The Spectator Returns

Mason is forced to watch everything Cooper does. I'm pretty sure he's sick of it. At a recent golf lesson Mason didn't watch Cooper, however, he watched the karate class with avid interest. Do you Kung Fu?

Sound the Alarm

I don't know about you, but when I see a tornado rolling in on the horizon, I usually take my kids to play putt-putt.

You can almost guarantee that when I lay a plan, an actually well-laid variety, something always happens to screw things up. It was a beautiful day in these parts. Sunny, no wind, not too hot. Then we showed up to play. In roll the clouds, up kicks the wind, and down comes the rain.

Nothing was as bad, however, as a little mishap in the "clubhouse". at about the halfway mark Mason had to use the restroom, of course. So we marched back into the small shop. As soon as we stepped into the bathroom the boys started gagging, hooting, and hollering that the placed stunk. It did. It was really disgusting in there, as if we had followed onto someone's alone time -- my money is on the lone man who was running the putt-putt course.

They were actually yelling comments like, "Get me out of here." and "We're going to die, let us out!" Yes, that dramatic. When we all tumbled out of there in a big hurry we practically landed at the feet of the man who surely left behind the cloud of funk. Fun.

Dress Codes

I think I've mentioned how I feel about dress codes before. I also have some strong opinions about fashion and modesty in general. I've tried to pass this on to my two little boys. They, much to my public humiliation, do not care. I mistakenly thought this would improve with time, but it's gotten a bit more ridiculous as their own opinions are forming and galvanizing.


One exception has been golf dress codes. We've been pretty clear with the boys. If they want to go to the range, they have to wear shirts with collars and sleeves. Of course we explained this in great detail and gave exceptional reasons, including a historic review of golf attire through the ages (not really, but if you know me you know how close this is to the truth).


Cooper has been taking a type of golf lesson at the recreation center. It's very relaxed and they are not required to follow usual golf dress codes. One night he ended up at lessons in a sleeveless shirt (his own ensemble, I might add). After about 5 minutes he realized what he was wearing and covered himself then shrieked, "Oh no, everyone can see my armpits."

Teaching your children the value of dress codes: done.

Oh The Consideration

Cooper, sweet Cooper. You know how to get what you want.

Due to a raging sinus infection, I found myself avoiding the sonorous snores of my sweet husband. Basically I was camped on the couch while my hubby sawed logs in the bedroom. At about 10:30 p.m. Cooper wandered downstairs and with great concern and consideration tricked me into letting him sleep on the couch, too.

"Is daddy snoring again?"

"Yes. Did he wake you up?"

"Are you thinking about sleeping on the couch?"

"Why yes, dear, I am."

"Would you like some company?"

"As a matter-of-fact, yes."

And so our huge sectional became an L-shaped bunk bed for Cooper and me.

So Awesome

"Is this so awesome?!?!?!"

Ummm, just for the record, I don't talk like that. My sassy 2-year-old does! What else from the the mouth of Mason can I report?

"I need to check that out." (When faced with the bad news that we were out of fruit snacks.)

"Just wait three minutes!" (Exasperatingly staving off Cooper until his turn was up.)

"My shoulder really hurts." (He has sympathy pains.)

"This leg is broken." (When ever he wants me to pick him up.)

"Tooper doesn't belong here." (Expressing his aggravation toward the older sibling.)

"That baby is following me." (Pointing to the other 2-year-old we invited over for a playdate.)


We've also noticed a persistent speech thing with him. Every hard C or K is pronounced as a T. So scar becomes star. Pickle is Pittle. Curious is Tour-e-russ. Cooper is Tooper. Can't is Tan't. You get the picture. Very, very funny.

PHOTO NOTE: First he wouldn't wear his goggles during lessons. But since earning his first ribbon, won't. take. them. off.

It's A Good Idea

When you're so cheesed off you could punch out someone's I-teeth, it's a good idea to spend some time in the garden. The garden heals in ways cleaning a toilet never does. A garden is brimming with needs that I can meet. Hard work goes a long way and there is always fruit from the labor.

Today I rinsed away my anger by adding a spirea to a spotty hedge, moving a sage and replacing it with day lilies, increasing the rose bush count, settling two new rudbeckias in front of the pear tree, and closing the gap the bunnies have left with some whirling butterflies.

The names of plants alone take my mind off my worries and to a fantastical world of nymphs, fairies, and miniature worlds with bug and rodent residents. Every heap of Earth I move with my shovel brings me closer to one of my grandmas. She was a farm girl, and I think somewhere in my city-fied self there is dirt in my clogs and sprouts in my heart.

When I sweat in my garden I never feel dirty. And when I cry in my garden, absolutely no one knows.

I Should Avoid Cheese

Phew! I've been a bit busy. But, I've got a loaf of banana bread in the oven, so by all means I should dilly dally online for an hour and share with you another reason why I should avoid cheese.

Some of you may remember the original cheese incident. But for those of you that didn't know me 10 years ago, please let me recap.

On a dark and snowy evening I found myself with a good college pal (we weren't in college anymore, but that's how well she knows me) at a Lisa Loeb concert in Boulder, Colorado. A few things to note, we were in Colorado, which is dry, and we had chapped lips. It was snowing. So, while I don't remember exactly the month of the year, it was not July. My friend asked me for some lip balm.

I reached into this great Cole Haan leather bag I had back then (someone since told me it looked like a feedbag so I stopped using it) and started fishing around for lip balm. In the dark of the Boulder Theater I couldn't see anything and when my flanges lighted upon something in cellophane I was confused and pulled out mystery object for closer scrutiny. It was an individually wrapped piece of American cheese!

Please note the most recent time I had purchased this type of cheese was the 4th of July for fixings on burgers -- the only time my husband indulges my affection for cheese product. I'm just saying that cheese was in my purse for at least six months.

Alas, I thought that would be the last time I'd have a cheese/purse incident. Ohhhhhh, no. It's not.

I won't bore you with the details, but the next time I go to Martini and a Movie at the Wildlife Experience I will not be tucking away "just one more piece of that amazing gouda" for nibbling during the show. Let's just say, gouda, not's so good-a the next morning when you find it wrapped in its mangy napkin at the bottom of your purse. Also, purse still smells like gouda.

Perhaps when that pig of a coworker told me my purse looked like a feedbag so many years ago he was actually trying to say I should quit using my purse as a feedbag, not that it actually looked like one.