Category Archives: Fritz

05.18.10
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My last year without a teenager

Today is Fritz’s 12th birthday. He was born at 3:30 AM after 46 hours labor. Back labor. Prodromal back labor.

He was worth every minute of it. Still is. Most days. I do find myself occasionally telling him to stop acting so twelve.

His favorite food is tacos, and he would have been happy eating them at home or at Taco Bell. Instead, we went on Friday evening to a local Mexican restaurant. Some of us (me) were just not going to eat at Taco Hell. Fritz was very happy with the restaurant. He had…tacos.
For his birthday dessert, he wanted to go to the local ice cream shop for cones. We went after lunch today and took our friends along, too. He had a waffle cone (special treat) with “chocolate fetish” ice cream.

Notice the storm clouds in the background of the photo? A few minutes later, it poured. Then it was sunny. Then it poured. It kept going back and forth like that all day long.

After the ice cream, we went to Target so he could pick out a small present. We got him a new bike a few months ago with the clear understanding that it was an early birthday present. I did, though, promise him a chance to pick something out this month. He selected a flag football set with enough flags for 4 on 4. You might notice 6 boys in that photo above, plus 2 dads and they’re all set.

We also spent some time in the shoe department. 5 of my 6 kids needed shoes. Fritz’s new sneakers are size 8. I realize that may not be that big for a 12 year old boy, but since he’s replacing worn out size 6’s that we bought a few months ago, it’s a big deal to me.

Guess who did not need new shoes? Guess who had no trouble finding plenty of shoes she wanted? We did manage to return them all to the shelves, but guess who was really disappointed when everybody had a shoe box in the car and there was none for her?

I almost caved and bought the pink sparkly ballet flats, but they didn’t have them in my size.

Fritz also received $20 from my parents who were visiting this weekend, and a dollar from my brother, Glenn. I love that my brother assumes that all his nephews and nieces adore him. In most adults, that would be obnoxious, but for a man with Downs Syndrome, it is rather cute.

Fritz chose to not spend his cash on other toys. He’s saving his money. I think he wants to buy a canoe.

His favorite color is blue.

He likes art and geography and history. He does not like Latin or English or math.

He loves baseball.

He talks about getting married and having children in a theoretical way. Practically speaking, though, he could live without girls. Except his mom, of course. And Mary. He dotes on Mary.

This is Fritz. He is twelve.
05.04.10
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Growing pains

Looking back on my childhood, I can remember many occasions where I learned some lessons about life, and what it means to be an adult. Some of these lessons were good. But I think the ones that are burned into my memory the most are the bad lessons. The ones that hurt.

That’s the way it is, right?

Today, I think, I witnessed my oldest son learning one of those lessons. Maybe he’ll forget about it. But more than likely, this will be something he keeps in his mind. I only hope it falls into the “what not to do” category instead of the “this is how grownups treat kids” mentality.

When I signed the kids up for baseball, I did it online. I found that very convenient. I do not know, had I signed them up in person, if we would have been given a packet of guidelines or not. I do know that we encountered some rules and practices that we had never done before. For example, all boys bring their own helmets. All helmets must have the face protector too.

OK. Fine.

A few weeks ago, one of the umps made Fritz give him his watch. I guess the boys aren’t allowed to wear watches during the games. Fritz has made sure to keep his watch in the car from then on. At the end of that inning, Billy reminded Fritz about the watch and the ump gave it back.

Last week, Fritz’s coach noticed his scapular. It is a unique scapular-and-rosary-combination made from a molded brown plastic. Unique, but cheap. He got it years ago when we lived in Kansas. It is blessed and he was enrolled at the time in the brown scapular. He wore it for a while, then stopped, but then started wearing it again months and months ago.

Apparently, it’s not just watches but all jewelry that is forbidden (risk of breakage). So, the coach, rightly, I suppose, took the scapular. They both forgot about it, and Fritz went home without it. I don’t know when exactly Fritz remembered it, but I do know that he came home from practice on Sunday evening upset that the coach still had it. I think he was hoping the coach would have remembered it and returned it without prompting.

At the conclusion of the game today, knowing that sometimes we adults have other things on our minds and don’t always remember the contraband necklace that we pocketed a week ago, I told Fritz to ask his coach for his scapular. The rest of us went on ahead to the van and loaded up. When Fritz joined us a minute later, he looked crushed.

“What did he say?” I asked.

“He said he didn’t take my necklace,” the poor boy replied.

As an adult, I know that the man simply forgot all about it. As a mother, though, I know how Fritz sees it: the coach stole his scapular and lied about it. It is one thing to hear about other people who do wrong things, and we did discuss this situation. It is quite another to be the victim of an injustice. This is the age where children begin to learn that adults make mistakes, they aren’t perfect, they fail you. It is, unfortunately, all part of growing up.

Tough lessons.

02.19.10
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And another one down

Fritz joins Peter and Mary in the double ear infection club. I can’t recall EVER taking three kids to the doctor (separately) in one week. Fritz was prescribed pills instead of liquid and is not happy about it. In fact, I had to open it up and put it in applesauce for him to swallow. I’m recalling that he had a delayed gag reflex as a baby and wondering when he’ll grow out of it.

I’m also wondering if I should have just dragged the other three into the clinic for a look-see. I know they aren’t contagious, but…

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.

08.28.09
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Where Education Takes a Right Turn

My boys have been hard at work copying the schematics for the Battle of Balaclava as found in The Dangerous Book for Boys.

Why?

Well, Fritz is memorizing The Charge of the Light Brigade for school, and we just had to find out what the poem was about.

Every boy should know this poem. What fabulous lines:

…”Forward the Light Brigade
Charge for the guns,” he said…

…Cossack and Russian
Reel’d from the sabre stroke
Shatter’d and sunder’d…

…Storm’d at with shot and shell,
While horse and hero fell,
They that had fought so well
Came thro‘ the jaws of Death
Back from the mouth of Hell…

Every parent’s child should know this poem:

…Theirs not to make reply,
Theirs not to reason why,
Theirs but to do and die…

Until your kids get so smart that they point out that blind obedience led to a disaster…

For history this year, Fritz is studying Ancient Egypt.

And the Crimean War.

Updated: Did I mention I’m not a student of military affairs? My husband emailed me to point out that the Americans weren’t at the Battle of Balaclava. I don’t think the Germans were, either. Hey, one battle plan looks like any other to me. Apparently, the boys are not studying the Crimean War as much as Military Science, and they’re just making their own battle plans for some imaginary war. I have just ruled out “spy” as a career plan for me once I’m done raising babies.

08.13.09
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Off to an intentionally slow start

I have nothing on my calendar for today – thank goodness. I don’t know how I always get so busy, but it is exhausting.

We started “school-lite” this week: math and Latin. That’s more than enough. I really do like easing into the school year. My two boys are using DIVE videos for the first time, so we’re figuring out how that works and also doing time management.
Two subjects, four students.

But to give you an example of the challenges I face, one student who has no desire to do math or Latin and who thinks that giving me a hard time will – I don’t know – make me decide that we should just skip those subjects? Really, I have no idea what he hopes to accomplish. Anyway, he was showing me just how difficult math is by wrinkling his brow and acting constipated. And what exactly was the problem that was giving him such trouble? Complex algebra? Long division? Word problems written in French?
9 + 8
I told him he should have picked something just a tad more difficult if he were going to pull such dramatics.
So, this is why I am glad we’re starting off small. 90 minutes more or less of school is good for the first week, especially when nobody else in the area has even begun to think about it.
One other sure sign that school has begun in my house is the antics of the younger crowd, including Jenny who is not learning Latin and whose math takes all of 15 minutes. Peter keeps begging for a playmate, so we will work on following the full school year routine I laid out which actually has someone assigned to him to keep him occupied. Jenny’s downtime has been relatively benign.
Here is her self portrait taken while waiting for Katie to finish math.

She took a half dozen pictures of the sunroom: things on the wall, the ceiling fan. Harmless, quiet self-absorption. Wish she did this more often.

Mary, of course, is the biggest trouble-maker. It’s her age-appropriate nature. First she got her hands on the white-out pens. Fortunately, I own some Goof Off. The linoleum looks just fine now.
Then it was the magic markers. She currently into body art. And even washable markers take several days for the ink to get off skin. I buy markers once a year – at the beginning of the school year. When they’re gone, they’re gone. If the kids can’t keep them put away and monitored closely when in use, they will be gone very soon.
Then it was the half-eaten yogurt all over her and the dining room table.

If you look closely, you can see the lines from the markers. Her legs are twice as bad.

Right now she’s soaking wet from playing with soapy water in the sink. It’s what I have to do to type a blog post. The floor is wet, too, but this is an easy cleanup compared to hand soap rubbed all over the bathroom mirror, another of her favorite pastimes. She’s bored now, and thus ends my writing for today.

08.12.09
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Cookies to the Front

Last weekend we made cookies.

Rather, I made cookies.
I have realized that I am a selfish chef. I do not like to have my children helping me in the kitchen. I find cooking and baking to be a gloriously solitary pursuit. I’m working on this. I do consider competence in the kitchen to be a prerequisite for adulthood, and it is my responsibility to teach it. But for these cookies, it was mostly just me.
I made three different types: crinkled molasses cookies, peanut butter with chocolate chips, and a variation on snickerdoodles. I have a different recipe than the one listed here, but they are all fairly similar: it’s a sugar cookie rolled in cinnamon sugar. These were a favorite from my childhood, and I make them every so often for my kids. Sometimes, I make what I call cinnerdoodles instead, and I put the cinnamon in the dough and just roll them in sugar. They are a bit more cinnamon-y. That’s what I did this time.
Of course, the cookies weren’t really for us, they were for my husband. I hope they survive the journey.
We saved some for us, too.
Yesterday we headed to the post office, and I asked Fritz to carry the heavy box out to the van.

“What’s in here?” he groaned.
“Cookies, M&Ms, magazines, your dad’s Cincinnati Reds hat, a cigar cutter…”
“Cigars?!?“

“Yes, I ordered your dad some cigars for his birthday.”
“They’re allowed to smoke there?”
“Yes, honey, they can’t drink, but they can smoke.”

“That doesn’t make any sense! Smoking is much worse than drinking!”

These are the life lessons my kids are learning. Of course, the drinking that goes on here is very moderate. I grew up with a dad who smoked a pipe, but rarely drank – not because he thought alcohol was bad, but because it just wasn’t his thing. I considered (still consider) pipe and cigar smoking, in moderation, as a harmless and rather pleasant pastime, but as a kid thought drinking was dangerous and even bad. Interesting.
08.04.09
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But he was born yesterday…

I have finished lesson plans for my 1st grader, my 3rd grader and my 4th grader. They were fairly easy, since I have done those grades before.

I pulled up the 4th grade lesson plans to use them as a template for Fritz’s lesson plans. After saving with a new name, I made my first change: delete FOURTH and change it to SIXTH.

I have a sixth grader.

When did THAT happen?

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.