Sports Tip

Baseball games started yesterday. The boys’ team lost 7 to 6. Tonight they face the “best” team – only a game or two in, and there is already a “best” team.

Somewhere, sometime, and I don’t remember where or when, I read (on a blog, I think) the suggestion to have your child athlete place his uniform in a mesh laundry bag (designed for delicates) so that it can go in and out of the wash together. No missing socks or washing the jersey and forgetting the pants.

I thank you, whoever you are, for this tip, and I pass it on to all you other moms gearing up for a sweaty, dirty season on the diamond. Off to rotate my wash.

Foot and Feathers

If you ask your husband to hang a picture and he hands you a hammer and nail, does that mean “No”?

I suspect he is tired of coddling me. {sigh}


“Just don’t move,” said the MRI technician as she walked away. The table and I, with my left foot firmly clamped in a flexed position, moved into the opening. As the light flashed and the machine started doing its thing, I realized that one toe on my left foot was feeling itchy. Somehow I managed to distract myself.

I had hoped to take a nap, but I had not realized how obnoxiously noisy the thing is. Loud humming would have been fine; that’s about what my house sounds like most days anyway. But the rhythmic and arrhythmic banging had me thinking that somebody needed to be redirected to a quieter activity. Nonetheless, I must have managed to start to doze because the tech came in and chastised me for moving, and I had to do the last scan again.

Fully alert, I noticed that itch again.


Today, the doctor called with the results. According to the MRI, I have cellulitis. I momentarily wondered if they did lyposuction of feet.

“Do you have a red rash on your foot or leg?” asked my doctor. I looked down past my cut off jeans to my bare feet. “No,” I answered.

“Fever? Hot flashes?”

Now I suddenly felt middle aged. Lyposuction and menopause all at once. “No,” I said again.

The doctor then said something else, which I more or less understood to mean that since I had no symptoms of a bacterial skin infection, she was not going to give me antibiotics, but that I should call her at once, even at her home, if I should develop a fever or a rash. OK, then. I’ve been checking my temperature hourly.

She also said that I had fluid in my ankle and she was going to refer me to a podiatrist. Interesting. My ankle has not been hurting me over the last four years.

In fact, since I decided to run the Ten Miler and have been dutifully doing my training program, I have felt very little foot pain. Today I ran nearly 3 miles and only stopped because I was tired and because I had to start school. It’s hard to believe that a month ago, I was convinced I would never run again.

God is good. I asked Him to fix my foot, and so far, He has. I really can’t complain about His methods.


Being a strong woman is all fine and dandy, but why do it if you don’t have to? Well, I suppose to avoid annoying a husband who is tired of hanging pictures when he knows you are perfectly capable with a hammer.

My “friend, with a deployed husband, who lives down the street” called tonight and asked for help because a bird had flown into her house. I told her my husband would be right down. I suppose I could have offered her some suggestions or gone down myself to cheer her on, but it just seemed like a job perfectly suited for a man.

When he returned, successful in the task, I thanked him and told him that there were many many nights when he was gone that I cried because I had had to be self-sufficient I just wanted to spare my friend one instance of doing her husband’s job. He nodded. I hope he understands.

I suspect, though, that the more times I send him down there, the more often he’ll be handing me the tools to do my own requests over here.


Now that the rain clouds have dispersed, the weather forecast is calling for a week of gorgeous. My only disappointment is that when my husband went to install an “outdoor dryer” this weekend, a part was missing. We didn’t have the time to return it, so it will be yet another week before I can hang clothes out to dry. I do so miss the smell of sun dried linens.

Is it Holy Week already? So much to do still.

Not from these here parts

I vaguely recall learning grammar in middle school. Or rather, I vaguely recall being taught grammar in middle school. I didn’t actually learn it. I am fortunate that my parents speak in grammatically correct sentences most of the time, so grammar class was mostly me wording things the way that sounded most right.

Fritz is learning grammar (being taught grammar), and he is doing the same thing: resting on his knowledge of what sounds correct versus actually understanding things like what it means to combine a helping verb with a past participle to form a compound tense (huh?). Up to now, his exposure to, shall we say, unrefined conversations has been very limited. Sure, we say things like “It’s me” or “Who does this belong to?” but that’s probably the extent of our poor grammar, and we know it is improper and we don’t speak that way in formal conversations.

But, oh my, what my kids are hearing on the baseball field. “Where you at, Fritz?” I suppose it doesn’t matter that the words end in a preposition…because it’s not a sentence. It makes me cringe. Other things make me laugh: “Stop your jibber-jabbering on the bench and pay attention to the game!” Hoo, boy.

Now, not all the good ol’ boys have Southern Drawls or speak like they were raised in the hills by moonshine swillin’ elementary school drop outs. But there are a few other ways we Reitemeyers have proven that we’re not from around these parts.

That ball cap Fritz likes to wear has this logo. Perhaps you recognize our favorite football team of frozen tundra fame? Down here they have never heard of a frozen tundra. In fact, I’m not sure they even know that there are football teams that don’t have “State” or “University” in their name.

When the coach realized it wasn’t the Georgia Bulldog logo, he forbade Fritz to wear it.

Last weekend, Bill went camping with the Cub Scouts. Our tent is one of these. We are 900 miles away from their nearest retail store.

Locals shop here.

One other way we show we aren’t local: we don’t know how to order a Coke, with a capital c. If you ask for a Coke, the waitress generally asks you, “Which one?” because in the South, coke, small c, means “carbonated beverage.” A warning to Diet Coke addicts, ordering a Diet Coke might get you a Diet Pepsi without the slightest thought from your server that you might want a specific brand of diet carbonated beverage.

And we may never learn how to get a Coke without a lengthy conversation. I generally avoid “soda” (how I refer to carbonated beverages) and stick with water instead. Bill is trying to act like he’s a native, so he’s been ordering “sweet tea.” And the kids like root beer and Sprite. So far, Sprite seems to mean Sprite, and not any old, carbonated, lemon-lime concoction.

Although I don’t care if my kids think a soda is called a coke or if our supplier of outdoor equipment has a wide mouth in its logo, I do hope that my kids don’t pick up the local jargon. In two years, if my son hears, “You ain’t from around he-ya, are ya, boy?” I do hope he is able to answer, “No, sir, I am not.”

The Very Thin Silver Lining

Bill was camping last night, and I took advantage of his absence to write an article for a magazine that is due very very soon. The editor asked me to incorporate “how my husband’s military service has benefited my life in a positive way.”

Right now, I am not a happy Army wife. This life is rough, new jobs require adjusting for everybody, and we’ve got residual issues associated with his return from deployment. As optimistic as I like to think I am most of the time, I was having a lot of trouble finding anything positive to say about this life he has dragged me into (it’s all his fault). Finally, I managed to think of something.

Today, I was telling him of my struggles. “Did you finally say that all our separations make us appreciate each other even more?”

“Did you read my article?” I asked.

He hadn’t. He just knows me that well.