

We've tested 'em before. Their melting powers. At the beach. We took off the wrapper and laid the pop in the sand. It APPEARED to retain it's shape. I mean, it LOOKED like Tweety and Spongebob were sunning themselves on the sand. But, they seem to melt from the inside out, since many minutes later Tweety and Sponge were still intact, BUT when we touched the stick, they turned to a river of yellow, leaving nothing behind but four "eye gums." Sad.

We have lots of time on our hands at the beach, don't you see. So send your gifts our way again. In whatever shape you choose. Strawberry Shortcake. Ninja turtles.

Giant, orange cans of insect repellent.

Ice cold Shiner Bock ...

We're not picky.

Was it the bite of a nasty river bug ...

... that has inspired The Short One to name his band, ("Because when I grow up mommy, I want to have a job. I want to drive a racecar. Or be in a band.") ... "ITCH IT."

That's his proposed band name. "ITCH IT."

Let's say it again, now. "ITCH IT."

I like it.

Flora and Fauna

We hiked to a nearby greenbelt w/ a water "path" that is seldom wet. More of an arroyo, you could say. This day it was RUSHING. "Fast water" as both boys call it. Heavy rains have made it ideal for those w/ more extreme sports in mind. More extreme than skipping rocks.

There was this ...



And this ...

There was The Short One telling me what poison ivy looks like. And he didn't learn what poison ivy looks like from attending nine months of nature school, but from his uncle who I didn't know knew what poison ivy looked like.

There was The Big One who kept us from getting lost. To me, each bend in the trail looked like the next muddy, puddled bend in the trail, but he knew exactly where we were each time we asked. And we DID ask.

There were the dogs on the trail rushing over to sniff our jerky and cheese.

There was the red long-legged spider on my shoulder that prompted each boy to jump up and say, "OK, let's go." I think, as a precautionary measure ... as tho' they were worried for ME. And I thought that was sweet.

There was the picnic blanket. That The Short One insisted we use. Even tho' we had a bench.

And then there were the dung beetles ...

The HIGHLIGHT of the trip. Must've studied them for MINUTES. Longer than they skipped rocks.

No Dirty Words

I think that there are very, very few things in this world that give me as much peace and satisfaction as cleaning two very dirty boys, laundering their very dirty clothes, and tucking BOTH the boys and the clothes into safe, clean and cool bedrooms at night.
Bath time is not easy. I'm tired. They're tired. And there's so much splashing involved.
We usually agree on very little at bath time.
But the disagreements and sharp words seem to wash away w/ the lavender scented bubbles (I can still get away w/ this for now) and leave us all feeling refreshed.
I'm grateful for my blessings, our bubbles and my boys ... and the glass of wine that follows.