Laser Tag Loser

  Two years ago, we carried the boys to play laser tag a couple of times.  They have been wanting to go back since.  This morning, they got up and something spurred their memory again of the laser tag wonderland that was an hour drive away.  They all but got on their knees and begged for us to go play.  Since cost is always a factor, they all even volunteered to use some of their Christmas money to go play.  Carter went so far as to offer to pay 50 bucks himself for us all to play.  They were very convincing.

 Although begging rarely works at our house, Bradley and I finally gave in to their suggestion and off we went.

We arrived at the laser tag arena and paid for two games.  We even let them keep their Christmas money in their pocket.  We aren't totally heartless. Since there was only the five of us playing, we decided not to play on teams and play the "every man for himself" version. We each chose our laser tag vests and guns and was given our laser tag pseudoname.  The rest of my gang became "Supernova", "Ninja", "Cyberdog" and "Nebula".  I was dubbed "Moose" for the duration of the games. I was instantly transformed into a killer.

While I was suited up as "Moose"....... I became a loser Mom.

Moose was out for blood.  Moose did not care that she was shooting her defenseless six year old in the back of his laser vest.  Moose was thrilled to rack up points from her moody preteen who is in the throws of the most emotional part of his life.  Moose laughed victoriously when she disabled her spouses laser gun rendering him defenseless.  It did not bother Mama Moose one bit that she was raising her score at the expense of her overly competetive 9 year old.  Moose wanted to win!  Moose wanted to win at all costs.

At the end of the game, scores were blazing across the scoreboard for all to see.  Moose was the most accurate shooter in the game.  The heartless Mama Moose jabbed,

 "Ha!  In your face...you losers!"

I am not a good Mama when I play laser tag.

How Did I End Up Like That?!!

Usually when someone gets hurt, they tell the very abbreviated story of how it happened. 

How did you break your arm?

I fell.

What happened to you hand?

I cut it.

How did you get that black eye?

The ball hit it.

But there is almost always a much longer story to be told.  Probably a humorous one.

Today, as I walk, I can feel my pinky toe throb with every step.  If I had on sandals, you might even notice the purplish hue of the toe.  And you might say....

"What happened to your toe?"

I could just say.....

"I hit it on the door."

But here is the rest of the story.....

(These photos are recreated from actual events.  Kids....Do not try this at home.)

Tucker had been tormenting me with a nerf sword. 

 He would tap me...and then take off running.  Then run back and poke me, and then run just out of my reach.  Then, he would bang me on the head with it, and then dodge my attempt at hitting him back.

He can be a very annoying little booger.

So, Bradley handed me a Nerf sword so that I could retaliate.

Oh, It was ON now!

Tucker knew he was in trouble, so he took off running.

We were both laughing hysterically while I chased him through my bedroom and into my bathroom.

Tucker nimbly squeezed between the doors that had been left ajar in my bathroom.

It takes cat-like reflexes to successsfully maneuver the open doors running at full speed.  You have to dart around the first one and then make a sharp left hand dart to get immediately around the second one before you turn left again at the third one entering the closet.  It takes real skill people. 

These are skills that I apparently no longer possess. 

I never made it through the first door.

Running at full speed toward Tucker, my pinky toe got caught on the door.

Immediate pain seared throughout my foot and registered in my brain. 

The next two seconds happened so fast that I didn't even know which way was up.

Catching my toe on the door frame at full speed made me lose my balance.  I became a careening blur of Mom flying head over heels across my bathroom.

And this is where I ended up....

I had my head in the tub and my feet in the air.

My whole foot was throbbing and I was immediately certain that I had a broken toe.

I couldn't stop the tears from forming in my eyes because the pain was too much, yet I was laughing uncontrollably at the whole insane predicament that I had gotten myself into.

I was literally laughing and crying at the same time.

Bradley heard the commotion in the bathroom and came running.

How in the world did you end up like that?

My Most Exquisite Boots

    I have never been a "shoe person", as some chicks are called. It's easy to understand why when you see my feet.  I have honkin' big feet.  I wear a size 11.  I have man feet...not that I am super feminine anyway.  I struggle to know the right way to put on make-up and I require a very simple hair-do, because I just can't figure it all out.  But, I digress.  Shoes.

  I have a hard time finding big shoes that fit my big feet.  Actually, I can find size 11's all the time.  They just look like Granny shoes.  I guess people with big feet are suppose to have a really bad sense of style.  Actually, that theory may have some merit to it, because I don't really have a great sense of style and I have big feet.  I shop at thrift stores, consignment shops, and discount stores, so I guess you couldn't really describe me as "stylish".  But I try....kind-of. 

   So usually,  I just wear whatever shoes I happen to come across.  I don't really put much effort into looking for cute shoes.  I figure that nothing is really cute when it comes in a size 11.  That is a big 'ole shoe. 

  But yesterday, my sister-in-law, who is the most amazing deal finder ever, gave me a tip on some boots.  She had spied these lovely boots at a discount store in a nearby town.  The store is named "Hammer's".  Who would think to look for amazing shoes in a store called Hammer's unless you just knew that the store was known for awesome deals?  Anyway, my Sister-in-law, came across these boots and sadly for her, they were size 11's.  Fortunately for me, Big Foot, they were just my size!  I was going to watch Tucker play football nearby anyway, so I decided to go check out these boots.

   I walked to the back of the store and lifted the lid off a box that was shaped like a boot box.  I think I heard angels singing when the lid came off.  They were fabulous!  I would feel sexy in those boots!  I tried them on.  They fit perfectly!  And they made my foot look smaller....like a size 9 1/2, at least!  My feet looked tiny!  I had to get them!  I am now the owner of the most exquiste, Italian leather boots ever to be created in a size 11.  These are my beautiful new boots.  Admire them and weep.

My Life As a Cheerleader

 Ok, so I am not actually a cheerleader. At one time, yes, but that was many cellulite bumps and wrinkles ago. This past weekend, as I sat in the stands of yet another sporting event, I realized that much of my life revolves around sports. We literally move from one sport to the next with our boys. With 3 boys, who are all very much "into" sports, we spend endless hours jumping from one practice to the next. Last weekend, our hopes of having a free weekend were dashed when we finished up our basketball tournament on Saturday and started baseball practice on Sunday. Tucker, now 12, plays football in the fall, basketball in the winter, and baseball in the spring and summer. Sawyer, who is 8, plays soccer in the fall, basketball in the winter, and baseball in the spring and summer. He also ran track last season in the Junior Olympics. Carter, who is 6, plays t-ball in the Spring and is anxious for the day when he can join in on the other sports. Baseball season is just getting into full swing. We spent the last couple of days at baseball practice and getting gear to fit what has been outgrown. This seems to be the toughest sport to manage timewise. It is next to impossible to shuttle 3 kids to 3 different parks on the same days. Practices and games always seem to overlap. Although having the boys involved in sports takes a huge chunk of our time (and money), I truly enjoy being there to cheer them on when they make a great play or score those points. I sit in the stands beaming with pride when one of my sons step up to bat and smashes the ball for a homerun. I love to watch my speedy Sawyer steal the ball from the opponent like a flash of lighning and send the ball into the goal. I relish in watching Tucker lay out another player when he makes an amazing tackle. Seeing Carter tag a player out on his little tball team makes me cheer with delight. I am their biggest fan. I am their greatest cheerleader. It is one of my favorite parts of being a mother.

Clash of the 10 year olds

There is something just not right about giving permission for your son to bang heads and bodies with other boys, whose Moms have also givien this same permission. I sat at the first football practice, with my full body tensed. Form tackling. That's what they call it. They match up one kid against another and they clash away at each other until one goes down. I am sorry to the other mothers, but I was downright giddy inside when your son went down. Although it makes me nervous that something bad will happen, football is fun to watch. We have dabbled in every other sport, but this was our first year for football. After I accustomed myself to the clashing at practices and withdrew from my ball of tension, I learned to enjoy it. And I also learned that Tucker is not half bad at it. I also really enjoyed the fact that Bradley was beaming with pride as he was able to teach Tucker about form, position, plays, and all that stuff. While I tried desperately to follow along in their lingo. I didn't always understand all the calls or the plays, but I did understand when Tucker carried the ball across the goal line for the first time. I think I'm gonna like this sport!