Basketball and Other Skills

"Daddy, will you get me a drink?"

"Sure. But I need some snuggles first."

"No. I just want a drink."  said Kiddo #1, acting so much like her Mommy.  Husband, being the man he is, takes it upon himself to bestow the lesson entitled "The Art of Negotiation" upon Kiddo #1.  Husband, having just finished watching "The Negotiator" (http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0120768/)  figures himself a little bit Kevin Spacey's character Chris Sabian.  He looks at Kiddo #1 and says, "Look. Kiddo #1, you want a drink. I want some snuggles. If you give me some snuggles, I'll get you a drink. See how that works? We both want something, and by giving me what I want, you get what you want.  It's called Making A Deal."

Kiddo #1 thinks it over for a minute.  She sits down, taps her chin like a Kung Fu Master, squints her eyes ever so little and says, "I know! I have a deal for you Dad.  Why don't you go get me a drink, and then YOU get your OWN snuggles."

She starts Junior Kindergarten this year. She's so incredibly excited to go to school, "like Emily and Ethan," the neighbour kids. It's been chilly here for the last few nights, but the sunsets have been extraordinary-- all pinks and purples.  So, on our way home from Daddy's soccer game tonight, we looked up in the sky marveling about the colours and clouds. Then she said, "Momma, I think the sky is this pretty because I'm going to start school and everyone is very happy about it, even the sky."  I said I thought so, too and then remembered that we don't have any dog food left for tonight's supper (for the dog) so I turned the car in the direction of the store.

When we pulled up I heard, "P-p-p-p, eh-eh-eh,t-t-t-t,sssss,mmmm,ahhh,r-r-r,t-t-t.  pppeett sssmrrt. ppetsmaaart. Pet Smart. Is this Pet Smart, Momma?"  And all I could think is: "Damnit! Now Husband and I can't say, "Hey, let's have s-e-x tonight" anymore!"  

I speak French, too, and have been speaking French to her since she was 6 months old. It came about because some friends of ours were pregnant, too, and the father, a basketball fanatic, was so excited to meet his baby so he could teach him or her basketball. And I thought, "Wow! That's cool! That's so cool that he wants to teach his baby how to do the thing he loves doing and the two of them can play together and maybe the baby will end up in the NBA or WNBA (they didn't know what they were having at the time) and it'll be because his/her Dad instilled both a love of and skills for basketball from day one."

By the time I got home from the dinner visit I was both very excited for the wee bambino on the way for my friends, and anxiously reviewing the skill set that I might impart on my child.  I don't play basketball, I've never played soccer. I can figure skate, but the town in which we lived didn't have an arena (which is unheard of in Canada, but more of a norm in the States where we lived at the time), so that was scratched. I'm no great cook or ... yeah, this might go on all night. Let's just end this and announce my skill set included one thing: French.  So I said, "Ok. French it is."  

That's how Kiddo #1 ended up in a French First Language program here, although you don't have to speak French (as parents) to want your child in that program.  I'm speaking French to Kiddo #2, too, mostly because I wasn't savvy enough to pick up Basketball in the last four years. That game is just so hard to figure out-- running and bouncing a ball, but not too many times or that infernal whistle blows. Plus, I have a real disadvantage, I found out, with my hand size.  

This is my real hand, inside the real hand of local basketball hopeful, L'Arnold Biloxi.  You might notice the gigantic basketball that appears to be softball-sized in the giant hand. And you might notice my wee, child-like hand making those other two things appear to be the size of small cars or planets.  Yes. You might also wonder what the squiggly lines are to the left and right of my arm in this picture. That high school senior, for a young man with Homer Simpson-coloured skin, has incredibly hairy arms. 

Oh, but it's not like I didn't TRY to learn Basketball. 

In fact, I got this picture after a week long visit with my friend, L'Arnold Biloxi.

(Do parents know from the get-go that their kids will become great basketball stars or do kids change their names to something more flashy once they show aptitude for the tall-person's sport? Seems like a chicken and egg issue to me.)

I called him, mostly because, well, Larry Bird and Michael Jordan were both busy. And expensive. But L'Arnold is still a teenager, so I just pretended to be a scout from UCLA (I googled "good basketball university in USA") and I brought my camcorder and said, "Labia, show me some moves."  

After I woke up and put some raw meat on my swollen black eye (if things don't work out in Basketball, he could really get somewhere with boxing), I said, "What? No one's ever called you that? La-Bi? It's like Brangelina or J-Lo, only you're one person and not crazy.  And it's not like it takes a rocket scientist to take La-Bi to the next step."   

Since I was potentially his ticket to school, he smiled and fake laughed and I took it because, hey, I needed a crash course in how to play Basketball.  So, he showed me his best moves, I taped them and pretended to erase the tape so he'd have to show me 100 times how to do each move. Free throws, dribbling, that jumpy-dunky-basket thing. Yep. Everything. I got it all, from every angle imaginable. And at night, I'd put the DVD into the player and watch the heck outta that thing. I watched that footage so many times I could even mimic the grunts and other weird sounds he made while playing. 

Then I put the footage into Movie Maker and, over the next 6 months, I spliced footage of me playing basketball, with L'Arnold Biloxi's.  The results were astounding-- I'll can't quite figure out how to put a still from the footage into this blog, but suffice it to say it was pretty incredible.  Anyone I showed the film to would immediately surrender all monies bet on games of Donkey and 21, instead of actually playing me!  

And, since I was winning all this money on the regular, I earned enough to be able to go to one of those big schools in the States. The ones with Ivy on the walls or whatever. So, I sent out my tape to Harvard, Cornell, Brown, Darthmouth, Princeton, UPenn and uh, that other one.  The offers came rolling in and I picked my school of choice-- I'd watched my video enough times by now, that surely my skills would truly be as great as I conveyed. 

When I suited up for my first game, all eyes were on me. When Coach put me in, I said, "Well, I need a drink." (I was suddenly rather thirsty from the excitement of the game and all) and by the time I got back, the match had ended. But we won, so we all went out to the local French bistro for some celebrating. And, since I speak French, I was also able to translate the menu and order delicacies for our entire team. "I play ball as well as I speak French, you know." I murmured to another tall woman on the team. I'm not sure what position she played (I still didn't really know how the game is set up, truth be told), but she was impressed at both my amazing skills. 

And, before the next game, a tragedy occurred: I fell down the stairs at the library. I was checking out "Practical Modern Basketball" by John Wooden (to read how to actually play) when I tripped over some nerd's heavy backpack. It must've weighed at least 50 pounds -- the damn thing was twice the size of the nerd that owned it!  And, just as I began somersaulting down the stairs, I was able to twist around and get a picture of the woman whose bag ended my Basketball career, on my phone. Sucka!

I didn't have to quit the team when I limped in on crutches; everyone knew the devastating truth. The entire team began sobbing. It was quite the sight, but understandable since I WAS the star and all.  I left them with some parting words that I'd lifted from Wooden's biography, "Wooden On Leadership."  Crying and wailing, several teammates vowed to name their children after me ("Just like George Foreman, only my kids will be Elizabeth 1-9. Even the boys!").  I packed up my things and headed home.

But, like I said, I never really learned how to PLAY basketball, so when it came time to have Kiddo #2, I looked over my list of skills and, once again, had French at the top. Le top, actually. (That's French humour for you-- it's subtle and sophisticated, so you might not get it.)

And, I ran into L'Arnold Biloxi at McDonalds the other day!  He took my order, astonished to see me again, and frantically asked me what happened and why hadn't he heard from me, and could he possibly re-try out for UCLA and did I want fries with that?

I said, "Look, Labia, you want to get into UCLA, and I want my kids' meal. This sounds like a negotiation to me."  Labia looked me in the eyes and said, "If you get me a basketball scholarship to UCLA, I will buy you one kids' meal a day for the rest of your life."  Realizing that much fast-food would surely take 30 years off my life, in the first 30 days, I said, "No dice. But I'll tell you what I'm gonna do. I'm gonna pay for this kids' meal and I'll send your tape to some smaller schools in the US."  L'Arnold, with tears of joy in his eyes, even snuck an extra toy into the bag and, like my old teammates, waved a bittersweet, but hopeful goodbye as I left.  

And that, my friends, is the art of negotiation: I needed that second toy for Kiddo #2 and I wasn't gonna pay $3.50 for a frickin' plastic Smurf. When I got home, I found the DVD of L'Arnold Biloxi, dusted it off, wrote "Watch me" on the front and slid it into an envelope marked "Urgent Draft Prospect" and sent it off to none other than Wooden himself. He'd know if Biloxi had potential after a few seconds. When the envelope came back "Return to Sender" I took it as a sign that Biloxi didn't have a chance and burned the whole thing lest it ruin his dreams.  I went back to McDonalds and told him he had to make his own luck, that I'd tried and there was some interest, just nothing that fit for this year.  Biloxi hugged me and said I was an inspiration.  

You know, for all the crying and hugging and "You're an inspiration" stuff, it seems to me that Basketball players are SUPER emotional. Maybe it's a good thing I never learned how to play after all.

To get automatic updates via email, enter yours in the box under the Gerbera daisy and click submit. If you landed here looking for Tangled-themed Party info, click on the archive for June 12th, 2011. Thanks!

A Camping We Will Go

Sitting in the middle of our campground, I feel peaceful. I look around, the sun is shining, but it's not oppressive. The breeze is blowing, but not gale-force quantity. The smell of lake water is in the air, children are giggling and getting swimsuits on, Husband is blowing up water wings and other non-flotation device, devices. It's Labor Day weekend, the last official weekend before school starts, and it's our first real camping trip as a family.

Husband and I pack a picnic lunch in our tote and the four of us head over to the river like a family of cereal Toucans (we follow our noses, haha). The children play in the rocks and sand and flit in and out of the water with ease.  Husband and I looking lovingly at each other knowing we're teaching our children a love of nature and The Earth in a way no one else can. 

And then, I kill my first mosquito.  I look out to the children in the water and realize the river is full of germs and disease that isn't naturally purified by salt water, since rivers aren't frickin' oceans. And then I see a black snake heading toward the children, only to be attacked and eaten by a giant snapping turtle. Oh yeah, thank heaven the giant-baby-sized snapping turtle stopped the snake from getting the kids.  I throw-up a little in my mouth just in time to scream for the children to come.  They float in and run to me panicked from my tone. Oh, look! Leeches. And, what's that? Oh, lovely, their neck glands are already big and full of bacteria-- it looks like they've both swallowed a pencil sideways, but whatever. Camping is great!

Then we hot foot it back to the campsite-- I have to find the cancer-free sunscreens and bug sprays; the kids need to get gargling warm salt-water as soon as possible.  We each step in the same warm, muddy puddle giving each one of us a soaker through our boots and woolen socks (people who camp wear gear like this, not simple flip-flops, silly non-camper) that begins to chafe our toes. 

When we finally get to our site, it looks like a crime scene. Why is the? How did that? Yes. Something wild has been here eating our garbage (that we forgot to string up in the tree in our haste to get to the water), food stuffs (which we also didn't return to the safety of our trunk) and now that drunk teenager that saluted us and said, "Cheers, man!" makes more sense. The empty bottles of OUR beer lead from that kid directly back to our campsite. Frickin' wonderful--I was going to put the cold bottles against the screaming mosquito bites to take out the itch. Nice. 

As the welts are rising on each of my children, I have to (wryly) commend the determined mosquitoes that managed to bite the same area two or three times leaving huge, softball sized mountains on my arms and back. Kudos, to you, you buzzy wonders.  Husband, who donned his beekeeper's suit like a flash after he heard the first slap of my hand against my arm, is safe, provided there isn't a mosquito already in there feasting on the smorgasbord for one.  

For now, I've placed our children in the back of the truck with the air-conditioning going.  I've doused them in Afterbite.  Kiddo #1's eye is swelling shut from a well placed bite on her eyelid (no Afterbite there, of course).  Kiddo #2 is miserable with a giant lip. He can't get his mouth around the bottle well enough to suck because of the gigantic bug bite.  Have you seen this kid? He will power through just about anything to get his feed-on, so he's more miserable than you can ever imagine.

I fold up our brand new, 10-sleeper tent like a giant, nylon towel, crispy from drying on the clothesline. The crispy sounds are the sounds of me snapping the poles in two or three to get the folding done faster, faster, faster. Not fast enough. The heavens open up. Seriously? 

There wasn't a cloud in the sky when we were at the beach. Are mosquitoes early radar for an approaching storm or something? Maybe if I'd read my waterproof camping handbook better I'd already know this. 

Either way, Husband's bee suit is keeping him dry and happy (except for the soaker we all have in our hiking boots). He's not the least bit panicked or worried that we need to get home before the children turn into Violet Beauregard from Charlie and The Chocolate Factory, only skin-toned instead of blueberry. Benedryl vitamins anyone?

I scream, "Just leave it! Leave it! For the love of all things holy, get in the CAR!" to Husband. He can hardly hear me over the pounding rain, I'm sure, but my wild eyes are glowing through the torrent and my arms may signal a way through the river, had I two stone tablets and a team of wanderers behind me.  I sit in the car with our two little sausages in the backseat. 

The benedryl has worked its magic by relieving the itch and also knocking them out.  Lightening flashes, thunder cracks almost immediately and Husband appears to be conducting a symphony. I glance one more time in the backseat and decide it's time for Action.  I honk the horn twice more before moving over to the diver's seat and counting to ten. When Husband didn't appear, I did what I had to do.  I threw the car in reverse and amidst grass and mud flinging, I floored it to the main road, crashing over a ditch like the Dukes of Hazzard. Yee Haw.

I pulled up to the nearest house and slam on the brakes.  Judging from the putrid stench coming from the backseat, it seems possible the crazy fishtailing action had caused one or more of my children to poop their pants, while sleeping, in the backseat.  I looked at the diaper bag. Full of dirty cloth diapers. Ok, the smell could also be coming from there. Good lord. 

Maybe I was crying because I left my husband for dead back at our campsite, maybe it was a gut reaction to the smell of the inside of that car, I don't know. But my eyes were leaking and something had to be done about it. 

I pulled out the sleeping baby. Oh yes, it was definitely his issue. 

I amble up to the front door and knock loudly.  After a minute, my mother-in-law answers the door. "Helluva a storm out there, eh? Aren't you glad you decided to camp in our back 40? Can you imagine what it would be like trying to get out of a campsite in this?"  Mother-In-law takes in a deep breathe only to take 5 big steps away from me. 

I squish inside the front door with Kiddo #2, who is now awake. "Mother-In-Law, I'm soaked to the bone and my kids are full of river water.  I left Husband down there in his beekeeper suit because he didn't tear down our site fast enough.  But none of that matters now. All that matters is that you have a diaper here that I can change him into for our trip home. All our cloth ones are used and he ... needs one."

Mother-In-Law laughs heartily and brings us into Grandmother Room-- that room that all grandmothers have, filled with high chairs, pack and plays, toys galore, and a change table equipped with 10 different sized diapers and wet wipes that are probably dry.  Grandmother Room often looks like a baby garage sale exploded in there, although there are always items that each Grandmother refuses to buy used. And these items vary from Grandmother to Grandmother.  

So, here we are, squishing down the hallway to Grandmother Room.  She turns on the light and we head over to the change table.  She pulls out the wicker basket under the table and begins rummaging for a diaper; I begin stripping Kiddo #2.  As a seasoned professional, it is worth it to mention that I gagged when the front of that diaper opened. I don't know what he got into during our camping trip, but I think he trapped it, killed it, skinned it, roasted it on a fire he prepared himself, and ate it all while the rest of us were setting up the tent. It smelled of man and death.  Trust me.

After I finished hosing him off in the shower, and then disinfecting the shower, I returned the wee caveman to Grandmother Room to find Mother-In-Law frantically still searching for a diaper.  "It's ok, I can use a bigger one if you can't find whatever size he is."  The beauty of cloth diapers is that you have NO idea what size diaper your kiddo will wear in the disposable emergencies.  Handy, non?

Mother-In-Law held up a preemie diaper and winced.  "Um. This is the only one I seem to have. I think Kiddo #1 used the rest on her dollies." Preemie? This thing would hardly fit an American Girl doll, let alone my Brutus The Barber Baby-cake.  Nonetheless, I tried it on him.  It was the closest thing to an infant Speedo as I dare to imagine.  

I almost left the mini diaper, too, figuring home isn't that far from here, until Kiddo #2 peed and the thing came flying off like a napkin at the end of a fire hose. Nice. I looked frantically at my Mother-In-Law for expertise. 

She said, "Hand me the baby and stand back."  She came back with two towels, three safety pins and a bar of soap.  She put the towel down and folded it like origami.  She then laid Kiddo #2 down on top and swoop, swoop, swoosh, he was wrapped in the toga-diaper.  She then said, "Put two of the safety pins in the bar of soap and then give them to me."  I stuck them in and passed them to her while they were still in the soap, mostly because I was quite befuddled. 

She opened the third pin and demonstrated how hard she was having to push to get the pin through the second towel. "See how I'm pushing really hard here? It won't go through because the pin isn't slippery. I can't tell you how many times I've had a safety pin in to the bone of my thumb, trying to get it into the diaper without skewering the baby.  Then we learned the soap trick. The soap lubricates the pin so it (swoop, swoop) glides in without so much as a fuss."  My cloth diapers close with Velcro. This is quite cool to know. Huh. I guess Pioneer Women didn't have Velcro, eh? Guess I hadn't thought of that. 

I looked at my happy, stink-less baby with a diaper that looked like a toga and realized two things: a) camping is NOT my bag and 2) I'm not as hard core as I thought I was-- I might cloth diaper, but I use the all-in-ones that are basically like using disposables that you wash.  Yes, I have to wash them, so I feel pretty smug at my hardcore centre, but when push came to shove, I didn't know how to do the towel trick.  This made my peanut in the middle feel more like caramel, ooey, gooey and soft.  

But before I could wallow in my soft core reality, Husband squished himself in the front door yelling and carrying on.  The three of us ran around the corner to find Husband ripping off his beekeeper suit and screaming. 

Ah-ha. It turns out the music he was conducting was actually him, trying to kill a couple dozen black flies that made a nest in the helmet part of his suit during the off season. It seems ramming the yellow suit on quickly simply awoke the hungry family.  The good news is there were carcasses for at least four of the critters in the cinched pant leg.  Well, and the other good news was that I could make him a handy toga diaper to wear home, since he'd ripped his whole outfit off in a fit of pain and rage.  And, really, it was cute watching those two guys amble off into the car with their matching towel diapers, where Kiddo #1 slept blissfully unaware of anything. Oh, to be a kid again!

PS, The teenager that we ran into coming up from the river to our campsite, turned out to be none other than my brother-in-law.  He's home for the summer from University and has decided to grow a beard (is this some twenty-something right of passage?) so we didn't recognize him at first.  I can't even be mad that he drank all our beer-- he's a starving (parched?) student. Sigh. 

To get automatic updates via email, enter yours in the box under the Gerbera daisy and click submit. If you landed here looking for Tangled-themed Party info, click on the archive for June 12th, 2011. Thanks!