Category Archives: billy

07.14.10
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Dutiful Sons

Fritz and Billy are away at camp through tomorrow. I had asked them to please send me a letter and provided stamped and addressed envelopes. I even showed them where the outgoing mail was collected and told them to get it there by Tuesday or I wouldn’t receive it before their return. Sure enough, I got two letters in the mail today.

The letters are typical of their personalities. Billy’s has zero details, but is very neat and everything is spelled correctly. Fritz’s letter is messy, and perhaps half the words are correctly spelled. Punctuation seems to be optional. But, I learned they went to mini-golf, batting cages, a “dolfin cruse,” and the beach, that the food is OK, and that they would be going to a local fort that day (he named the wrong one, but I know what he meant).

I am thrilled that they did as I requested!

06.30.10
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Fun is as fun does

I signed Billy and Katie up for a Junior Ranger camp this week. It’s a good thing. Four very busy hours every day, and they’ve been going to bed at night with no complaints. Billy did get a little teary yesterday afternoon; he misses his brother so much. That’s why I’m trying to keep him occupied.

I’ve been carpooling, so I didn’t drive Monday or Tuesday. Today and tomorrow are my days. When I picked them up today, the young man at the sign in/out desk said, “Just sign here and they’re all yours.”

“You seem excited at the prospect of being rid of them,” I replied with a knowing smile. No way would you catch me doing a camp with a hundred adolescents.

“Oh, yes,” he agreed wearily. Just then, Billy came up and showed me something he had made. Now connecting me with a particular child, the young man added, “Your son is a pleasure.”

“Oh?” I said.

“He listens and does what he’s told.”

“That’s good,” I said as we walked off. I’m pretty sure my daughter and the other girls in the camp are not quite as cooperative. Not bad, I mean, just too busy chit-chatting to even notice that the party is moving on to other things. Billy, though, knows that the fun is in the doing, not in the talking.

Although, talking is fun too…(can’t help it…I’m a girl…)

02.25.10
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Another day, another milestone

Ten years ago, I was an exhausted new mother, again. We’re feeling very celebratory here today and are doing Homeschool Light.

Last year, Billy’s birthday was on Ash Wednesday, so Mardi Gras partying was all for him. This year, Bill won’t be able to be home tonight, so we had cupcakes last weekend. You know you have a Lenten birthday when your mom puts out exactly enough cupcakes for the members of your family. Leftovers went into the freezer and are right now awaiting frosting. Conveniently, there are exactly enough for our family and a friend’s family to share.

Happy birthday, Billy. I hope you have a GREAT day.

12.06.09
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My St. Nicholas Gift

Last night we had an incident. It was a day of incidents involving a certain mischievous toddler who is learning that mother is not amused by her foraging into the open bag of sugar or by her dumping spices all over the kitchen and dining room floors. But last night, we had the granddaddy of incidents.

I was trying to read the three books we have on St. Nicholas to interested children. Several children were drawing pictures for St. Nicholas on the dining room table. Peter had “messed up” and “needed” White-Out. I have had my perfectionist children utilize this substance when their schoolwork – written in ink – has needed correction. Very quickly they turned to it for every little mistake, even ones done in pencil. They even used it to decorate their Halloween pumpkins. I keep telling them it is not paint. And I keep telling them they need to keep it capped and out of little hands. They do not heed me.

As I was reading, I looked up, and Mary had joined those at the table doing art work. “Is there anything on the table for her to get into?” I asked, completely forgetting about the White-Out. They assured me it was safe. Not five minutes later, a cry of alarm went up. Sure enough, she had spilled it and had used it as finger paint on the table.

What followed was a flurry of activity as children were ordered to clean the table with paper towels and Goof-Off (I am almost out of this fantastic cleaner), and I attempted to wash the stuff off the baby’s hands and arms and had to use Goof-Off there, too. After all this was done, I walked past the table to throw something away before resuming my reading, and that’s when I saw the other pool of white liquid at the other end of the table. This one was even bigger and incorporated a sizable section of my favorite tablecloth which had been pushed back to allow for drawing on the wood surface. To say I was upset would be an understatement.

Story time was over. Children were instructed to clean up the few scattered toys and to begin the rosary while I cleaned the mess. And then off to bed with them.

I did hear whispering, and Fritz asked me how to make scrambled eggs, an unusual question from an eleven year old boy at bedtime. Thus I was not overly surprised when I heard noises in the kitchen early this morning. I was, though, surprised at the hour: 4:50 AM. My boys do not generally get up before 6 AM. I remained in bed as long as the tot, who joined me around midnight, would allow, which was about an hour longer.

Despite expecting breakfast, I was nevertheless surprised by the magnitude. The table was set for all of us. Orange juice had been made from the frozen concentrate. Coffee was poured (and cold – Fritz doesn’t seem to understand that some things are meant to be consumed at a temperature above room temperature). Sausage was made. Eggs were made (also cold, and not at all tasty…I did my best to eat them and then suggested he have a hands-on lesson another day). Bread was toasted, and waffles, which he does know how to do, were in process (the plain were done and he was working on the chocolate chip).

The boys had set their alarm for 4:30 AM knowing that I am usually up by 5 AM. The girls had been in on the planning, but when the boys tried to get them up to help with the execution, my sleeping beauties had blearily sat at the table and then escaped back to their soft beds the first moment the boys turned their backs.

“Did you do this for the feast of St. Nicholas?” I asked Billy.

“Yes…and because we’re sorry about the table cloth,” he replied.

I had forgiven them, of course. A tablecloth is, after all, merely a tablecloth. I am so very thankful for these wonderful children who are beginning to learn that just saying sorry doesn’t fix destroyed property, but who are willing to put in such extra effort to mend a relationship strained by their negligence.

And I am thankful for the mercies of God Who forgives me my anger. And I shall see what extra effort I can take today to make up for my own misdeeds.

In the meantime, White-Out is now banned and any rogue containers I find will be confiscated and thrown in the garbage.

10.19.09
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It’s all fun and games…

…until somebody gets marker on their eyeball.

The boys were playing football before dinner last night, which meant showers were in order. When they came in to eat, I sent them off to wash their hands. And they did. They were clean from the wrist down, and had dried mud on their forearms.

But they went off to bed all washed and sweet smelling.

Twenty minutes later, Fritz was upstairs looking a little worried. His eye hurt, and small wonder since his eyeball had black ink on it. As I helped him wash out his eye (which did no good), he explained that he and Billy were having “marker wars.”

Marker wars?

Yes, they were throwing uncapped magic markers at each other. Besides the marker-in-the-eyeball, both boys had neck and shoulders decorated as though a Piet Mondrian-inspired tattoo artist had gotten his hands on them.

Besides the minor physical discomfort at having a marker in his eye, the boys were concerned that the black mark would be permanent, and were relieved to learn it would not be. Of course, now there is no incentive no avoid such foolishness in the future.

09.13.09
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Photo downloads

I had to get a shot of Mary before those last two top teeth come in. She has a cute gap up there, but her canines have erupted. The gap will be closing soon. Her eyes are looking pretty green here.


This is the final product of those “Army guy” cookies. I realized when I boxed them that I had not decorated a single cookie. Some were obviously decorated by a four year old. They are all cute.


Not satisfied with plain white clone troopers, Billy took magic marker and customized these guys. I have more of his artwork that I must scan and post. He is hysterical. Maybe he’ll make comic books some day.


Bill’s brother came down last weekend and right after he walked in the door, he said, “First of all, do you have any chores for me?” Need I say that he has leaped into first place on my favorite people list for this month? Here he is, reading to all the kids.


He also took my van in to get a new tire – a four hour ordeal. Thank goodness it wasn’t I and six kids sitting there. He’s a good guy, and I’m very grateful for his help.
And he’s single. If you know any intelligent, Catholic girls who LOVE the Big Apple, let me know! (And since he reads my blog: I’m there for you, bro.)
09.03.09
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Fire the Teacher

Billy writes a letter to his father:

Dear Dad,

Shoole’s going great, But the only problem is…I can’t figure out what I’m going to be for – Holoween!

School’s going great, Dad, as long as you don’t mind that I’m failing spelling and grammar.

And he’s my best hope.

07.26.09
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Nostalgia

Fencing is an expensive sport, especially at the beginning when you have to buy the equipment. And when you have two beginners needing equipment, the outlay can be quite painful. For Christmas, the boys received all they needed to “dry” fence, that means to fence without all the fancy electrical equipment. They got a jacket, mask, sword, and a bag to carry it (they already had gloves). We spent more on them for Christmas buying that than we normally would spend on them in all. They didn’t get much else.

Now we’re moving them to an electric class which requires an electric sword, a body cord, and a lamé – a vest with metal filaments.

Ouch. I think I spent the same amount that I did on their Christmas package. And I guess one of them complained that the poking of the sword into the chest was uncomfortable, so the coach told them to get a chest protector. This plastic shield straps to the chest and costs so much that I wondered if it was bullet proof too. Personally, I think a painful poke in the chest will help make you a better fencer. It’s the Dodgeball method of improving your skills: If you can dodge a wrench, you can dodge a ball. If you don’t like getting poked, improve your parrying.

But besides the physical pain of buying the equipment, I didn’t expect the emotional pricks. My husband prefers épée, but when I met him, he was fencing foil because that’s what the team needed. My boys are fencing foil because that’s “classic” fencing where you really learn all the basic moves. Considering how much money I just spent, they will be fencing foil for quite some time. Their coach sized them up for blade length and decided that Fritz was ready for a full-sized weapon. We already own adult-sized foils. All I really needed was a right-handed grip. Grips are $5. Swords are over $100.

But I don’t know about the condition of my husband’s old equipment; I don’t know how to test or clean them; and I don’t know how to put them together. I sighed and not for the first time wished my husband were the one doing this or was at least just a phone call away.

I turned from blade selection to see Billy trying on a lamé. Suddenly, I was transported back nearly twenty years and there was a very young version of my husband suiting up for a bout. I don’t know if it was the way he zipped it or his demeanor or his physical appearance. But whatever it was, the memories of those early dating years rushed in for a brief moment.

Boy, do I miss this man.

04.01.09
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Follow up

Although we made it to the zoo on Wednesday, we did not make it to the cherry blossoms. Peter woke up in the middle of the night screaming that his “knee” hurt. The following morning, he woke up again with the same complaint, except when questioned he said “ear” not “knee.” I was able to get him an appointment at 2 pm, and sure enough he had a double ear infection.

Maybe we’ll try for Sunday via the metro.

Last week, I took Billy to the pediatric endocrinologist at Walter Reed. This is a follow up from nearly two years ago. Same doctor. At the beginning of the appointment, she said, “So, you’re concerned about his growth?” I said, “No, actually, I’m not.” And then she remembered me.

I had taken Billy last month for a routine sports physical, and the pediatrician had ordered a follow up on blood work and a bone scan. This was great, because the endocrinologist had all that info already. Everything looked fine (the pediatrician had told me he would only call if there was a problem). Interestingly, the bone scan indicated that Billy’s bone growth was of that of a 6 year old. That, actually, is a great thing.

As a 9 year old, he is under the 5th percentile for height. They would predict that he would be a very short man.

As a 6 year old, he is in the 95th percentile of height. They would predict that he would be a very tall man.

Her conclusion? He might end up 5′ tall…or he might end up well over 6′ tall. In reality, he will likely be average height just like his dad, which is what we had been saying all along.

She said he is likely just a “late bloomer” and said that unless any other dramatic changes in his growth occur (he fails to grow at the expected pre-puberty average rate) she would not need to see him again unless he failed to reach puberty by the “late bloomer” latest of 14 years. Can you say woohoo?

When this kid towers over me, I will laugh and laugh.

02.09.09
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Gratitude (Or Lack Thereof)

One day last fall, Billy ran in, deposited a pile of rocks on my desk, then dashed into the kitchen and rummaged in a drawer for a ziplock bag.

“What are you doing?” I fairly shrieked. My desk is always the dumping ground for everybody’s stuff. It was a bad habit that had to stop.

“I’m getting a bag for the rocks,” he said.

“Why?” I yelled. We already have way too many rocks in the house. Everybody seems to have a collection of them. Silly me, I think rocks belong outside. It is a battle that I lose constantly. “Just put them in the baskets in your room with the rest of them.”

“But these are for you,” he explained as he put the rocks in the bag.

“I don’t want any rocks,” again, not politely spoken. “I don’t need any rocks. Rocks belong outside.”

“You’re supposed to say ‘Thank you’ when somebody gives you a present,” he said kindly while zipping the bag closed.

I paused. I’m always good at showing appreciation for the ugliest of weeds brought to me clenched in little fingers. I proudly display coloring book pages filled in monocromatically with a child’s favorite color. A child’s gift to his mother, no matter how seemingly useless or unattractive, deserves special recognition.

Any gift from any person, human or Divine, deserves special recognition.

Even if it is a pile of rocks.

I humbly said my thanks, and the boy scampered back to the great outdoors.

The rocks are still in my desk drawer although I’ve considered often that I ought to get rid of them. When I did my recent office clean-up, I transferred them to a small plastic container, but in my drawer they remain. They remind me to give thanks in all things, even if I don’t really think it’s such a great gift.

That unwanted present just may contain a vital lesson in humility and gratitude.