ONE Perfect Student

Spring Break always starts with a BANG:  Parent/Teacher Conferences.

I've got to confess that High School Teacher Conferences tend to slip my mind.  Most likely because of the popular teenage trend to stealthily cover up the fact that they're even going on.  This year, with a little help from a certain someone,  I actually remembered and made a plan to get down to the school and visit with Mitchell's teachers.  And, since I was making the effort to go, I decided to bring my tight-lipped teen along, just in case the ride got bumpy.  Thankfully it was a blissful day largely filled with compliments and congratulations for the boy. (Large exhale, big sigh of relief.)

But not without a few interesting (and blog-able) notes:

First, from his English Teacher:

I'm excited to report that she gave ME an A+.  When we showed up she turned to Mitchell and said, "First, your mother's turn."  It turns out she's read the blog.  And she gave me an A+ !!   If only Mr. Sharp and Mr. McBain were still teaching at the school, I would have drug her over to their desks and had her give my two favorite english teachers a full report on my improved english scores and then begged them to expunge my high school records.  But unfortunately they're both retired.  drat!  (Although perhaps this is a good thing as Mr. McBain may have double checked my poor blog for its syntax: namely my erroneous use of comas, semi colons, and my overzealous exploitation of parentheses.)  With that swirling in my mind, I continued a very fun and  lighthearted conversation with his english teacher.  After a bit Mitchell got impatient and had to finally interrupt and say, "aren't we here to talk about me??"  (hush child!  I'm finally getting good grades.)

Mitchell was happy to redirect the conversation AWAY from our family's life exposing blog and back towards himself, that is, until it suddenly took an unexpected detour.  His english teacher turned her attention from the blog to the boy and generally told me he was an overall great student.  Then she leaned in toward him in a sort of covert way and in hushed tones she said, "Mitchell, can you think of any reason there might be a concern for your grades in this class?"

Mitchell face looks puzzled, he furrowed his brows, and gave a look of total bewilderment.  You could see his mind scanning his english class routines and wondering how things could be so concerning when everything seemed to be going so well.  Then Mitchell's face slowly smooths out and he raises his brows and says,  

"Ohhhhhhhhh.  The Chair?"

She gives him a nod.  "Yes the chair."

This is when I discovered that Mitchell has fallen asleep a few times in the cozy chair he has chosen to sit in to read during class.  His teacher tries to suppress a grin long enough to stay composed and suggest he read something a little more lively than "The World Treasury of Physics, Astronomy, and Mathematics" during class time in an effort to stay awake.  To which I heartily agree that said book does NOT scream "gripping page turner".

Then the report from his science teacher: 
It just so happens he goes to this class with his cousin Bryce.  She reported to me that Mitchell is pretty quick and smart when it comes to science (no surprise there) but that he has a little bit of an issue documenting his brilliance on paper and actually handing in such evidence (...no surprise here either).  Paperwork is not this kid's forte.  His cousin Bryce, on the other hand, is a little more challenged by the concept of science (and quite frankly, who the heck isn't??) and that often forces him to write everything down, work it out on paper, and turn it in.  Then she looked up and said,

"If I could combine Mitchell's brain with Bryce's paperwork,

I'd have the perfect student."

So I take that as a compliment...even if it's only HALF of one.  I am thrilled that between my sister-in-law and I, we've got  

ONE PERFECT BOY!  

So with that, my plan is to duct tape these boys together, brain and brawn, and get them successfully through high school.

POST NOTE:  Around "press time", I discovered Mitchell just found an exciting new book to read in class that he's certain will solve his sleepy problems.  His new book?  "The Physics of Superheroes".  It has a cartoon-looking cover that deceptively looks like an attention-grabber.  But when I cracked it open, it was the same droll stuff as before; do we really need to know that that gravity is 15 times greater on Krypton than on Earth?  And that when the Flash runs, he's surrounded by a pocket of air that enables him to breathe?  Seriously kid, you're scaring me.  Where's your cousin?  I'm getting the duct tape back out!

Wicket Warfare

Skillmans are mad about Croquet.  Actually, let me clarify that.  Skillmans are mad about the notion of Croquet.  Many a summer night you'll find us out on the lawn dueling it out with our mallets.  However, our family's version of the game does not come from any part of the official rulebook.  It is a bastardized version that would surely offend my poor British ancestors who would have pictured a more relaxing and lovely afternoon-with-tea-and-crumpets sort of game much like this one:

That is not, however, how we play the game.  After our first and only venture setting up an OFFICIAL croquet lawn in the prescribed manner we quickly decided it needed some serious Americanizing/Skillmanizing.  In our version there is no such thing as out of bounds.  We spread the wickets (Brits call them hoops) throughout our sprawling lawn more like a game of golf, taking particular care to plunge said wickets in any and all hazards that might severely hinder a "striker": namely rocks, slopes, and delicate garden flowers.  Basically, as the game progresses things get heated, grudges brew, and mallets get broken;  it's your basic family bonding activity.

The favored game tactic is the "Aunt Emma".  Which is basically when a player appears more concerned with hindering their opponent from making progress rather than trying to progress themselves.  According to the rulebook this dulls the game.  Obviously the rule-makers have never seen the Skillman version of an Aunt Emma.

Each year we go through 3 to 4 croquet sets.  They just don't seem to make mallets sturdy enough to handle our particular variation of the game.  But last year, we were thrilled when we discovered that the latest "replacement" set we bought contained STURDY wickets that were sure to last forever!

They don't look like much in this photo, but they are really thick and totally unbendable.

However...there is one drawback to them.

Today the boys were looking for something to do.  It's Spring Break and unexpectedly, the weather outside is, well, surprisingly springlike.  These bored boys, as in mine, an unnamed cousin, and yet another unnamed friend came over and decided it was warm enough to crack open the croquet set.

But, as Skillman Croquet usually does, things soon took a decidedly wretched turn for the worse.  After a while all of the boys all came into the house laughing.  All of them except for one.

When I peeked outside to see where the missing boy was, I found Connor like this...

(Click on the image and take a good look)

Apparently this is what happens when you get caught cheating.  I'm calling it "The Lawn Lock".

With a game where tempers tend to flare,  perhaps really solid wickets aren't the best idea after all.

Baggie Snob

I love my sister-in-law.  Dearly.  Severely.  Oh-So-Clearly.  In fact, she's so great that I'd even upgrade her to the title of SISTER and leave off the hyphened part altogether.  She's just that good of a sister (especially since she recently spent a sunny Saturday afternoon helping me weed my lawn!  Which, by the way, is a hot tip for any of you currently having sister-in-law troubles.  A surefire way to get back in her good graces.)

But as all sisters do, she has her quirks.  Lots of them.  Mostly endearing, sometimes bewildering, and altogether amusing.

Yesterday our quirky-quirks squared off and went head-to-head when she came over to drop some stuff off at my house.  The "stuff" was of the loose variety, the kind that needs to be collected and zipped into a baggie. At the time I didn't notice anything peculiar about what exactly she had dropped off.  It wasn't until I needed it and went to get it out of the baggie that I noticed with much dismay her particular fondness for frugality. With great alarm I noticed the baggie itself...

 

For those of you who've never seen such a thing,
this is called a "Twist Tie".

I call it "A Relic".

 Later when I saw her again I couldn't help but comment on her baggie. 
"Who uses those anymore?" I scoff with my most incredulous tone.

To which she flatly replied, "You're a baggie snob."

And she's right.  There's no doubt about that.  You will never catch me wash them out and attempt to reuse them, nor fiddle with twist ties.  You also won't catch me using the folding kind with the flippy hibbidy jibbidy lip.  In fact, the store I usually buy my baggies at, they just quit carrying the brand I love so much.  And, being the proud baggie snob that I am, I simply refused to buy the cheapo kind...

I think she'd die if she found out I solved my dilemma by upgrading to the zipping TAB kind:

Added to which, I also admit that I'm also a kook about:

• Brand of Paper Towels
• Brand of Toilet Paper (AND rolling from the top down.  I will even change yours if it's amiss.)
• Old School Toothpaste Tubes with the Screw-on Caps (Won't buy those)
• Down Pillows
• Using Butter never margarine
• Banning Ketchup on eggs
• Labels Facing Out

Honestly, there's a lot of things I'm not so fastidious about, like my messy piles of books or making my bed every single day, but I guess the above list may mean that I've got a few bewildering/amusing quirks myself.  Okay, lots of them.  But who's counting? (8)

Arch Enemy Conundrum

It's baseball season again.

This year finds Connor old enough to play in the Majors which means two things:  tryouts and draft picks.  It can be a nerve-racking time for a boy and his parents who often spend the pre-season marinating in a murky bath of apprehension and unease.   And while most parents fret with fingers crossed just praying their fine young son will get accepted to any team at all,  I've got to confess that I have been a little more worried about a trickier baseball issue.  This is because in our area, baseball players actually wear shirts and caps that endorse real major league baseball franchises.  And so far Connor has been a Seattle Mariner and a San Francisco Giant.  All mildly acceptable.  My frank admission is that my real torment is not necessarily IF he gets onto a team but rather WHICH team he might get drafted to should he make the cut. 

Foolishly, I never prepared myself for this year's outcome.  Quite simply, it was inconceivable.  I was in complete denial that there lurked somewhere out in the future the slightest and most loathsome possibility that my son, my very own flesh and blood, a child I've birthed and raised into a decent human being, that such a fine and honest boy would grow up (relatively speaking) and get drafted onto a Little League team that would  require him to wear shirts and caps that brazenly promote a team which is the ultimate rival and arch enemy of my youth.

So when the phone call came, everyone in the house was excited to hear that Connor had made it onto a team.  And me?  I wanted to cut to the chase and know exactly WHAT team he had been drafted onto.  That was when calamity struck.  It was the mother of all horrors.  He was now officially a "D" word.  The-Team-That-Must-Not-Be-Named.

You see, I was born and raised an Angel fan.  Angels do not ever, not under any circumstances, cross-your-heart-hope-to-die,   ever, ever cheer for (gulp) a dodger.  (I can't even bring myself to capitalize it.)

So this year I will not be quite as worried about the cold, the wind, the sleet and snow, or even the possibility of getting frost-bitten in precarious places by an icy metal bleacher.  No these things seem so insignificant now.  What I am REALLY worried about this season is that I'll be caught by a fellow Angel in the act of cheering on a dodger.  Oh the shame.

(to read the bizarre details of my quirky fan issues in my "Confessions of a Baseball Fan" post, click here.)

The Lone Olympian

Thanks to his G-Ma (a.k.a Gramma Joyce) Connor caught the spirit of the Olympics when she came out to visit a few weeks ago.  In his fury of excitement, and to our dismay, he completely filled up our DVR with hours and hours of winter games.

Most late afternoons, there Connor sat like an Olympic junkie, avoiding homework, teeth brushing, eating, and even his usual circle of friends (true warning signs).  He took his place on the couch as the lone spectator watching everything from snowboarding to even ice dancing!  He was into EVERY SINGLE SPORT.

Here he is with Edward Scissorhands (the cat) taking in a hockey play-off game...

 Which team USA happened to win...
before we eventually lost.

 

Disappointed at his family's lack of interest, Connor tried to kindle a little enthusiasm amongst the ranks by sharing a few of his favorite things about the Olympics.  He did this by making a little speech during dinnertime and then forced us to watch youtube clips which he had marked "favorite".  Among the highlights of Connor's pep-rally speech were:

The Mascots

 

-which only peaked Chloe's interest mildly.

The "Bum Shove" in the Speed Skating Relay

-which got my attention, 

since I've got a freakish preoccupation towards

gragarious shoving and good humored socks to the arm.

and lastly,  he attempted to sway us by showing us

The Epic Spills...

-which excited the remaining family members who were still holding out.

After the Olympics came to an official close, Connor seemed to suffer from massive withdrawals.  The thought of having to wait another FOUR years for the next winter games seemed overwhelming to a young boy who has only been on the planet a mere eleven years.  Though perhaps the calamity was due mostly to the fact that now he had no legitimate excuse to avoid his homework, teeth brushing, and room cleaning.   He began to look so melancholy we took pity on the boy.  Something had to be done to suppress his post-Olympic-separation anxieties.

There was only one thing to do.  Hold an Olympics of our own.

[commence Olympic theme song.]

It was the poor Hassells who ended up being our guinea pigs for a family-style Olympics.  The third family we tried to beguile was out due to a broken arm.  This meant we had to start dividing ourselves into teams by grouping everyone into their birth season; spring, summer, fall, winter.  Then each group picked a country to represent.  Then, we let the games begin!

First up, the Two-Man Table Sled:

Then, on to Skiing:

Next, Curling (This was Mitchell's invention- a paper bowl with a tennis ball underneath):

(please note Brett's "Agony of Defeat" pose, above.)

And finally, Broom/Mop/Swiffer/Vacuum Hockey:

All of course while serious score keeping took place:

And no Olympic meet could be complete without a metal ceremony where Gold, Silver, and Bronze gets awarded (or should I say Twinkie, Ding Dong, and Reese's Peanut Butter Cup?):

Winning the Gold definitely took the edge off Connor's withdrawal symptoms.

...and, let's just say I'm glad I was the official photographer for the events so that I didn't have to stand with my team on the loser lowest podium.  However, the Bronze Reeses Peanut Butter Cup "Metal" was by far the most delectable award presented.  The chocolaty peanut butter goodness more than made up for coming in last.

Oh, and yes, please note the humility at which Mark (in the blue t-shirt) accepts the Gold.  You can see for yourself one of the many reasons why this humble man is the love of my life.

Let's just hope this quenched Connor's Olympic thirst for another four years.  I haven't the courage or self-esteem to lose that bad again for a few more years.

My Geeky Son

Mitchell has been reading a certain book that he found in his Grampa Shumway's library.  It looked so good, that he asked to borrow it last June so he could read it over the carefree summer.  It must have turned out to be quite a page turner because he has recently decided to re-read it all over again. 

So for this re-read, he's now back in school.  Instead of lounging around the house reading far from his onlooking peers, this time through he's been unabashedly taking it to school with him, which has put him in a bit of a quandry.  Apparently his friends have all been giving him grief over his book because today I found the darn thing on our kitchen counter sporting this most rugged and manly looking homemade book cover:

  

Take a closer look...

 

What's the real name of the book you ask?

 

Yes, that's right...

"The World Treasury of Physics, Astronomy, and Mathematics"

And just how big is this book you ask??

 

And what exactly does it say inside you inquire further?

Let me show you... 

For your reading pleasure I photographed 

a random page for you to delightfully ponder...

"huh?"

Seriously, did you notice this sentence:

"At this time, as you have probably already anticipated, the force of gravity become unified with the rest of the forces."

Probably anticipated???  Good grief!  My mind had already gone blank after the first sentence.  

Remember when you were a Junior reader and your teacher gave you that handy little method to figure out if the book you wanted to read was on your reading level?  You remember.  You had to read the first page and if you counted more than five words you couldn't understand.  Bingo!  Not your book.

Okay, so I tried that method here...

1. quark/leptons
2. bosons
3. electro-weak
4. 10-45 seconds
5. supersymmertry

yep, not the book for me.  How 'bout you?

My question is...whatever happened to classics like S.E.Hinton's "The Outsiders" or "Rumble Fish" full of teenage violence?  Or just a simple magazine like the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Edition?  Or even a comic book for mercy sake?   These things a mother can understand, but Physics?  Astronomy?  and heaven forbid, MATHEMATICS!  All in the name of fun?  These sort of topics do not scream prom date.

...which, is why I'm quite happy with my geeky son! 

The Winds of War

Shock and Awe.  Total disbelief.

Once again, the wind has blown our BBQ off our porch.  That is, the BBQ that is CHAINED TO THE HOUSE.

Mother Nature, that mistress of mayhem, first declared herself the supreme archenemy of our family's beloved BBQ before we had it chained up to the house. She ambushed us with a stealth wind that came in under the cloak of night and without warning picked up our BBQ and dropped it into the middle of the lawn, completely smashing it into bits.  It was even one of those sturdy and quite heavy Webber gas grills.  But apparently that first grill was no match for the enemy.

Wind-1       Skillmans- 0

We buried our poor comrade, with its knobs sheared off and its grill top amputated,  in an unmarked grave; a vast Rubbermaid trash can that was gated up beside the garage.  We were then left to console ourselves with nothing more than the memories of the many summers it had delighted us with baby-back ribs and marinated tri-tips.

Then we readied ourselves for another inevitable assault by purchasing a heftier gas grill and this time we chained it to the porch.

Just a few weeks later, the enemy returned.  It swept through brazenly in broad daylight and ripped the new BBQ off the chain, up into the air, and send it flying to the lawn.

Wind-2        Skillmans- 0

So we bought a stronger chain.

That should do it right?  

Wrong.  I took this picture today:

 

 

 

Wind- 3       Skillmans- 0

Brutal.  This may call for some special Ops.  We must hold our ground, call in re-enforcements, or perhaps a kamikaze-style mission is in order in which we lash one of the kids to both the house AND the BBQ in a final unwavering attempt to secure victory at all costs.  But whatever we do, it is clear that this is a defining moment and we must not surrender or yield.  Our BBQ is a stake here.  And summer is coming.

My Nemesis-The Boy Scouts

It's been the most challenging love/hate relationship I've ever encountered.  My total nemesis.  It's the dang Boy Scouts of America.  They kill me.   As Connor just graduated from Cub Scouting to Boy Scouting I am faced with starting all over with another fresh shirt to sew and whole new series of patches to apply.  So, as I sit here behind the dreaded sewing machine, I am compiling a list of serious grievances in my head that I feel inclined to confess.  So I'm neglecting the bobbin for a moment and opting for bloggin'.  Here are a few of my rational complaints against the whole scheme, and a few irrational ones as well:

• Sewing on Patches-  You can just forget hand sewing altogether.  It simply isn't going to happen.  Ever.  But even patch sewing with a machine sends me into cussing fits like no other (as many things often do.)  My biggest beef here is that the whole Scouting program is designed to increase the skill sets of a young boy but I've never seen the BSA figure out that sewing might be a valuable skill set, especially since, as a matter of fact, they'll be earning plenty of patches which will require SEWING!  Therefore, somebody, please, in the name of all that's sacred to Scouting, I beg you...offer a SEWING MERIT BADGE and put us mothers out of our misery! 

Perhaps then they would sell more of this largely unused item...  

...and yes, I'm well aware of the fact that said patches can be applied in many different fashions but seriously folks; gluing, stapling, and velcro-ing just make for a shabby looking scout which would cause the legendary Fred Clark (and admittedly myself) to shutter in disbelief.  

• Those Awful Yellow Leader's Blouses-  Seriously yellow?  If Scouting also added a FASHION MERIT BADGE, the culprits who designed the yellow den mother's blouse, they would quickly realize that yellow is NOT a complimentary color suited to any skin type.  There is no make-up that will offset that "geez you look so pale and awful, are you tired?" look that comes from that darling of a shirt.  During the time I was compelled by lethal doses of peer pressure to be a Den Leader, I absolutely refused to wear the yellow shirt and bought male version in khaki.  An ever so undetectable improvement.

My complaint is legitimized by the accompanied photo above right.  In it please note the leader in the yellow blouse looks dreary and tired and not at all happy with the two fresh and perky den mothers in Khaki who are obviously laughing at her as they mock her gastly yellow blouse.

• Too Many Accessories-  Do you know what kind of rampage is caused each week when we play the "Where's my scout pants/shirt/hat/neckerchief/slide/belt/handbook game?  

This is exactly why I don't buy the official scout socks, wallet, key chain, knife, underwear, flash light, mess kit, hair mousse AND sewing kit.  Can you image the hours it would take to round-up all this extra gear and make it to their meetings on time?

• Mother's Pins-  I never ever remember what I was wearing the last time I was so delightfully honored with my newest mother's pin.  How do you expect me to find them all and wear them at once?  That would be a closet showdown like no other.  But, may I just say, I appreciate getting pins and NOT patches!  Though perhaps each boy should qualify for the PINNING THINGS ONTO YOUR MOTHER MERIT BADGE before these scatterbrained boys should be allowed to award it to us.

• Camp Out Laundry- You can smell the Scout van driving down the lane to drop off your stinky camper and his horrific pile of stench-filled laundry.  There is no amount of Tide and Downey fabric softener that can remove that indescribable smell of campfire mixed with B.O.  A gas mask is required for the first full week after a camp out if one intends on entering the laundry room.  Holding your breath will simply not do.

And that is why, Boy Scouts of America, I declare you my nemesis!

And now that I got that off my chest, I'm off to 

go sew patches on a brand new shirt!
[fade to cussing]