Friday, March 29, 2013
A Playdate With Stupid
I have to do it. I have to post this for posterity so that when I am older, I will have documentation that this actually happened. I imagine I will pull this post out to read during one of my sons' wedding receptions just for the mere sake of taking all the attention away from the bride. Because I am just that way. Most of you already know the story because I could not keep it to myself....it was that unbelievable.
Home schooling was done and I was taking a breather upstairs in my 'pink-think' chair. I was pondering folding the laundry in the basket on my bed when my four year old walked in crying and holding his head. "They hit me with a ball, Mommy!" I respond with the question of whether he was on the trampoline with his herd of brothers and the answer was a predictable yes.
I then say "So.?"
Compassion International, I am not. Unless you are spraying blood, unconscious, have bones bent into unusual shapes, turning blue or all of the above, my reaction will disappoint the majority of protective mothers. I am ok with this and feel my method of triage is effective and saves me from going insane on a regular basis. In our house, there is an understanding that if you enter onto the trampoline, you are taking your life into your hands. If you come to me crying and in pain, it is usually met with a subdued "You knew you would get hurt. Why are you acting so surprised?"
Back to my four year old. Not satisfied with my reaction (and rightly so, I might add), he exclaims, "Mommy, but bowling balls really hurt!". Wait. Rewind. What did he say??? This little dude finally got my attention. WHAT bowling ball?
Suddenly, my memory sprints back to about eight weeks ago where my daughter and a friend were at a friend's house sledging through and exploring the edges of their pond. To their enormous delight, they discovered, and brought home, a neon orange, 14 lb beauty of a bowling ball that had been discarded by the previous owners of the property. It was their trophy for the day. Apparently, as legend had it, illicit drug use inspired the desire to fling quite a few bowling balls into this treasure of a pond. The visual imagery of a couple of toothless, tank top wearing meth heads, aimlessly slinging bowling balls into a sludge pit, makes me very scared of the phrase "All men are all created equal". After what my boys decided to do with this bowling ball eight weeks later, I am convinced there were still heavy traces of drugs still left on it. This is the only explanation that stops me from ascertaining that my boys were flaming idiots.
The three-holed 14lb paper weight came home and was properly placed on our ball rack. Why I thought it would remain there indefinitely, untouched and unfettered, in a household of seven boys, is proof that the residue of drugs, left on the bowling ball, had already gotten to me. I am too prideful to suggest an alternative reason......so drugs it is. You know me, one drug laced bowling ball and I am three sheets to the wind.
After my little boy mentioned the minor detail of the bowling ball, I raced downstairs fearing what I was about to confront. I stood at my back porch door and yelled out to the trampoline. "HEY!! Do you guys actually have a bowling ball on the trampoline??" In unison, they confirmed my inquiry with a gleeful, "Yes!!!"
Let's stop here.
On a trampoline.
With a 14lb bowling ball.
Yes people, soak this sight into your mind. This scenario is a virtual nuclear power plant of really bad judgement. I am pretty sure that the expression of horror and disbelief had rendered my face anatomically incorrect. Think Picasso. My oldest, seeing that I was about to short circuit, tried to assure me that my four year old had ONLY been hit twice. I think I started to twitch at this point. ONLY TWICE?? With my last ounce of tolerance, sanity and courage, I squeaked out, "What. are. you. doing. with. a. bowling. ball. on. the. trampoline?" And with out skipping a beat, he said proudly...........wait for it.......
Ok. I'm done. I resign. See ya. Quitting. I'm filing a complaint. Who do I talk to about this? Who runs this joint anyway?
I cringe at the thought that I am genetically linked to this chaos. And I am thinking, "But, we home school!" Wasn't this supposed to immunize kids against stupidity? Instead of hurling bowling balls at each other, shouldn't they be winning spelling bees, be concert pianists and wanting to be brain surgeons? Nobel Peace Prize, anybody?
I love these boys. These crazy, crazy boys.
I know that their antics will not stop here. And truth be told, and even though it scares me to admit this, I don't want them to. Although I tell this story with great humorous drama....these events make parenting an adventure and worth the ride. These are the stories that they will be telling around the dinner table when they gather as adults reminiscing about what it was like to grow up in this crazy mess called our family.
So, here is my take away from this bowling ball story:
1) Thank you, Lord, for cartilage.
2) There should be stricter bowling ball laws.
3) Young boys should never gather in groups of two or more for
more than two minutes at a time.....unless you want to end up
writing a blog post similar to mine.
4) Over protecting your kids robs them and you of much needed
laughter and medical bills.
5) The words dodge ball and bowling ball should
never be used in the same sentence.
6) Every bowling ball should be drug tested.