The location was a place I knew well.

I graduated high school in that gym. Matter of fact, I got in trouble for blowing up a beach ball and hitting it into the crowd of my fellow seniors.

The drinking fountain is still unpredictable in it's flow.

The folding chairs sit just right of the basket, the principle making his presence known in the lead seat.

The cheerleaders prancing on the sidelines, more interested in their perfect spin than the actual score of the game.

That section of four kids in the first row that have way too much school spirit. Clothing themselves in face paint, two mis-matched socks with said school colors, hair bandannas, and any other silly fixture to prove they hold the title for most school spirit.

The mom that watches with pride as her son gets in for the last twenty seconds of the quarter.

All the players are the same, and yet it feels so different.

During high school, basketball games were the event on Friday night. You had to get there an hour early to even get a seat. Everyone was at the basketball game.

We used to bring in newspapers and as their starting line-up was called, shout out "WHO CARES?". We would chant Go Home, Go Home to the opposing fans if the score went up by ten points. We all wore matching tee shirts, for crying out loud.

Where are all the fans?

I have yet to see a high school game with even a quarter of the bleachers full. They do not even bother to unfold the last section.

I guess I am nostalgic to a fault. The thought of a whole town gathering together to root on the home team just gives me the warm and fuzzies.

Why don't people go anymore?

Down time

Josh and I were talking in our bed last night before he went to bed and I went to work, and somehow both boys ended up in there with us. I do not know why, but Kayden is so much more talkative at bedtime.

The conversation went like this:

K: Mom, tell me a story
M: What kind of story would you like?
K: One about Bayden.
Bayden is the alter ego of Kayden. The naughty boy who hits his Grandma, or draws on my counters, or spills the chocolate chips.
M: Okay. Once there was a boy named Bayden, and he loved his mom very much.
K: Yeah, Mom. I am gonna marry you.
M: Your gonna marry your mamma?
K: Well...no. I guess I don't want to get married. I'm too little and your too old.

Then, he thought about it and added, "I think in maybe, like, 14 days I will be old enough."

I visualize the future with them as teenagers. I can see myself looking back to these days and how idyllic this stage of life is. The problems can be solved with a bandaid and a kiss. A 99 cent car makes their day. I know time marches on and so must I, but sometimes I wish that I could keep them this age forever. Innocent, naive, sweet, happy-go-lucky little boys.

It could be a good thing we did not have a girl.

I found this new site that you can put two photos in and get the results for what a joint baby would look like.

Results:

Okay, I will never have a child that looks like this. Unless I marry a different dude.
Oh my word.

A head wrap?

A joint little boy. I see some resemblance:

Torticollis

Five months of driving to Spectrum Downtown.
30 minute sessions.
3 times a day, 2o minutes each of physical therapy at home

and we finally have a neck that is straight.

Good going, Bryce-y Boy.

You've got to have passion, right?

This whole article just cracked me up.

The good stuff:

"Sea kittens" is the new term being used by People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals, for the creatures they believe are in dire need of an image makeover: fish.

"PETA thought that by renaming fish sea kittens, compassionate people who would never dream of hurting a dog or a cat might extend that sympathy to fish, or sea kittens," PETA campaign coordinator Ashley Byrne says.

"Most parents would never dream of spending a weekend torturing kittens for fun with their families, but hooking a sea kitten through the mouth and dragging her through the water is the same as hooking a kitten through the mouth and dragging her behind your car," Byrne says.

One of my favorite songs as a child was "God Loves to Talk to Little Boys While Their Fishing." My mom would play it on the piano and we would all gather round to sing of a little boy in the quiet with God, and how fishing seems to be the time boys' listen best.

Somehow "God Loves to Talk to Little Boys While Their Killing Sea Kittens" just doesn't have the same ring.

The Battle of the Wills.

One 24 ounce bag of chocolate chips was the culprit. Somehow, it found it's way to the floor, strewn about like some little boy had dumped the entire bag upside down.

Sick of picking up toys/food/spills/messes again and again, I consulted with said little boy.

"Did you dump that bag of chocolate chips?"

"No, you dumped it out Mom!"

First Round Time Out, 2 minutes

Out of time the little boy came, thinking it was quite pleasurable to play with 24 ounces of chocolate chips. Roads were being paved, baskets were attempted into Bob the Builder lunch box...picking up was quite fun.

For about 6 oz.

Second Round, Time Out, 2.5 minutes

Upon entering round two time out, little boy kicked over Bob, the collector of chocolate chips.

Back to 24 oz.

Another 45 minutes of picking up ensued, with lots of encouragement from mom in the form of yelling. The end of Round Two pickup left melted, sat-on chocolate chips on little boy buns, messy fingers, and a steel resolve from mom that she was NOT going to pick up one chip.

Upon noticing Mom's eyes were getting droopy, little boy pounced and tipped over 14 ounces of chocolate chips into the dump truck nearby. "Oh What Fun!", the little boy proclaimed.

"Pick them Up", said the Mom.

Off to Bed, went the boy, for Round Three Time Out when he disagreed.

Round Four started with 14 ounces of chocolate chips back into Bob. Current Time elapsed is well into the 100 minute mark. Tag-team commenced with Daddy's arrival, just in the nick of time. Mom's patience was running out.

Round Five and Six Time Out came with Daddy at the helm, but Mom did not pick up one chocolate chip.

What a sweet victory indeed.

It is not the best picture...but don't you just love how excited he is to jump in?

UPDATE

So, I just want to clear things up a little bit.

First, I really was not trying to get everyone all riled up about the Christian Reformed church. I honestly did not know if we were graded, and was hurt, and knew you guys would know the answer (and I thought maybe you got graded too, or knew some explaination). Obviously, it was a big misunderstanding.

I was called and apologized to, and I honestly can say I harbor no ill feelings. I did not get the joke, but now that the full situation has been explained to me...I am over it. The person that did it feels more horrible than I could ever make him feel, and apologized so many times. I just did not get the joke, and that is that.

:-)

I do have to say how impressed I was by how our pastor handled it. I felt a little bit stupid calling him, and the kindness and listening skills demonstrated are rare.

Hmmmm...interesting.

This morning at church, I absently took the piles of papers out of my church mailbox-little bulletins of events coming up, various religious publications, etc. Once I settled into my seat, one plain white envelope with our names neatly written across the front in red letters caught my attention.

Curious as to what it was, I paused for a moment before lifting the flap and sliding out the contents.

Enclosed was my financial giving statement, and the most curious part to me was what was scrawled across the top corner in bright red pen. A grade.

C+

with a frownie face.

It initially made me defensive. A few months ago, we signed up for automatic withdrawal because we wanted to make sure we were giving our first fruits, even when we could not make it to church. I have thoughts on this that I won't get too far into here. I love the ease and convenience of it, but sometimes feel the act of giving part is taken out. I digress.

The whole situation hurts my feelings, honestly. Mostly because I feel like I have been giving an A effort, and there have been months it has been a struggle for us to give. I feel like it is ultimately between God/Josh and I. Why would the church give me a grade? How would they even know what grade to give, more less a bright red frown face?

It is a CRC thing? Growing up baptist, we did not get grades. As a matter of fact, no one should have known what our giving was (although I am sure that information was divulged anyway).

Getting a grade for it just feels....like a church thing instead of a God thing.