The Day the Dragons Came To Our House

Did I ever tell you about the Horrible, Grumpy Day at our house?

It’s a really interesting story. In it, we were all having a really horrible, Grumpy Day. Like, all day long. There had been so much Grump at our house I had feared it had moved in, forever, like a sullen teenager in the basement. All smelly socks and rolling eyes, and passive-aggressive despair. “Motherrrrrrrrrrrr,” whined the Grump. “I don’t like that my Cheerios are round. I also don’t like: sunshine, consciousness, anyone breathing anywhere in my vicinity, and, also, I think, underpants. In other words: I HATE EVERYTHINGGGGGGG.”

Actually, this story is not so interesting.

Lately we seem to be enmeshed in a theme of grumpiness. Usually, Momsie comes in and saves the day with some brilliant plan, like a heavy application of ice cream, WITH the sprinkles.

But on this day, even sprinkles AND whipped cream wouldn’t have done the trick. We were done for.

But then…

There was this loud thumping at the door, and guess what? IT WAS A GIGANTIC BOX.

Ok. Here I have to interject with some shame, because I have absolutely no pictures of any of this. None. I was so wonderfully interested in the box, as were my children, that I forgot. I get points, however, for allowing the boys to help me open it. At this point in the day, I was kinda thinking, “Don’t disturb them. It’s kinda quiet upstairs. There’s been no shouting or wailing for at least ten minutes, so I should just, I think, leave sleeping dogs lie. Or is it lay? No, lie. And yes, my children are the dogs, here.”

As fascinating as this inner dialogue is, I will lessen the suspense and tell you that I did, in fact, call the dogs.

And lo, they came. And we opened the box. And it was a bunch of cool stuff for this movie:


Now, let me explain. I have this really really cool gig with the Mighty Netflix. I write for them. They, occasionally, send us cool promo stuff. And by, ‘cool promo stuff’ I mean:


I almost started twerking, singing, “DRAGONS IN DA HOUUUUUWWWWWSE” I was so excited. We can all thank our lucky stars that I controlled myself.

Then. It got even MORE crazy. The two wee ones, all over stimulated with the gigantic box, started whispering amongst themselves and eyeing me. Something was up. They then approached, all quivering and eyes as big as saucers. “Mommy?” lisped Red. He still had a piece of red packing confetti stuck to his cheek. “Mom? Mommy? Mother? What is this How to Train Your Dragon business? Is it, perhaps, an animated movie for children??”

I know. I have totally held out on ’em.

“And,” added Blonde,  “Dearest Mother, if it is a movie, and we are receiving stuff from The Netflixes about it, don’t we need to, you know, WATCH IT?”

Both boys stared at me in silence. Since I have absolutely NO footage of this, I will show you a similar rendition:

puss-in-boots1Wellllll, you probably know how the rest of the story.

We sat down, with popcorn, our blankies, and some nervous giggles because lo, we were watching a MOVIE in the middle of the DAY. This was rather epic.

And, so was the movie.

I have so much I want to tell you about this movie, y’all. I LOVED it.

This movie. It had heart. And a really great soundtrack. And adorable characters.

And the dragon is so CUTE. I kinda want one of my own!! I’m sure he would get alone with Steve, no problem!

And, it also had this guy:craig_ferguson__120928183323-1__131203211247Craig Ferguson. Sexy Scottish guy.

Now, granted, his character is not oozing sexy charisma:latestBUT, it’s so easy… All you gotta do is every time Gobber the Belch talks, you just clamp your eyes shut and listen to his voice and McBAMMO. Instant Craig Ferguson fix!

This also works for Gerald Butler. But since he plays the dad… it’s a wee bit weird. But, as is the standing rule for animatin: It’s ok as long as you don’t tell anyone.

Sigh. Dreamy Scottish guys. I swear, they could read the menu at McDonald’s (GET IT. SEE WHAT I DID THERE?) and I would get all McSwooney.

But I digress.

I really loved this movie, and so did my children.

Thank you, mighty Netflixes.

You truly saved the Grumpy Day.

My hero.

And you, my sweet hunka Scottish haggis, you.


As a Netflix Streamteam blogger, Netflix asks me to watch their fabulousness and them chatter about it. It's a great gig.

As a Netflix Streamteam blogger, Netflix asks me to watch their fabulousness and them chatter about it. It’s a great gig.

To Spanx or not to Spanx. That’s the really dumb question.

Linking up with Free Write Fridayy today!

The theme is:

Screenshot 2015-07-17 11.39.29

Y’all. In this post I am going to somehow tie together elasticized undergarments to my relationship with Jesus.

If this doesn’t merit a Best Blogger Award I just dunno…


Recently I was signing my book at a really Important Book Signing Event. And yes, I know I keep talking about this, like over and over, but to be honest this whole thing is totally consuming mah LIFE, I tell you. I am a Big Deal! I am super Excited! I am certainly too Famous for cleaning the cat box! If I keep posting about it perhaps the small counterparts in my family might agree!

So far, it’s not worked. I still have to feed them. Needy varmints.

And I know, with the Five Minute Friday theme and all, I should really go for a super spiritual post. But as you know… IF THERE IS A SPANX STORY, IT MUST BE TOLD. And, for reals, it was the first thing I thought of when I thought… “Freedom!”

Well, that and Braveheart. But then he kinda morphed into someone wearing Spanx and shouting in his Scottish accent and it got a bit weird from there.

So, the Spanx story:

As you might know, I purchased a dress for The Big Important Signing. A bit later, whilst journeying through the Cute Money Sucker known as Target, I spied these:


Ok. It was a DIVINE moment, I thought. I mean, it says, RIGHT ON THE PACKAGING, “Super HIGHER POWER” !!

I grabbed a pack, and clutched it to my sagging body, the crinkly packaging told me sweetly that I could “Live the Dream.” I wasn’t quite sure what the context was – like if I wore them I could finally, finally be asked to sing back up for Gwen Stefani?

Perhaps. But it’s also possible they would just make me feel all confident and non-lumpy for the Very Important Signing.

I bought ’em.

And then, the morning of the signing, I put them on. This in itself is an amazing undertaking. It takes a lot of flexibility and upper body strength to get these suckers on, friends. Also, a lot of grunting and a few moments of claustrophobic panic, but I talked myself through it. Who needs yoga class? We could just put on Spanx every morning.

And BAMMO! They were ON!


Ok, let me interject here with one small red flag. The women on the cover of the packaging? They’re, like, CARTOON women. And thus, they are not actually REAL. And also, it seems to me, they are already pretty svelte and possibly, just maybe, THEIR CARTOON WORLDS DON’T REALLY NEED SPANXS IN THE FIRST PLACE BECAUSE THEY’RE LIKE TINY.

So all this living of the dream crap lasted until about twenty minutes later when the Spanx started to want some freeeeeeedom! (Insert Scottish voice for the Spanx from hereon. Makes it more dramatic.) And since the elastic fabric of these guys seem to be possessed with its own sentient abilities – the Spanx started on its master plan of escape. “Listen, you eejit!” said the Spanx. “It’s high time I’ll be takin my leave! Blar blar blar!!”

They started to travel south.

Here I am, all professional, calm and collected, signing books and being so very famous, and at the same time, my undergarments are duking it out, all Scottish style, with my stomach and lower-down lady-bits.

And by that I mean: the Spanx were sloooooooooooowwwwwwwly rolllllllllinnnnnnng down. By painful, strangling inches, the evil torture device headed south every time I moved.

My first thought was: Just don’t move. Just sit as still as a frightened bunny and maybe the Spanx will take pity on you. This plan didn’t really sit well (get it. GET IT. You see that, don’t you?) with trying to be convivial and chatty and, you know, NOT WEIRD, when signing books.

So for a bit, I just tried to accept the Spanx. I serenity prayed at them. I surrendered to the Spanx. “God, grant me the serenity,” I breathed with the last bit of squashed oxygen in me, “To accept that I cannot change out of these…”

But then, I took courage into my own hands, and excused myself from my table and sorta lurched to the bathroom.

It was there that I removed the Spanx. With a lot of grunting and a few choice adjectives, I de-suctioned them. Not an easy feat in a small stall with a lot of rather curious writer-types around. Writer-types have very vivid imaginations, so I dread to think what they were conjuring up in their fertile minds with all this thumping and cursing and “Just OFF! Get OFFA me!  You’re evil! EVIL!!” emanating from my stall.

And then, I did kinda a dumb thing.

(You might want to interject here with, “Just NOW?” which I will allow. I get it.)

The Spanx finally made it to the floor in a beige, defeated heap. I stood, gasping above them. Triumphant. “Demonic SPAWN,” I hissed. And then I kicked them.

Now, it seems Spanx are made out of VERY elastic material. Did you know this? Which also, it seems, makes them kinda boomerangey. Because it was the kicking thing that caught one part of them in my shoe and then they sorta twanged loose and SHOT RIGHT OUTTA THE STALL LIKE FORTY FEET ACROSS THE ROOM.

I then came out of the stall, picked up the Spanx (I SWEAR it kinda growled at me), dropped it in the trash, washed my hands, smoothed my hair, and did my best, so sophisticated walk out of there. So what if it was lunch time and the bathroom was packed with fifty women in shock and awe who had just witnessed a Spanx beat down?

I was free. FREE!!!!!

I could BREATHE, y’all. Breathing is so awesome. SO completely necessary for ones serenity!

So, I pranced it back to the signing table. No, I didn’t just prance, I did my best model STRUT back to the table, friends, to the soundtrack of “I’m Too Sexy for my Spanx”.

And spent the rest of the afternoon, saggy but happy, with my devoted fans. All four of them.

Jesus loves me, this I know. He loves me, even with the foldy bits and the endless neuroses. He loves me enough to say:

“You know? You are beautiful. And I have to tell you. Spanx are from the devil.”

Screenshot 2015-07-17 13.18.50

Throwback Thursday: Z is for Zoo. Of course it is.

When Momsieblog started, waaaaaaay back in the day, I created my own, very special, full of snark, Alphabet Book for Parents. I was amazed by how many ideas I had, even for the letter Q, and how many extra ones I had to archive, never to see the light of day on Momsie. You poor readers. I mean, S is for Snot is a charmer, for sure. I wonder now why I never posted that one?


Here is my Z. For you. #TBT !


Well, we’re finally here.  My Z for you.

And then what? For those of you in the know, there is no letter in the alphabet after Z.  So, it’s time for me to pack up my blog and head for something new – like interpretive dance.  Or perhaps a degree in the philosophy of The Simpsons.  (This one really exists; click here.)  Or, I could see if Gwen Stefani needs a backup singer…


I got material to share, folks.  It’s not like the letter Z was going to stop my kids from acting nutball.  Or the internet to stop providing me with stuff like this:


Screenshot 2014-05-06 10.21.09

You are stuck with  me, my friends.  Stuck.  Like litter at the bottom of the cat box stuck.

But I digress.


Recently my family ventured to the skating rink for an all church skate extravaganza.  It was epic.  Here are some of my observations:

1. All skate rinks have the same carpet.  Stare at it too long and it’ll give you a seizure.

2. All skate rinks have the same guy, kinda circa 1970’s, possibly with a comb in his back pocket, who smoothly manuevers the skate rink like a BOSS.

3. All skate rinks should not try to attempt any food items other than packaged Twizzlers and maybe a chocolate bar.  Hotdogs?  A risky business.

4. All skate rinks have bathrooms with sloped, tiled floors that reduce you and your toddler to nervous laughter because why just go to the potty? Why not try to add a couple triple sow-cow and limbo lessons in that bathroom with a five-year old who has questionable aim?

5. All skate rinks have to do the limbo. It’s a cruel, cruel world.


One other observation:  I haven’t skated since, well, probably college, and I am just not very good at it.  BUT – our pastor?  He was ON POINT.  He almost gave the moustached, 70’s guy a run for his money.  He just kept smoothly gliding about without a care in the world, which makes sense, because Jesus, you know.

I was a bit envious.  At one point, I pushed my four-year old out of the way so I could grab onto my husband’s hand/hair/arm to keep me from planking on the skate floor. And you do know, don’t you, what planking with skates on ends up becoming, right? Just one, long, humiliating, stretchhhh while small children roll by, until your nose breaks your fall.  I think the words, “Don’t worry about Red! He’s closer to the ground – he won’t fall as hard!” were uttered.  Evidently skate parks kinda bring out a rather grim Game of Thrones mentality in me.

Again, it’s a cruel world.


So, after the skate party, we all decided to go for ice cream.  This was a fabulous idea because here’s something I forgot: skating is hard work. At one point, I was doing a sassy scissor move and just kept getting stuck with my poor scissors going wider, and wider… Not pretty.  Not pretty at all.  My thighs were angry with me, and only a chocolate malted would help.  And possibly some fries.  To gently assist the Skateland hotdog.

We all piled in the car. It was getting to be bedtime, and we were tired, rather cranky, and overstimulated from that carpet.  But we were going for ice cream! Family fun continuing! It’s just down here a bit!

And then our Favorite Ice Cream Place That We Always Go To just up and disappeared.

Allow me to explain.  We were on the main drag of a rather small city – one we have traversed a majillion times I am sure.  We have passed this  ice cream parlor a majillion and one times.  We knew where it is.  We were going RIGHT there!  It was just down this road a bit!

Until, of course, it wasn’t.  And we ended up driving up and down and then up again looking for an ice cream place that has ALWAYS BEEN RIGHT THERE. IT’S RIGHT HERE.  I SWEAR IT! IT’S… not. Oh, oops, maybe further down?


At this point, both toddlers in the back have caught on that perhaps, something is afoot.  They can sniff out tension and trouble like a puppy finding Cheezits in the couch, I tell you.

And so, when that happens, so begins the play-by-play commentary from the back seat:

“Wat doin’ Daddy?”

“Where’s da ice creams? I wanna da sprinkles!”

Daddy, rather grimly: “We’re on our way, kids.  We’re taking the scenic route.”

“Wats a swenic route?”

Daddy:  “This is.”

“What’s DIS?”

Daddy:  “The scenic route.”



Both toddlers peer out the window as if to spot an answer to all these troubles, like why they are not eating da sprinkles yet.

Momsie starts to giggle.

“But daddy, scenic route? WHY we are going?”  (My children start to sound like Yoda when they become flustered.)


Daddy:  “We are taking the scenic route TO the ice creams and that’s final!  I happen to like the scenic route!”


I like the scenic route too.  Most of the time.  My children take me on it nearly every day.  We are often all a bit tired and disheveled, mainly from the fact that my boys must run and go and do everything all the time, and it’s hard to keep up, and allow for detours.  But, we are a family. God’s family. And we are on this journey together.

God asks us to take the scenic route.  It’s worth it. It’s not quite what I expected or want all the time, but worth it.

And yes, der will be sprinkles.




How to do a Book Signing. By: A Very Important Person

How to Do a Book Signing

By: Someone so Famous I Almost Can’t Stand It

1. Find out about book signing months in advance. Feel a warm glow of anticipation. Like looking forward to Christmas. Or when the next Star Wars movie comes out.

2. Time passes. Realize you have one week until you leave. Start scheduling the freaking out to occur with regularity from hereon.

3. Arrange childcare, pack, make meals because they will all starve and die without you, pack some more, freak out on regular intervals. Wake up at 2 am a lot and then freak out about freaking out. YOU ARE SO NEUROTIC STOP IT.

4. Drive to airport. Get lost a little, right NEXT to the airport. You can see the planes. You just. Can’t. Get to the planes. Start muttering “da plane! da plane!” in a weird Fantasy Island moment, while gripping onto the steering wheel and what’s left of your sanity.  Get a grip and finally force yourself to take on google maps. OH HOLY ADULTS,  YOU ARE SO GROWN UP.

5. Get through the metal detector thing without losing your pants. Make weird eye contact with guy while putting belt back on pants. Awkward.

6. Someone on plane is wearing your high school boyfriend’s cologne which is confusing. You suddenly want to listen to Spandau Ballet.

7. Turbulence on plane makes everyone in your row start up impromptu bible study. You start humming, “I’ll Fly Away” and “Nearer My God to Thee” as comedic relief. Jesus humor is not well received.

8. Get to hotel. Twelve year old model checks you in. You want to offer her a granola bar and ask her why she’s out so late. She upgrades your room. You love her!

9. Get to room on the 27th floor. You can’t figure out how to use the keyless key thing. You are smarter than this. You nearly dismantle the keyless thingie until you realize, while holding the plastic thingie in your TEETH as you are searching, Lord, help please, PLEASE I am finally HERE just let me in the damn door, that you just need to hold it in FRONT of the keyless thingie. There is no swiping. You feel like a complete idiot and know that somewhere, someone in the concierge office is laughing his arse off. You don’t care because


11. You can’t figure out how to turn on the lights. Everything is chic and automated. Therefore, it is hard. You start to wonder if you should just go home. But, there’s two bathrooms. You can’t leave them.

12. WOW. Bam! You found button for lights and blinds! You got this! You can see now! The button says, “Welcome!” and when you push it the whole room just comes to life! All for you! It might be possible your ego cannot handle this hotel room.

13. The view from the room almost makes you burst into tears.

photo 3

14. The television says, “Welcome Dana Bowman, author.” You almost, ALMOST burst into tears.

15. You watch Real Housewives until two am because your brain is going to freak out anyway, so you frost it over with blonde highlights, drama, and boobs that smoosh upwards in clothing. You wrap yourself in the big, white, fluffy robe that the hotel provided, and realize, you can so relate to all those women. They are fraught, fraught, I tell you, with the struggle. Except to the boob part. You can’t really relate to that part.

16. You wake up at 5 am. The coffee is sublime. You dress in your “Ima author! Here is my all grownup book signing” outfit and wait for your Cali friends to show up. You feel like it’s your first day of school.

17. Friends show up. They take you on BART and amidst the Gay Pride parade which is kinda, well, overwhelming. Evidently it is rather a big deal. It just makes you very, very distracted. It is just too early for all that leather.

18. You end up by the water, and slurp down the best latte you have ever had in your entire life. It almost makes you burst into tears.

Screenshot 2015-07-04 12.29.38

Adorable Cali friends.

19. Sweet friends walk you to conference center, give you a kiss, and send you off. Your editor takes you to your booth.

20. You see your book, a stack of them actually, waiting for you to sign.

21. And finally. Finally. You burst into tears.

photo 1

Bad, teary pic. Happy author.

Postscript: Your editor hands you a tissue and exclaims, “There is NO crying! There’s no crying at book signings! Our authors do NOT cry! Hold it together, woman!”

And, later, you met the author of Lemony Snicket! Squee!!


The end.



Throw Back Thursday, Netflix StreamTeam, and The Dude

IMG_3816It is a very tough life to be a cat around our house.

The above is Steve. AKA  The Dude.* Also, his rapper name is Big Fat Furry, if you wanted to know.

He has various jobs around the home. Things like:

1. Excessive lolling.

2. Eating. A lot.

3. More lolling.

4. Flopping down right in your path in the kitchen while are trying to cook, so you trip over his expansive furry tummy and end up excessively apologizing to HIM for being in YOUR way.

5. Wedging his fat arse into boxes too small for that furry action.

6. Doing stuff like this:

IMG_3792That’s a gift bag. And some ugly linoleum. But, he stayed in there forever. I think he thought he was, um, camouflaged. Poor dear.

Actually, he does kinda match the floor, doesn’t he? So, he’s brilliant!

Anyhow. We love Steve. We also love the other cat we own, a little female furry ball of neuroses we call Bob, but she refused to take a picture for this post. “It’s not in my contract,” she told me, as she slunk off.

It’s ok, Steve was more than happy to pose. Diva.

Steve the cat seems to have a lot of similarities to another favorite cat in our family: Screenshot 2015-06-24 08.23.39When I was a kid, my sister and I LOVED Garfield. I had Garfield posters.I think I had a Garfield Trapper Keeper. I also had Garfield shoe laces. It was all very very important to be All Garfield, All The Time.

And now I get to share Garfield’s biting sarcasm and love of lasagna with my kids.

Only drawback: I now have had lasagna as a request for dinner on numerous occasions, and no amount of spaghetti will do it. Do you know how complicated lasagna is? It’s got layers, y’all. The only layered food I can really master is a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. And even that gets tricky. Peanut butter first? Or jelly?


Garfield and Friends is available on Netflix and we love him so. We love his disdain and his love of sleeping. (I REALLY appreciate his love of sleeping now because, sleep is so awesome. And children take it away. So I live vicariously now through an orange cartoon cat.)

We also love Odie, who reminds me of a similarly goofy creature in our house:

IMG_3833Thank you Netflix.

And thank you, Stouffer’s, for making frozen lasagna. You both have saved the day!

As a Netflix Streamteam blogger, Netflix asks me to watch their fabulousness and them chatter about it. It's a great gig.

As a Netflix Streamteam blogger, Netflix asks me to watch their fabulousness and them chatter about it. It’s a great gig.

* If you didn’t catch it, The Dude is a reference to The Big Lebowski. This wonderfulness is also available on Netflix. But, the lawyer would like me to add that it is NOT for children’s viewing. There is a bunch of sarcasm and lolling about in it, though, so  Steve would like it. I would just have to cover his furry ears during the saucy language.


Kitty earmuffs. Of course.

Red Fail Give


Recently, I had a really, Really Good Idea.

At this point in my life, I have had to pare down my really, Really Good Ideas because having them, like, ALL the time is just so exhausting.  I needed to step down and give other people around me a chance to be brilliant once in a while. It’s my civic duty.

So, I aim for one Really Good Idea a week.

Anyhow: My idea was to start a Writers’ Group! Yes! A Writers’ Group, with people in it! And we write and stuff! It will be super cool! (Circa 1998, students… you know I’m breaking my ! here, dontcha? I’m trying to be ironic. Course, if you have to point out the irony, then, maybe, it’s not irony. Whatever.)

The Writers’ Group was my Really Good Idea!

Here’s why:

1. People actually CAME. This filled me with awe.

2. Also this: I was “in charge” and still, people asked to come BACK!

3. And finally: I gave out homework and they DID it. I KNOW.

So… here’s the assignment.

I had them write down a color. And then a place. And then, they selected a word from my Word Jar… and then… they wrote. And, since I realized I had left the group without my own three words, this morning I decided to grab two words from my handy dandy Jar and added my own color.

And oh… how God has a sense of humor on this one.





I am trying on my red shoes. They are a deep red, shiny, and pointy, and they make me stand up straight when I put them on. I have lipstick that is the same color, the color of a heavy velvet curtain at a theater, or of a pomegranate.

I decide to swipe on the lipstick too. It’s a mistake. Now, I am staring at my reflection in our hall mirror with the shoes, the bright slash of lipstick, and a new dress. My hair is all tangled in a braid that is two days old and a six-year-old is hiding behind the folds of the dress, pretending it is his curtain. He makes his debut with a foam sword and a shout of “Come and get me, Bucko!” and swashbuckles away, but his swordplay has me all out of balance.

I teeter.

It is also possible I don’t wear heels much anymore, so even standing still seems to be a challenge. I sigh and push the braid back. At this point, how will walking go?

I am going to fail.

I take a breath and contemplate the lipstick. It’s too much. And then stare down at the shoes in all their pointy audacity.

“Ok, it’s either you or the lipstick, ” I mutter. “One of you has to go. I look like I’m trying to be Taylor Swift.”

Nobody should try to look like Taylor Swift unless they are Taylor Swift. ESPECIALLY if that nobody is over, erm, forty years old.

At the end of this week, I am flying far away, to San Francisco, to a Really Big Event for The Book.

And all I keep thinking is:

I am going to fail. Somehow, I’ll forget how to get on a plane or how to drive to the airport or how to talk to people. Add the shoes with their pointyness to all of this and it’s just a recipe for disaster. People do not wear red shoes unless they’re in control of the red shoes. I don’t think I can do this.

I mean… WHO do I think I am?

Well. It seems… I am an author.

And I have something to give. And God asked me to give it.

So, I’m going. And I might fail. I might spill coffee on my dress or forget how to use the flight app on my phone or forget to tip the taxi guy…

But God won’t fail. Nor will He fail me.

He got me this far. He can get me to San Francisco.

Even in high heels. He can split oceans in two, after all.  He can help me walk in tippy shoes.


Do not be afraid or discouraged, for the LORD is the one who goes before you. He will be with you; he will neither fail you nor forsake you. Deuteronomy 31:8

My book, Bottled: How to Survive Early Recovery with Kids, published by Central Recovery Press, comes out in September.
Yes, miracles never cease.

Again, There is NO Crying in T-Ball.

I think that if you are going to train to be a Navy Seal then:

1. Good for you. It’s a noble profession, taking care of all of us. I am grateful.
2. Your training should include coaching T-ball.
We had our second game last night. The difference between our first and our second game was quite HUGE. For example: yes, we are still fighting over the ball in the outfield, BUT, there was no crying this time.
Because, as you know, there is no crying in baseball.

There is, however:
1. Dirt sculptures. One child made a bust of Abraham Lincoln. I swear.
2. A total disregard for short-term memory
3. Random Michael Jackson moves at the pitcher’s mound
4. Obsessive compulsive disorder when it comes to getting the ball FIRST. Even if you hit it.
5. One kid actually hit the ball off the T towards the BACKSTOP. I have never seen that before. Bit of a plot twist.
6. Some moments of wonder and grace.

Last night, a kiddo from the other team hit the ball. One of our Purple cats, ran up, corralled the ball into his glove, and proceeded to run it to first, and lo, kid was OUT.
I nearly cried. It was magical.

(Disclaimer: the kid wasn’t REALLY out. In T-Ball we have “Rules.” Like: We let them stay on base in T-ball. We also let them try to hit like waaaay more than three times, for obvious reasons, and sometimes, we even let them go use the potty right in the middle of an inning. We operate by necessity. I mean, YOU tell a five-year old he he’s out at first. Try it. Go ahead. It will eat your soul.)

Course, then that kid almost took my husband’s head off with the ball when he threw it home, but the ARM on that kid! And it just woulda been a mild concussion, at that. No problem. The hubster has had, like, twenty of them already, so he would have been fine…

He tells me they were all sports related.

Huh. I just realized – all those concussions…

Sure explains a lot.


Our team? We are so ready for the championship.
There is a championship, right? Right?

Because, also this:

The last kid in the lineup gets to run through the bases because, well, it’s kinda sad to make him just stand on first and change out the inning. All anti-climatic and stuff. Everybody knows five year olds want drama. So, the last kid, who I SWEAR IS CHARLIE BROWN Y’ALL I AM NOT KIDDING, is now kinda convinced he is the best player ever because he at this game he is the HOME RUN KING.

He hit a wobbly grounder to second, and proceeded to circle the bases, arms raised high, nodding to his fans, very cocky, very Lorenzo Cain. I think he even tried to slide into home. Not sure, because he ran so slowly the other team was already to bat and I couldn’t see for sure… but I do think he tried it. It is possible his slide ended about two feet BEFORE the plate,


We are going all the way people!

A9OS8This cat is not an actual player on our team. That would be weird, wouldn’t it?

But, he sure has great form.