I kept waiting this week for some phenomenally hilarious thing to happen during the first week of school so that I could blog about it, but it was a pretty boring week as first weeks of school go. My students were great, my kids liked their teachers and friends, and life shifted from summer laziness and fun to school year homework and grading like someone flipped a switch. We at the Hickman house love routine, so everyone seems to be calmer and happier this week even though we're all pretty tired.
It was on Thursday that the school nurse called me right at the beginning of my conference period. Keaton was having an asthma attack, and he didn't have an inhaler at school yet. Just the day before I'd sent the medical permission form with Keaton and his mimi to the allergist so that we could send the inhaler to school legally. After several conversations and a phone call to Trey, we relented to the fact that our allergist only signs forms on Fridays, and no little thing like my son's health was going to change that.
Here I was, less than 24 hours later, rushing home to get an inhaler to Keaton's school on my conference period because he couldn't breathe. The nurse called two more times while I was on my way (a ten minute drive) because he was clearly in distress. By the time I got there he was struggling for breath, and it was pretty scary. With his medicine he recovered quickly, and I took him to his mimi's for the rest of the afternoon.
I was furious. I cussed the allergist over and over again (alone, to myself in the car) for putting my son's health at risk and vowed to switch doctors immediately. I also reflected on the fact that I'd just taught my son on the fourth day of school that if you go to the nurse and look pitiful then someone will come to take you to Mimi's. He's a smart kid, so I knew he would use that to his best advantage.
Friday morning came, and Keaton refused to go to school. He said he was sick and needed to stay home. To us, he seemed to have a little cold, but overall he looked more like a kid who just wanted to hang out all day.
He kicked, he screamed, he flatly refused, he cried -- and still we sent him off to school.
Around eleven, Trey left work to give Keaton another dose of cold medicine, and when he arrived at the school he found Keaton already in the nurse's office. The nurse insisted that Keaton needed to see a doctor soon and that he couldn't stay at school. So off to Mimi's he went again, and Trey made a doctor's appointment for the afternoon.
As Keaton and I waited to see the doctor, we played a little battleship on my phone. When they called his name around 4:20, he quickly became short of breath. Before I could give him his inhaler, the nurses checked his oxygen levels, and that's when it got crazy.
Did you know that if your oxygen level is too low, then the little oxygen checker machine flashes red and makes loud beeping sounds? Well, it does, and it did on Friday afternoon.
The pediatrician rushed in, they dosed Keaton with steroids and started a nebulizer treatment immediately. All I could think was "And we kept sending him to school. We are the worst parents ever." Trey left work and joined us at the doctor. Minutes before he was breathing hard, but he was also playing battleship and shouting "YESSSS!!" every time he hit an enemy ship. Now this seemed like it could be serious.
One and a half hours, lots of prescriptions, two neb treatments, one dose of steroids, and a signed medical form for an inhaler at school later, we left the doctor's office.
After all that, Keaton is doing much better. He's taking oral steroids and inhaled steroids for five days, so I hope his teacher is prepared for Keaton on crack.
Remember my posts about Tucker on steroids? How he gets really mean and violent? Well, that doesn't happen to Keaton at all. In fact, the only way that Keaton on Steroids is like Tucker on Steroids is that his personality is exacerbated.
Keaton is happy, giggly, joyful, excited, ridiculous, and everything else he normally is, but times one hundred. He's been talking non-stop for three days, only it goes like this:
"Mom I need some drums for Christmas can Santa fit drums down the chimney? I found a place for them next to the piano but not on the side by the bathroom on the other side who will play the piano while I play my drums can you play the piano? maybe dad can play the piano because when I play my drums it will be awesome like dumdumdumdum and maybe I can play bust it because I like that song do you think tucker wants some drums? can I have some lemonade? Yum lemonade ice cold lemonade do we have any ice? i need ice cold lemonade with ice see it's ice cold because it has ice in it it's awesome."
Yesterday Trey actually asked him to go jump on his bed, and he happily obliged -- jumping and jumping and jumping and singing Don't Stop Believing at the top of his lungs and playing air guitar and calling things like lemonade and drums and Big Time Rush "awesome" over and over again.
In summary, we are the meanest parents in all the world, sending our very sick son to school twice, Keaton's allergist sucks big time and will be receiving a scathing letter as soon as I can get things set up at the new allergist, and Keaton is currently a hilarious crackhead.
All of this is to say that surely the second week of school will bring me something phenomenally hysterical. Don't worry, I'll keep you posted.
Sunday, August 29, 2010
Saturday, August 21, 2010
Dear Ms. F,
Thank you for serving as Keaton's kindergarten teacher. I know he will have wonderful educational experiences in your classroom, and I admire you for entering the noble profession of teaching our community's children.
When my oldest child went to kindergarten, my only real worry was that he would drive his teacher insane with his incessant questioning of everything. I suggested that she direct him to the classroom computer and google whenever necessary, and we had an uneventful year.
Keaton, however, is a different sort of kid. He's my baby, mostly because I baby him. It's not entirely my fault, however, as I'm sure you witnessed during Meet the Teacher when his brother answered every single question for him. Keaton likes to be the baby, and we, unfortunately, have encouraged that in him.
I don't want to be that parent, but there are some things you should know.
1) Sometimes, not very often but sometimes, Keaton chooses to just pee where ever he is. Please don't misunderstand, he is most certainly potty trained and has been since he was two. He just prefers to not stop whatever he's doing for the inconvenience of visiting the nearest bathroom. This may mean that he finds a tree or shrub on which to relieve himself, but it may also mean he'll just pee in his pants right where he is.
2) I know at Meet the Teacher is was cute when you asked him if he knew how to write his name and he said, "I know how. It's just boring." I want to assure you that we don't encourage him to call schoolwork or other requests from adults "boring," he simply has his own opinions about what seems worth his effort. He does, in fact, know how to write his name.
3) Regarding schoolwork, we have had many conversations about always doing what the teacher asks even if it is boring. Unfortunately, I'm not certain he is listening during these conversations because he is often playing air guitar and pretending to be a rock star during our serious moments. I find I can get his partial attention while he jumps on his bed and sings "Bust a Move," but I'm afraid that's the only time I can think of when he listens to me. Are there beds in kindergarten for him to jump on?
4) This lunch number thing might be a problem. It seems I left his lovely red parent information folder in my other son's classroom when we put away school supplies there, so I don't have it to drill into him this weekend. I have considered writing it on his hand each morning, but I'm not convinced it will remain there until lunch. Don't worry about him going hungry, though, as I'm certain he will charm the other students into giving up their apples and pudding and chocolate milk. Speaking of hunger, no matter how pitiful he sounds when he says, "I'm STARVING!! I haven't eaten in SO LONG" we did feed him a hearty breakfast.
5) Please know that we do not encourage impromptu concerts, dance-offs, storytelling marathons, or climbing during instructional time. No matter what he tells you, we did not say it was okay for him to do that in class.
Dearest teacher, thank you for your commitment to our son, and may God richly bless you for what you're about to undertake. Our prayers are with you.
Love,
The Hickmans
When my oldest child went to kindergarten, my only real worry was that he would drive his teacher insane with his incessant questioning of everything. I suggested that she direct him to the classroom computer and google whenever necessary, and we had an uneventful year.
Keaton, however, is a different sort of kid. He's my baby, mostly because I baby him. It's not entirely my fault, however, as I'm sure you witnessed during Meet the Teacher when his brother answered every single question for him. Keaton likes to be the baby, and we, unfortunately, have encouraged that in him.
I don't want to be that parent, but there are some things you should know.
1) Sometimes, not very often but sometimes, Keaton chooses to just pee where ever he is. Please don't misunderstand, he is most certainly potty trained and has been since he was two. He just prefers to not stop whatever he's doing for the inconvenience of visiting the nearest bathroom. This may mean that he finds a tree or shrub on which to relieve himself, but it may also mean he'll just pee in his pants right where he is.
2) I know at Meet the Teacher is was cute when you asked him if he knew how to write his name and he said, "I know how. It's just boring." I want to assure you that we don't encourage him to call schoolwork or other requests from adults "boring," he simply has his own opinions about what seems worth his effort. He does, in fact, know how to write his name.
3) Regarding schoolwork, we have had many conversations about always doing what the teacher asks even if it is boring. Unfortunately, I'm not certain he is listening during these conversations because he is often playing air guitar and pretending to be a rock star during our serious moments. I find I can get his partial attention while he jumps on his bed and sings "Bust a Move," but I'm afraid that's the only time I can think of when he listens to me. Are there beds in kindergarten for him to jump on?
4) This lunch number thing might be a problem. It seems I left his lovely red parent information folder in my other son's classroom when we put away school supplies there, so I don't have it to drill into him this weekend. I have considered writing it on his hand each morning, but I'm not convinced it will remain there until lunch. Don't worry about him going hungry, though, as I'm certain he will charm the other students into giving up their apples and pudding and chocolate milk. Speaking of hunger, no matter how pitiful he sounds when he says, "I'm STARVING!! I haven't eaten in SO LONG" we did feed him a hearty breakfast.
5) Please know that we do not encourage impromptu concerts, dance-offs, storytelling marathons, or climbing during instructional time. No matter what he tells you, we did not say it was okay for him to do that in class.
Dearest teacher, thank you for your commitment to our son, and may God richly bless you for what you're about to undertake. Our prayers are with you.
Love,
The Hickmans
Sunday, August 1, 2010
A Leper on Steroids, The Sequel
First, steroids make Tucker's face swell. Not in a weird elephant-man way, but more like a chipmunk storing acorns for the winter (Do chipmunks eat acorns? Let's say yes for the sake of the simile). Since he's a pretty scrawny little boy, the chipmunk face is pretty noticeable and quite adorable.
But that's where the cuteness ends.
Steroids take some of Tucker's personality traits and exacerbate them a great deal. For example, Tucker is a very smart little boy, a fact that he gladly shares on a regular basis by correcting other people and explaining random facts for no apparent reason. Today while we sat in the car wash he named 29 of the 44 U.S. presidents in seven minutes by playing Sporcle on my iphone. Perhaps it was the steroids that helped him remember people like Garfield and Taft.
In addition, he feels the need to make sure I know that he knows how to do virtually everything. Last night I was putting a DVD on for him and Keaton, and after I pushed "play" the next screen came up asking whether we wanted widescreen or normal screen (or whatever the second choice is called). Before I could even consider my screen choices, Tucker shouted at me, "You have to push play again! You have to pick a screen size! You're not done!"
It's a good thing he was there to yell instructions because I've never started a DVD before in all my 33 years of life. Arrrrggghhhhh!!!
As I said, these are some of his normal personality traits that just seem more pronounced since he started the drugs. But perhaps the most distinctive side effect of the steroids is the uninhibited rage displayed by my seven year old.
On day two of the 'roids, Keaton was asking Tucker a question about something, and Tucker was, of course, completely ignoring him as is his custom. Suddenly Tucker turned into the Incredible Hulk, veins bulging from his neck and forehead, fire shooting from his eyes, and from his mouth came this terrible demon voice screaming "MAKE HIM STOP TALKING I CAN'T STAND IT ANYMORE I'M ABOUT TO PUNCH HIM IF HE DOESN'T STOP RIGHT NOW!"
And I beleived he really would do it. I quickly snatched Keaton from Angry Tucker's reach and fled the room to concoct a plan to handle this monster that was now living in my house. Over the next hours and days we walked on egg shells around Tuck, trying not to rile the demon lying just below the surface. Keaton was brave, as little brothers are, and often taunted or picked at Tucker, at which time he became a tackling dummy that Tucker literally lifted off the ground and slammed into the carpet like a t.v. wrestler. It was ugly.
So I did the thing every mother does when her kids are out of control. I sent them both to my mom's for a few days.
Alas, they had to come home eventually, and there were about four days of the medicine left. Keaton taunted Tucker, Tucker body-slammed him into the ground, and on and on and on. Tucker even got so angry that his Incredible Hulk came out and, shaking uncontrollably, he shouted "I HATE KEATON HICKMAN!" This is the first time we've heard this statement and a grand admonishment followed, steroids or not.
Finally, during one of Tucker's lighter moments when he realized he may have actually hurt Keaton, I decided to reason with the monster.
"Tucker, your medicine is fighting with your brain. Your brain knows what good choices are and what bad choices are, but your medicine only likes the bad choices. It's going straight to your brain and trying to convince it to make the bad choices. You have to have a strong brain! Your brain has to beat the medicine, so you're going to have to think really hard about what you're doing until you're done taking it."
This seemed to hit home for Tuck, as he loves a brain challenge, and the next few minutes were uneventful. Small victories, right?
About fourteen minutes later the fighting and screaming started again, and we all decided to just count the days until the steroids were over and be happy that Tucker's skin was better and that he wasn't at school beating the hell out of random kids. At least he was beating up family, right?
It's been about five days since his last dose, and I can tell that the medicine is slowly leaving his system as his face deflates. I can also tell it's not completely gone because as Keaton got out of the bath tonight and walked past Tucker, Tucker turned and punched him in the face.
Good times.
But that's where the cuteness ends.
Steroids take some of Tucker's personality traits and exacerbate them a great deal. For example, Tucker is a very smart little boy, a fact that he gladly shares on a regular basis by correcting other people and explaining random facts for no apparent reason. Today while we sat in the car wash he named 29 of the 44 U.S. presidents in seven minutes by playing Sporcle on my iphone. Perhaps it was the steroids that helped him remember people like Garfield and Taft.
In addition, he feels the need to make sure I know that he knows how to do virtually everything. Last night I was putting a DVD on for him and Keaton, and after I pushed "play" the next screen came up asking whether we wanted widescreen or normal screen (or whatever the second choice is called). Before I could even consider my screen choices, Tucker shouted at me, "You have to push play again! You have to pick a screen size! You're not done!"
It's a good thing he was there to yell instructions because I've never started a DVD before in all my 33 years of life. Arrrrggghhhhh!!!
As I said, these are some of his normal personality traits that just seem more pronounced since he started the drugs. But perhaps the most distinctive side effect of the steroids is the uninhibited rage displayed by my seven year old.
On day two of the 'roids, Keaton was asking Tucker a question about something, and Tucker was, of course, completely ignoring him as is his custom. Suddenly Tucker turned into the Incredible Hulk, veins bulging from his neck and forehead, fire shooting from his eyes, and from his mouth came this terrible demon voice screaming "MAKE HIM STOP TALKING I CAN'T STAND IT ANYMORE I'M ABOUT TO PUNCH HIM IF HE DOESN'T STOP RIGHT NOW!"
And I beleived he really would do it. I quickly snatched Keaton from Angry Tucker's reach and fled the room to concoct a plan to handle this monster that was now living in my house. Over the next hours and days we walked on egg shells around Tuck, trying not to rile the demon lying just below the surface. Keaton was brave, as little brothers are, and often taunted or picked at Tucker, at which time he became a tackling dummy that Tucker literally lifted off the ground and slammed into the carpet like a t.v. wrestler. It was ugly.
So I did the thing every mother does when her kids are out of control. I sent them both to my mom's for a few days.
Alas, they had to come home eventually, and there were about four days of the medicine left. Keaton taunted Tucker, Tucker body-slammed him into the ground, and on and on and on. Tucker even got so angry that his Incredible Hulk came out and, shaking uncontrollably, he shouted "I HATE KEATON HICKMAN!" This is the first time we've heard this statement and a grand admonishment followed, steroids or not.
Finally, during one of Tucker's lighter moments when he realized he may have actually hurt Keaton, I decided to reason with the monster.
"Tucker, your medicine is fighting with your brain. Your brain knows what good choices are and what bad choices are, but your medicine only likes the bad choices. It's going straight to your brain and trying to convince it to make the bad choices. You have to have a strong brain! Your brain has to beat the medicine, so you're going to have to think really hard about what you're doing until you're done taking it."
This seemed to hit home for Tuck, as he loves a brain challenge, and the next few minutes were uneventful. Small victories, right?
About fourteen minutes later the fighting and screaming started again, and we all decided to just count the days until the steroids were over and be happy that Tucker's skin was better and that he wasn't at school beating the hell out of random kids. At least he was beating up family, right?
It's been about five days since his last dose, and I can tell that the medicine is slowly leaving his system as his face deflates. I can also tell it's not completely gone because as Keaton got out of the bath tonight and walked past Tucker, Tucker turned and punched him in the face.
Good times.
Saturday, July 31, 2010
A Leper on Steroids
If you or someone you know has suffered with eczema, then you understand that it's horrible and terrible.
Ours is worse.
Okay, I don't really know that ours is worse, but if yours is worse than ours, then you are have some seriously terrible skin and we should form a support group together.
We constantly battle the boys' bad skin. It looks good, then it flares, then it looks awful, then it's good, and such is our life. We valiantly fight staph a few times a year, but that's the only really exciting part. Our pediatrician has always done a good job helping us manage, and two years ago we went to the allergist who discovered both boys have egg allergies and Keaton also has a peanut allergy. In addition, Keaton is allergic to pretty much everything they tested him for (except cockroaches...weird), and he's been taking allergy shots since he was three. He is the best allergy-shot-taker in the world, and he has never cried. The allergy discovery pretty much cleared up Keaton's major skin problems, but Tucker is a different story.
As I said, we have always managed it. But last year, in first grade, I think he started to notice that everyone else didn't look like a leper, too. Then, in summer baseball, we noticed the other kids asking Tucker about his skin, and we decided that we'd exhausted the resources of the pediatrician and allergist and it was time to see the dermatologist.
We did not, however, see the dermatologist in the way that we planned.
In early July, Tucker a little bit of nasty staph on his skin. We can tell because we think we're doctors. Keaton had staph about two weeks before, which confirmed our diagnosis. Tucker took an antibiotic that didn't do the trick, so I hauled him in to the pediatrician again. They put him on bactroban and we went on our merry way.
Seven days later, we woke up to this all over his body (including his face):
Sidebar #1: Yes, I am the mother in the doctor's office taking a picture of her son's condition with her iphone. At some point it occurred to me that we'll all wonder some day if it was really as bad as we remembered, and I wanted future verification.
He looked ridiculous. I called the pediatrician's office and took the first possible appointment. It wasn't our regular doctor, but I didn't care. The first pediatrician called in another pediatrician and a student doctor, and they together decided that he looked bad, and he needed to see a dermatologist quickly.
They prescribed him something for itching and made us another appointment. That afternoon we saw the dermatologist, who called in another dermatologist and a student, and together they worked through possible causes and treatments.
I think they think he had a reaction to the bactroban (which he had taken many times before) because it is a sulfa drug. Please consult your doctor before believing anything medical that I say, but I think our bodies have a sort of sulfa threshold, and when the body reaches its maximum capacity it reacts. In Tucker's case, it reacts badly.
Sidebar #2: When you see six doctors in one day, you're doing something special. When we left the dermatologist's office he just shook his head and said, "One thing is for sure. I am certain that this is the worst case I'll see today."
In the days that followed, Tucker took a double dose of steroids, a large amount of anti-itch medicine, and participated in nightly "wet wraps" where we dipped his clothes in warm water, covered him with a steroid ointment, and them made him wear the wet clothes for 30 minutes, covering him in blankets straight from the dryer when the clothes started to make him cold. Good times.
Have you ever been around a seven year old with "roid rage"? What about a double dose of it? Let me tell you friends, it ain't pretty.
In fact, it's ugly enough to warrant its own post tomorrow.
In fact, it's ugly enough to warrant its own post tomorrow.
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
Why I Briefly Hated Baseball, game three
not really. Game three was a fun, exciting game and we lost by about two points, I think. It was just like summer baseball should be.
This post, rather, serves as the culmination of the previous two regarding acceptable baseball behavior. The following are the rules for heckling in baseball.
1) Never, ever heckle your own kid. When the ball rolled right between his legs, he knew he should have stopped it. Screaming those directions to him at the top of your lungs in front of his teammates and their parents will not "drive the message home" but will instead serve to humiliate him. Acceptable responses to a son who misses a ball include, "Good try," "You'll get it next time," or even the helpful "Don't forget to get your glove on the ground." I find that the last one works best if you follow it with some term of endearment. For example, "That's okay, babe, get your glove on the ground next time and you'll have it!"
2) Don't heckle your own team. I know there are certain major league franchises who deem this acceptable, but I do not. The other night at the Bombers game our pitcher was having some trouble, and a group of teenage boys behind me starting yelling about how awful his pitches were. In my head, I told them to take their prissy little butts to the visitor side if they didn't like our pitching, but I did not say this aloud (you're welcome, Trey). Teams encourage one another. They do not insult and degrade one another. Take this as a life lesson, if you will.
3) Clapping when someone on the other team strikes out is acceptable only in high school games or above. I have no rationale for this, except that I'm making these rules and I like this one.
4) Heckling of the opposite team is acceptable only in post-high school and above and only if it's funny. For example, at the Bombers games, when the opposing team does something stupid (like miss an easy ball), the announcer plays a sound bite of Homer Simpson, "Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you your moron." I know it sounds mean, but it's pretty darn funny so it's okay in my book.
In addition, the folks that sit in front of us are very good at heckling the other team. One night our opponent's short stop had something like four errors in a row, so the Bombers fans below us kindly suggested that perhaps their coach would like for that young man to play pitcher as well. And first base. And catcher. I don't think this was mean, as they were clearly trying to get the athlete more playing time and a more diverse baseball experience.
5) Before heckling an outfielder who has missed a fly ball, first confirm that there are no injuries. Cheering and congratulating the player for earning your team another run just seems crass if he's obtained a broken leg in the process. I'm sure a simple thank you note later will suffice.
Ah, baseball. I never knew how much I enjoyed it until I was an adult with children of my own. The steamy summer nights, the intense competition, and the $2 margaritas on Wednesdays really bring me much joy. If only all fans would adopt these heckling rules, all of my baseball experiences will be perfect.
That and $2 margaritas on Friday nights, too.
This post, rather, serves as the culmination of the previous two regarding acceptable baseball behavior. The following are the rules for heckling in baseball.
1) Never, ever heckle your own kid. When the ball rolled right between his legs, he knew he should have stopped it. Screaming those directions to him at the top of your lungs in front of his teammates and their parents will not "drive the message home" but will instead serve to humiliate him. Acceptable responses to a son who misses a ball include, "Good try," "You'll get it next time," or even the helpful "Don't forget to get your glove on the ground." I find that the last one works best if you follow it with some term of endearment. For example, "That's okay, babe, get your glove on the ground next time and you'll have it!"
2) Don't heckle your own team. I know there are certain major league franchises who deem this acceptable, but I do not. The other night at the Bombers game our pitcher was having some trouble, and a group of teenage boys behind me starting yelling about how awful his pitches were. In my head, I told them to take their prissy little butts to the visitor side if they didn't like our pitching, but I did not say this aloud (you're welcome, Trey). Teams encourage one another. They do not insult and degrade one another. Take this as a life lesson, if you will.
3) Clapping when someone on the other team strikes out is acceptable only in high school games or above. I have no rationale for this, except that I'm making these rules and I like this one.
4) Heckling of the opposite team is acceptable only in post-high school and above and only if it's funny. For example, at the Bombers games, when the opposing team does something stupid (like miss an easy ball), the announcer plays a sound bite of Homer Simpson, "Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you your moron." I know it sounds mean, but it's pretty darn funny so it's okay in my book.
In addition, the folks that sit in front of us are very good at heckling the other team. One night our opponent's short stop had something like four errors in a row, so the Bombers fans below us kindly suggested that perhaps their coach would like for that young man to play pitcher as well. And first base. And catcher. I don't think this was mean, as they were clearly trying to get the athlete more playing time and a more diverse baseball experience.
5) Before heckling an outfielder who has missed a fly ball, first confirm that there are no injuries. Cheering and congratulating the player for earning your team another run just seems crass if he's obtained a broken leg in the process. I'm sure a simple thank you note later will suffice.
Ah, baseball. I never knew how much I enjoyed it until I was an adult with children of my own. The steamy summer nights, the intense competition, and the $2 margaritas on Wednesdays really bring me much joy. If only all fans would adopt these heckling rules, all of my baseball experiences will be perfect.
That and $2 margaritas on Friday nights, too.
Sunday, June 27, 2010
Why I Briefly Hated Baseball, game two
Game two.
All afternoon when Tucker brought up the game I reminded him how important it is to always play hard and never give up. We talked about character.
And somewhere in the bottom of my black heart I hoped for rain, hurricanes, tornadoes, and any other natural disaster that would destroy the baseball fields and cause the tournament season to be permanently suspended so we never had to play another game. Alas, the sun shone and we showed up at the field right on time.
As the members of the other team began to trickle in, I was shocked to see they were not the amazon children of the previous night. No, they were somewhat normal in size and did not even bring entourages. My hopes soared - we might be able to get a few outs and score a few points in this game.
I texted Trey (who was still at work), "We should be able to hang with this team!" Win or lose, it wouldn't be the discouraging beat-down of the previous night. I loved baseball again.
The whole thing was a nail-biter. They scored four runs in the top of the inning; we scored three runs in the bottom. They went three and out on offense in the top; we never got a kid on base in the bottom. It was thrilling, this little league battle of skill and focus. We shouted to our kids - "good play!" and "you'll get it next time!" It actually occurred to me that this was what baseball should be like -- friendly competition and excitement.
Until somewhere around the fifth inning. One of the other team's parents was running the scoreboard, and he neglected to give us one of the points we'd earned. I've run the scoreboard before, and I spent the entire game in fear of getting screamed at for errors, so the missing point disturbed me but not to the point of concern.
Until we run-ruled the inning with five points. Our boys should have been in the dug-out getting their gloves, and instead we were sending another kid to the plate. I think one of the coaches must have noticed and told the umpire because he ended the inning. This drew whisperings and then shouts of confusion from the stands. We only had four recorded points according to the scoreboard, and people were confused as to why the inning was over. Parents in the stands began telling the scorekeeper that the board should read thirteen instead of twelve, but he wouldn't listen. In fact, he was adamant that we only had twelve points and refused to change it. Finally the umpire had to come over and make him add the point. In one instant, the game went from intense, friendly competition to some parallel universe where people's lives depend on the outcome of little league games.
And I got a little riled up. It was whisper-y crazy, in my defense, but crazy nonetheless. I was fired up about that point. Why would you think the parent's on your opponent's team would lie to you about a point? The inning was over according to the official, so the evidence clearly supported that those parents were right and you had made a mistake. Why be so rude about it?
As I whispered these thoughts to Trey, he just stared at me with that "you're turning into the crazy mom" look, and I made a mental note to work on my self-control.
In the bottom of the sixth, we were down by two points. We quickly scored twice to tie up the game, and I'm not kidding when I tell you that the tension on that field and in the stands was rivaled only by a world cup game complete with horns. It was edge-of-your-seat, intense baseball -- played by seven year olds.
The next batter approached the plate and hit a beautiful grounder that the opposing team fielded, but an overthrow allowed our runner on third to run into home. The stands erupted with cheers from one team and gasps from the other as this battle of the titans came to an end, but our opponent's bench erupted with something else.
The coaches were screaming and taunting the umpire about how we had done something illegal. The umpire said a few words we couldn't hear from the stands, and then he simply exited the field. As we began collecting our water bottles and Keaton's toys, we saw the coach from the other team storm off the field, on a mission. Word passed through the stands that he was going to get the league official.
If I was fired up before, then now I was going to explode. I'm afraid my mouth began moving faster than my brain at that moment (in a normal voice this time, no more whispers), "My son is out there and these people are teaching him that when you lose you should get angry and yell and throw a fit, and this is unacceptable! I am appalled! We won, life will go on, I promise. Let it go!" And I hated baseball and swore to never let Tucker play summer ball again for the rest of his life.
The league official did come to the field, and after some on-field conversation our runners went back to third and first and the opposing team grabbed their gloves and went back onto the field. I found out later that the concern was over the league rules regarding overthrows, and I still don't know if our run was legal or not. Apparently in the on-field conversation our coach said something to the effect of, "We won. But if you need us to play one more run we'll do it."
Our next batter jacked a fly ball to the outfield on the first pitch and our third base runner scored within a matter of seconds. Even with the preceding scene, the outcome of the game was not changed except for that last batter who now gets to tell stories of his spectacular hit.
And this team, this young, underdog team that had had the life pounded out of them the night before, got a win. A real-live big win, earned twice, and with a real-life example of good sportsmanship thrown in as a bonus.
And I loved baseball again.
All afternoon when Tucker brought up the game I reminded him how important it is to always play hard and never give up. We talked about character.
And somewhere in the bottom of my black heart I hoped for rain, hurricanes, tornadoes, and any other natural disaster that would destroy the baseball fields and cause the tournament season to be permanently suspended so we never had to play another game. Alas, the sun shone and we showed up at the field right on time.
As the members of the other team began to trickle in, I was shocked to see they were not the amazon children of the previous night. No, they were somewhat normal in size and did not even bring entourages. My hopes soared - we might be able to get a few outs and score a few points in this game.
I texted Trey (who was still at work), "We should be able to hang with this team!" Win or lose, it wouldn't be the discouraging beat-down of the previous night. I loved baseball again.
The whole thing was a nail-biter. They scored four runs in the top of the inning; we scored three runs in the bottom. They went three and out on offense in the top; we never got a kid on base in the bottom. It was thrilling, this little league battle of skill and focus. We shouted to our kids - "good play!" and "you'll get it next time!" It actually occurred to me that this was what baseball should be like -- friendly competition and excitement.
Until somewhere around the fifth inning. One of the other team's parents was running the scoreboard, and he neglected to give us one of the points we'd earned. I've run the scoreboard before, and I spent the entire game in fear of getting screamed at for errors, so the missing point disturbed me but not to the point of concern.
Until we run-ruled the inning with five points. Our boys should have been in the dug-out getting their gloves, and instead we were sending another kid to the plate. I think one of the coaches must have noticed and told the umpire because he ended the inning. This drew whisperings and then shouts of confusion from the stands. We only had four recorded points according to the scoreboard, and people were confused as to why the inning was over. Parents in the stands began telling the scorekeeper that the board should read thirteen instead of twelve, but he wouldn't listen. In fact, he was adamant that we only had twelve points and refused to change it. Finally the umpire had to come over and make him add the point. In one instant, the game went from intense, friendly competition to some parallel universe where people's lives depend on the outcome of little league games.
And I got a little riled up. It was whisper-y crazy, in my defense, but crazy nonetheless. I was fired up about that point. Why would you think the parent's on your opponent's team would lie to you about a point? The inning was over according to the official, so the evidence clearly supported that those parents were right and you had made a mistake. Why be so rude about it?
As I whispered these thoughts to Trey, he just stared at me with that "you're turning into the crazy mom" look, and I made a mental note to work on my self-control.
In the bottom of the sixth, we were down by two points. We quickly scored twice to tie up the game, and I'm not kidding when I tell you that the tension on that field and in the stands was rivaled only by a world cup game complete with horns. It was edge-of-your-seat, intense baseball -- played by seven year olds.
The next batter approached the plate and hit a beautiful grounder that the opposing team fielded, but an overthrow allowed our runner on third to run into home. The stands erupted with cheers from one team and gasps from the other as this battle of the titans came to an end, but our opponent's bench erupted with something else.
The coaches were screaming and taunting the umpire about how we had done something illegal. The umpire said a few words we couldn't hear from the stands, and then he simply exited the field. As we began collecting our water bottles and Keaton's toys, we saw the coach from the other team storm off the field, on a mission. Word passed through the stands that he was going to get the league official.
If I was fired up before, then now I was going to explode. I'm afraid my mouth began moving faster than my brain at that moment (in a normal voice this time, no more whispers), "My son is out there and these people are teaching him that when you lose you should get angry and yell and throw a fit, and this is unacceptable! I am appalled! We won, life will go on, I promise. Let it go!" And I hated baseball and swore to never let Tucker play summer ball again for the rest of his life.
The league official did come to the field, and after some on-field conversation our runners went back to third and first and the opposing team grabbed their gloves and went back onto the field. I found out later that the concern was over the league rules regarding overthrows, and I still don't know if our run was legal or not. Apparently in the on-field conversation our coach said something to the effect of, "We won. But if you need us to play one more run we'll do it."
Our next batter jacked a fly ball to the outfield on the first pitch and our third base runner scored within a matter of seconds. Even with the preceding scene, the outcome of the game was not changed except for that last batter who now gets to tell stories of his spectacular hit.
And this team, this young, underdog team that had had the life pounded out of them the night before, got a win. A real-live big win, earned twice, and with a real-life example of good sportsmanship thrown in as a bonus.
And I loved baseball again.
Friday, June 25, 2010
Why I Briefly Hated Baseball, game one
or, as an alternate title, Heckling Etiquette for Baseball Fans.
This year, my son was eligible to try out for "All Stars" with our local Little League, only they didn't call it All Stars, just "Summer League," and rumor had it that all of the kids would make teams. Given Tucker's obsession with baseball and his natural athleticism (at least the seven year old version of athleticism), we were happy to let him try out.
The night of try outs arrived and we reached the ball field ready to watch our kid show his stuff. We soon realized that this wasn't just an itty-bitty "show what you can do" kind of evening. Around 60 kids were quickly being shuffled from one drill to the next - stop three grounders, catch three fly balls, figure out where the play is in a game situation, go, go, go. At each station there were men, I assume coaches, taking down every awesome save and every grievous mistake on little clipboards. This was serious business.
Tucker was not the best kid out there, and he's kind of small for his age, so I left the tryouts happy that all the kids would make it because Tucker wasn't one of the top players, and I just flat out don't believe he's old enough to be told he isn't good enough for anything. He's seven, and he has lots of rejection to live through - it's part of life - but at seven he should think he is physically capable of absolutely anything. I disliked the experience as a whole, and I suddenly hated baseball.
That Saturday we were supposed to get a call about what team he would be on, but no call came. Sunday, no call. Monday, no call.
Finally, I got an email from a dad we knew pretty well. His son and Tucker had played on the same soccer team when they were five, and we loved that team. All of the parents were nice and the kids were good - it was probably the best sports season Trey and I have had, and I feel like we've had quite a few. The dad, Brandon, said that Tucker would be on his team, and he gave some instructions about when they would practice, etc. The boys would practice Monday through Friday for the first two weeks of June. This sounded a little miserable to us, but Tucker was in absolute heaven.
When the roster of all the kids came, I realized that they were ALL seven. The age group was seven and eight year olds as of April 15th, so I knew there were nine year olds playing on the other teams. I knew immediately that our team was made up of the youngest players from tryouts - some of them barely seven.
But they were scrappy little seven year olds. They worked so hard in practice, and we saw them improve so much. There were several really good coaches, and the practices were almost as serious as the tryouts, meant to make the boys better skill-wise. I was happy that Tucker had made this team, even if it looked like they might go two-and-out in the tournament. I loved baseball again.
The night of the first game finally arrived, and Tucker proudly wore his black jersey - the first uniform he's had with "Hickman" on the back. From the time he got up that morning, he was focused and pumped and excited. He was so excited, in fact, that we made it to the ball field around fifteen minutes before the designated arrival time because I couldn't listen to him beg to leave the house for the game anymore.
Just after I took my seat in the bleachers and opened the book I was reading as my pre-game warm-up, the other team - and their parents - swarmed the field. I was aghast! This couldn't be the team we were playing. The kids looked twelve. I double-checked to make sure we were at the right field, and I started hating baseball again.
The parents from the somewhat local team (a small town nearby) moved in on the field like troops going to battle, rolling up their coolers and unloading their lawn chairs right in front of the bleachers. In a matter of minutes, the entire fence behind home plate was lined with parents in their blue team shirts, creating a sea of intimidation for our young, hard working team.
Now, I must say that I've never understood the phenomenon of putting lawn chairs against the fence in front of the bleachers. Clearly, the bleachers are there so people can sit in them and watch the game, so the chairs in front of them eliminate the view from the entire first row. This makes no sense to me. And it wasn't the only thing that didn't make sense.
These parents were loud. Annoying loud. I can deal with shouts of encouragement, but I can only describe what they were doing as heckling their own children. It began in pregame warm-ups and continued throughout the game. If a kid missed the ball, his dad would shout "What are you doing? You should have had that!" On and on it went, and it made me a nervous wreck. I whispered to Trey that I had the most self-control of anyone in the whole world because I wanted, so badly wanted, to scold them.
Here's how it played out in my head:
Crazy Parent (jumps out his chair, screams at his own kid): Get your glove on the ground! It went right by you!
Me: Sit down, ya loony! None of us want to see the sweat crease running down the crack of your shorts!
Crazy Parent (disgusted): Aw...why did you swing at that?
Me: Maybe if you wouldn't spend all your money on chaw and Lone Star, you could buy your poor kid some glasses.
And on and on it went in my head. They yelled, and I came up with hilarious, witty insults to throw back at them. And I chose to keep my mouth shut. My husband was very proud.
I think it goes without saying that the other team "drilled us" in Tucker's words. I don't remember the score, but they had somewhere around twenty, and the game was called for run-rule in the fourth inning. It was probably their parents never-ending heckling that made them so good. Our formerly excited, baseball-loving kids were dejected and, I think, a little embarrassed.
And because the tournament was double-elimination, we had to play again the next night.
And I hated baseball.
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