Out of my League

Jonah is in a baseball league. He has taken a few sports classes before, but they have been more about "teaching"the kids "skills" rather than actually playing any games or trying to win things. And by "teaching" I mean "yelling at" and by "skills" I mean "to get them to pay attention long enough to realize they are in a class." Jonah seems to have fun, so we keep signing him up for things. And it is a win for us too, because Jonah is like a fusion reactor of energy and it is nice to let him run around and burn some of that off. Seriously. I want to buy the kid a treadmill.

But this league is different. First of all, it is a league. Which means that there is a serious time commitment. Practice and or games twice a week, plus field clean up, bingo night, jamboree, etc. And it costs money. Sign up fees, equipment, t-shirt fees, fund-raising raffle tickets (which Amy and I sold all of to ourselves. We might win a 42" HDTV!) What did I pay a sign up fee for if we have to fund raise? I know this is only the tip of the youth sports iceberg if Jonah continues down this path. And I want him to be in youth sports if he wants. I know it teaches good skills and responsibility and team work and all that crap.

The second thing that makes this time different is that suddenly I am the dad of a kid in a baseball league. Which means I am supposed to play catch with him to warm up, which I am happy to do, but I am not very good at getting the ball to Jonah's mitt. Usually it is more like his shoulder. And I am asked to help teach batting skills (um, hit the ball?) and be the first base coach (seriously - why did we pay all this money and fund raise for if you need me to help coach?) Which again, I am happy to be involved, but I have no idea what I am doing! I usually avoid eye contact when they ask for helpers, or pretend I am busily sending emails from my iPhone (really it is an iPod and I am playing Plants vs. Zombies.) I know no more about teaching a kid about proper batting technique that those other Dads do about teaching their sons how to properly apply "old age" makeup for a medium sized theatre. (Which I would totally rock at - I even had my own Ben Nye makeup kit.) I am the only dad who showed up at the first practice without my own mitt. Strangely, or perhaps not, I did have my man-purse to carry my Kindle, my iPod and my snacks.

So in a weird way going to baseball practice is taking me back to being the kid that didn't fit in in gym class. I don't know how I missed the athlete gene. 80% of my family is pretty athletic (Richard - you are the other 10%. Sorry. I know you played volleyball, but your true sport is pie making.) I think the athlete gene is linked to the competitive gene. I want Jonah to do well because I want him to have fun and because I know it really matters to him. But I am not this dad:

Seriously?! These kids are 6! OK - maybe his kids are older, but still. Where do you even buy a shirt like that? Why do you even buy a shirt like that? Maybe the t-ball league that I was in when I was 8 didn't win enough and maybe THAT is why I never liked sports. Because I lacked confidence! Thanks, random t-ball dad!

So if you want to know where to find me on Saturday (or Tuesday and sometimes Wednesday.) I'll be at the baseball field. If Jonah is at bat, you'll see me cheering and encouraging from the sidelines. If he's not, I will probably be downloading a sample of Baseball For Dummies on my Kindle. I am still trying to figure out the why there is an outfield position called "Buck-short." I swear the other dads made that up to see if I would believe them.

Smirch and Besmirch

Josh wanted me to introduce a new regular feature on our blog called "Smirch and Besmirch". Basically, it means anytime we really love something, be it a restaurant or a TV show or even a new pair of shoes, we'll "smirch" it. Or if we really hate something, like world hunger or shaken baby syndrome or Tyra Banks, we'll "besmirch" it.  It is something we do at our monthly book club. I don't remember who came up with the idea, but whoever it was I smirch you for your great idea.

Today's first entry is our new favorite restaurant, El Pollo Loco. Actually, this isn't really new to us. We were eating crazy chicken in North Hollywood back in the day. But it recently arrived in our neck of the woods, and we couldn't be happier. These days, Josh and I are trying to watch our weight. I don't know why I whispered this in my mind while I typed it, but that's why it's in italics. Josh is trying to earn himself an ipad for losing 15 pounds. I'm trying to shimmy back into some pre-pregnancy summer clothes. We get so sick of Subway, we could spit. But guess what? El Pollo Loco is not only delicious, it's kind of good for you! Today, we ate there for lunch AND dinner. Maybe that was a bit excessive, but I wouldn't mind going back for breakfast in the morning if it wasn't a Sunday and I didn't mind having chicken and coleslaw for breakfast and it was open (which it isn't).

What would I recommend at El Pollo Loco, you ask? Everything. The chicken, of course. The mac 'n cheese, the BBQ black beans, the coleslaw, the side salad w/ creamy cilantro dressing, the potatoes and gravy and the flan, to start. So consider El Pollo Loco smirched. And find your local establishment and eat there. Unless you don't have one, which is very, very sad.

On Being a Girl

When I'm feeling like I need a little attention, there's a story I like to tell my husband to elicit the level of pity and appreciation that I'm seeking. I like to tell him about how, when I was in 6th grade, we participated in a school dance (bad idea #1). But instead of causing any sort of problems once we were in the gymnasium, the teachers handed out our dance cards and set us free to get them signed (bad idea #2). Of course there were girls who instantly had lines forming around them, and others of us who milled about, breaking out in the cold sweat of humiliation. After a decent amount of time, the teacher announced that those of us who had not yet filled up their dance card should gather in a specified area, where they would be matched up by the teacher (HORRID idea #3). Of course I was one of those kids. I think I blacked out after that moment because I remember little more about that experience. But I do think that the dance card day was one of the defining moments of my life, and it (obviously) wasn't a good one. I know I wasn't the ugliest girl in the class. I was extremely shy and quite tall, which is never a good combination for an elementary school dance. But I knew one thing that day: that I was the girl who would never be able to fill her dance card.

I'm not telling this story to gain sympathy (unless you're my husband). I'm hoping to explain the reason why, when the radiologist told us we were having a baby girl, I felt equal parts surprise, excitement, and anxiety. I'd been raising boys for 5 years, and knew some things by that point: their feelings did not get hurt easily, if they did, they were over it in 2 minutes, and their self-worth was not 100% dependent upon what I and everyone else in the world thought about them. Simply put, I was scared to have a girl. I know how much I was influenced (good and bad) by the people in my life. I know what it meant to have a bad hair day for school pictures, and a bad hair year for the entire 7th grade. I know what it was like to have your best friend move on to a new group and leave you alone and scared. I know what it is like to go through puberty, with its dizzying array of physical and emotional changes. I know what it's like to be a girl.

It's with this in mind that I want to address my beautiful, perfect Lila. I want her to know that she is the most amazing baby. She knows what she needs to do, and she just does it. She's not afraid. She's not intimidated. Chicken enchiladas? Bring it on. A loud vaccum? I'll crawl toward it and check it out. Some strangers talking to me in the supermarket? I'll throw a smile their way. She survives the bumps and bruises of learning to crawl and stand with a smile. She tolerates her overbearing big brothers all day long. She has pure, untainted confidence in herself and her abilities. I'm telling you, if there were a dance right now, she'd have her dance card filled first.

I pray every day that I can know how to keep her this way. To help her realize her limitless potential and keep her from being brought down by self-doubt. She is powerful. She is beautiful. She is capable of doing anything she chooses. And she has a big, mean mother to beat down anyone who stands in her way.

Lila: Constantly in Danger and Constantly Eating

Here's the thing about Lila. No, I wasn't going to say she looks great in a tutu, even though she does. And yes, those are the leg-warmers we won from the now defunct Mormon Lady blog. But that isn't wat I was going to say either. The thing about Lila is that recently she became mobile. I wouldn't say she is crawling, per say. She is scooting/rolling/belly-crawling/pulling herself up onto things. And the thing about all of that moving, is that it also requires a lot of eating.
Here is Lila trying to eat a microphone:

She doesn't know that she can't eat it. She doesn't care. If she can put it in her mouth, she wants to eat it. If you are holding her and try to eat, she actually opens her mouth and tries to eat the food that is in your mouth. It is a little bit disturbing and a lot hilarious.

Here is Lila being caught with a bag of peanut butter ritz:

Doesn't that face look kind of guilty? What, me? No I wasn't eating anything.

When you try and feed her, if you are lucky (and fast enough) you can get away without her stealing the food and the utensils from you. But sometimes we just give up and let her feed herself.

You might wonder why in that picture Lila has a big rash of some sort on her cheek. Well, that brings me to our next thing about Lila. She is not a whiner and not scared of anything and thus likes to put her life in jeopardy on a regular basis.
The day we took those pictures she had crawled out the back door and landed on the doormat. Earlier this week she was saved from rolling down the stairs by Noel grabbing her legs and hanging onto them while Amy was in the shower. Granted, the reason she was at the stairs was because Noel had opened the bedroom door after being told explicitly NOT to open the bedroom door and leading her to the stairs.

Here she is making a break for freedom.

Today, Amy set her down to go lock the gate at the top of the stairs (to prevent Lila from falling down them again) and Lila pulled a lamp off of our night stand onto her head. And then later tonight, I turned the tub on to fill it and went to tell Noel it was time to get into the tub and Lila crawled into the bathroom and pulled herself INTO the tub. Luckily I hadn't put the plug down yet, so she just got really wet. Why a I admitting to all of these things? Does Child Protective Services read this blog? Crap. Nevermind.

No, Lila, you can't eat that toy.