Everest Kai

Date: May 16, 2009
Time: 13:13
Method: Natural
Weight: 9 pounds 3.3 ounces
Length: 20.75 inches
Gender: Male

Total points possible: 127.73

JLS 75.96
LAN 75.14
EMN 73.47
DAN 68.55
RAJ 61.74
DLK 58.29
CB 54.44
DMN 53.43
MB 49.65
TJN 49.56
KES 49.49
RSA 45.79
JMB 40.50
NW 36.80
GD 32.87
ECH 30.19
BT 27.54
DP 25.26
JEM 22.49
TKY 15.80

Congratulations JLS!

*More scoring info to follow shortly.

In a way I envy my friend at work who says she always knows what her taxes are going to look like because nothing ever changes. My tax situation is so different year-to-year that I NEVER know what to expect at all. Owe or refund? And to what order of magnitude? $20, $200, or $2000? This makes preparing taxes a rather hopeful, exciting endeavor, but admittedly one that can end VERY badly.

When I was a teen (and when I was out of the country for three years in my early 20s), the responsibility of seeing that my taxes were paid fell to my dad. He dutifully filed them and billed me for what I owed (the government and him). It wasn’t until I was in college AND in the country during tax time that I finally started getting money back and eventually MAKING money on taxes. While at BYU I used their tax lab most of the time, a friend once. Seeing how much money I was getting on my return made me question what on earth my dad had been saying that had always left me owing. After age 25 (yes, still in college) the EIC boosted things to a whole new level. These experiences gave me confidence to try doing my own taxes on paper a couple years ago. After all, I was in GA—no BYU tax lab here. Well, like the years of dad-prepared taxes, again I came up owing…this time a lot. So, I waited until my next trip to Utah (you know, the week I traveled there to defend and revise my thesis, and get married, and do my taxes…) and used the tax lab again, who true to form got me a hefty return.

The last two years, I have been the primary tax preparer. I get them all worked up online while at work. I have plenty of time to try different things—even different tax preparation software. I ask B questions in the evening and search for information during the day. Then, once I’ve done everything, he looks them over on a Saturday, changes/adds whatever he wants, and files them.

This year, the first tax preparation software I used was telling me that we owed a lot. Really, a lot. I was not satisfied with this outcome, so I tried the other software. The best I could do with the new software was to “balance” the taxes [keep in mind we have three states to deal with]. This was quite a feat, considering what the first software had been telling me. How is it that I put the same information in and the softwares tell me vastly different things, both guaranteeing the lowest owed amount and biggest refund? Of course, breaking even was still not what I was hoping for, even though I know that no return means you didn’t give the government a free loan on your money, so theoretically it’s ideal. B spent ALL DAY Saturday going over the federal and trying to get the states sorted out (I had been too frustrated with my week of taxes to do more than the federal) and ended up getting us a nice return. Can you believe that?

The fact that he was able to get a substantial return SHOULD be because he’s so stinking honest, but we all know things don’t work like that. It is true, though, that B is the most honest person I know. That $1.67 interest from your savings account? It needs to be taxed. The odd job someone gave you $20 or $100 for? Mention each of those. I like to laugh at this and complain that it’s ridiculous, but that just sets off a long speech about integrity. What’s it worth? Is my integrity worth $1.67? $1000? Do I want to go to hell over an amount of money? Well, there really is no legitimate retort/rebuttal to these questions, for while I cannot definitively say how much my integrity really is worth or whether there is an amount of money for which I would want to go to hell, I am certain that none of the amounts of money we talk about are enough. So, I simply respond by trying to come up with as many things that we could try to pay taxes on as I can. There must be more things for which we can be taxed…

Classified

Could someone make the case for me in favor of going private on a blog? Why is this done? I understand that ANYONE can read my blog if it isn’t private. Of course, I’m one of those “anyones” and I am only somewhat ashamed of the amount of blog browsing I do on blogs belonging to complete strangers. But really, how much of a threat am I? Ok, so maybe for some, just the idea of ANY unknown reader having access to their blog is distasteful. But, all in all, the threat of people like me stumbling across my blog and reading it doesn’t bother me.

So, I guess there are a few other “anyone” types out there. They are the threat, right? But what, exactly IS the threat? Will they move from blog stalking to physical stalking—shadowing me as I run errands, watching me through windows, and copying my birthday wish list and children’s names? Certainly, there are those who would steal my SS# and bank accounts if I let them, but you will notice these numbers are conspicuously missing from my blog (and I suspect from the private blogs as well). So, why does everyone go private?

Basically, I’m wondering if I missed a report on some sort of new and growing trend [threat-trend] that has everyone scared, and the way to protect yourself and fight back is by going private. Did something awful happen? Was it in the news? I read both TIME and Newsweek every week, which, of course, means that I know exactly what is NOT going on. So, if you know what the threat is, please tell me so that I can evaluate it and decide whether I need to go private. So far, I’m comfortable but open to privatization should anything make me sufficiently uncomfortable.

It’s funny, because I consider myself a very private person. I only want people to know what I tell them, and I carefully consider what information I want to go public (this blog is fully-approved, by the way—no secrets here). Don’t even get me started on what an irritable hostess I am for house guests—even under the best conditions. Mi casa is no tu casa. But mi blog is tu blog. For now.

Just listen to me.

This all started a long time ago…
My gas mileage used to be inconsequential. By that I mean, I don’t know what it was. It didn’t stand out as being totally AMAZING or very, very poor. My gas gage has been broken since I’ve had the car, so I have to fill up when the gas light comes on (or soon thereafter). In order to have one additional aid, I also reset the mileage counter each time I fill up. I don’t work out the miles per gallon, but I figure that the light WITH the mileage counter is nearly fail proof. And it is. I’ve only run out of gas twice. That’s average, right?
Well, it’s been really bugging me for a year now that my gas mileage has been falling akin to the stock market. True, I don’t know what it ever was to begin with, but I can remember it being well into the 200s before the light would come on. Then I was sad when it was in the 220s, then 180s, then …eventually… 140s. This caused me no small amount of concern. I would dread seeing the gas light—REALLY dread it—“just a FEW more miles…don’t come on yet…” I drove in a state of fear even greater than the state of fear that I normally always drive in. So, a couple months ago, the dealership was called and they asked me to drive three-tanks-worth of gas from the same station on my normal route, recording the miles/gallon.
…

This all started a long time ago…
About a million months ago, I noticed that my tires looked low. I mentioned it to B and he gave me a very “my dad” type response, “Your tires look fine.” Sure. He knows more about tires. Whatever. But the tires still looked low to me. It was bugging me as the months went by. I’d mention it monthly, “Honey, the tires look really low to me.” Always the answer, “They are not low; they look just fine.” I couldn’t understand it. I even SHOWED him the tires. “Look at THAT one!” How could he not see it?
Finally, after MONTHS of this, as we parked his car next to mine one day and the weather was nice and we were not in a hurry to get somewhere, he decided to prove to me that I was crazy. So, he got out his tire-pressure-checker-device, intent on making this a learning experience. “I’ll check the first one, and then you can check the rest.” First, he showed me that my tires are 44lb. tires. Then he used the device: 22lb. Ha HAH! He was so shocked he quickly checked the next one, forgetting about how he was going to make me do it. This next tire was so low, we don’t even have a reading for it. The pressure thing didn’t even pop out, which means it was 10lb or fewer. Now I was excited! The next tire was the one that looked the worst (and that, when I showed it to him thinking he would not be able to deny how low it was, he could not see anything wrong with it). But B was done checking. “Well, they’re all going to be low. I’ll pump them up tomorrow.”
And he did. B normally gets up when I leave for work, but on this day he got up 15 minutes early, put on his jacket (it was POURING RAIN) outside, and headed out to my car with his bike pump (the tall, stand-up kind you use your arms for). When I got out there he was soaked and working hard. I sat in the car for a few minutes (the rain, you know) until finally he stopped so I could get to work (the final tire was mostly pumped up). He said it was a great start to his workout. His arms and chest were burning and he was worn out.

So for months we had both fretted and despaired over the tanking gas mileage, but also for months I, alone, had fretted and despaired over the ever-more-flattening tires—the very CAUSE of our mileage problems. Think of all the wasted gas. Think of all the wasted fretting! The car is currently getting GREAT mileage (I guess). Comparatively the mileage is great; certainly it’s good enough to be inconsequential. And, a lesson has been learned. I finally got B to see that not only do tires have a HUGE impact on gas mileage (bigger than he thought they would), but I should be listened to when I think there’s a problem. It will save us money and save him 15 minutes in bed on a rainy morning.

Srant Eyes

When people hear that you don’t know whether the guest in your human hotel is a boy or a girl, they will try to enlighten you. Their guess, regardless of what it’s based on, is as good as mine or yours or anyone’s. Still, many people feel conviction when they share their insight. For all I know, most people either go with a random guess or a gut feeling, that is, these folks don’t share how it is they came to believe [or KNOW] one way or the other. That’s me. When I guess about others, I’m just playing the game, because it’s FUN to guess when the odds are 50/50!!! I might be right! Other people try to impress upon me the accuracy of their guess by sharing the way they came by it. For instance, the FedEx Ground guy knows because of the height of the belly. Others know by asking me about cravings or fetal movement. The grocery bagger…well, I don’t know how she knew, but she’s from India and told her guess to the cashier who translated it to me, so it sounded…well, very sage coming from a tiny Indian woman in one of billions of Indian languages. The girls at work know because of the “ring test.” In fact, they didn’t think I would let them try it on me, since I didn’t want to know the gender. Ummm…okaaaaay.

But the most interesting gender prediction to date was given a couple days ago by a Japanese man. I work for a Japanese company, so I work with a lot of Japanese people as coworkers and clients. This man was a client, here in the office to meet with one of my coworkers. His English was very limited (much like that of the guy he was meeting) but we’re all totally used to that. He saw the belly and the following conversation ensued:

Him: [pointing] When? When…auhhh…when…auhhh…
Me: In May.
Him: Boy or gull?
Me: I don’t know. It’s a surprise!
Him: Suplize. Ah-huh. I sink it is gull.
Me: Maybe!
Him: [pointing] Very round. If boy, … [bringing his hands together] peak.
Me: Oh.
Him: Also, you have calm, nice face. If boy, … [at this point words fail him and he proceeds to put a finger on the outer corner of each of his eyes and pull up and back, creating very slanty eyes—or, srant eyes, as some might say. I am a bit perplexed by this Japanese man making slanty eyes in an effort to tell me how my face would look if I were carrying a male fetus. What does he mean? If it were a boy, I would look Asian? I would have srant eyes? I don’t feel comfortable asking him these things or supplying him with these words, although I cannot figure out what else he could be saying. Finally, it comes to him:] mean! Mean face.

And now we know.

Observations

Being pregnant makes people really friendly—not pregnant people, OTHER people. If you aren’t moving, everyone around you will start talking to you and asking you questions—and without you returning the asking, they will tell you all about their experiences. They can’t HELP themselves. The time you spend in line at a grocery store or post office, the time you spend waiting on an elevator (or IN the elevator), the time you spend filling up at a gas station, you are a sitting duck and EVERYONE wants to talk to you.

I don’t typically like strangers knowing things about me without me telling them. It’s a tiny bit uncomfortable. Strangers have known about the pregnancy for months; now they also know I’m having a baby SOON. The other time I can remember having everyone know something about me without me telling them was on my mission. The nametags we wore everywhere drew people’s eyes to them like moths to flames, although based on their glares and other reactions you would think they got too close and the flame was burning their eyeballs out. No pleasant (or even apologetic) smiles, and beginning conversations with those who seemed unable to divert their gaze ended in a pleasant conversation approximately .00001% of the time. Everyone who saw us would know our names and that we were religious, never less than that and, sadly, rarely more.

This time, people just can’t HELP but talk to me based on what they instantly know. And they are happy, friendly, even thrilled when they see me. When the elevator stops halfway to the ground floor to take on an additional person, the formerly deadpan face the elevator opens up to will invariably smile at the sight of the belly and start talking to me. It’s as if I made their day by being on the elevator. By the time we get off the elevator they will know that I’m expecting, when I’m due, that it’s my first, and that I don’t know if it’s a boy or girl. Additionally, they may also know where I’m having the baby, how long my maternity leave is, whether I’m coming back, how I’m feeling that day, and whether I feel “ready.” They also may feel compelled to let me know many things about themselves. It’s the complete opposite experience of the mission, and while it’s very pleasant to have everyone so friendly and happy to see me, it’s still a little strange knowing that no one who sees me won’t know these things. Elevator rides used to be conducted in silence. I actually find the current phenomenon entertaining and amusing in its predictability and a bit fun in its departure from normalcy, although I admit that I sometimes wish not EVERYONE knew--or at least that the elevator will occasionally make it to the ground without stopping.

B does not wear a veritable scarlet alphabet on his belly, so strangers do not know that he is about to be a father…for the first time…to a nameless…currently non-gender specific progeny…so soon [unless we’re together]. (ok, ok, so people don’t know all that from just looking, but like I said, they are compelled to ask, and of course I have to answer, so basically, everyone I come in contact with inevitably will know these things.) I’ve told B about how “popular” I’ve become and regaled him with stories from some of the people I’ve encountered, but he finally had his own “experience” a couple weeks ago. Our crib had come in, and I had sent him to pick it up. The thing was supposed to weigh over 80lbs. Even if other people managed to get it in my car [I would be no help], I’d never get it out again. When he picked it up, the worker who retrieved the box for him began, “So, you’re going to be a father? First time? You’re gonna need to buy a lot of stuff. I have ___ kids, and believe me _______. Is it a boy or a girl?....” [B must think: Goodness! They’re doing it. It’s just like L said!] All the way out the store, people saw and knew.

[This is not even the story I intended to tell… Time to start a new post. This one got away.]

St. Patrick's Day

Today’s entry was written this morning by B. He doesn’t know I’m posting it, and if he objects when I tell him (I can't call and check as his cell phone is out of commission), I will remove it. So this may be a treat just for the few who visit the blog the second it is updated.

Quick background:
1. Last night we were at a birthing function when B started feeling some severe abdominal pain and pressure. Although he thought he was experiencing labor, I am sorry to report that after helping him relax and breathe through it, he had produced nothing by bedtime--least of all a cute miniature human.
2. This week is B’s spring break. He is, however, waking up before dawn (5:20 AM) to drive some youth to our church for seminary. He waits there for an hour and then drives them back home. We do not live near the youth or the church, so it’s something I would never do, but it’s just like him to volunteer.

This morning at work I receive the following email from him. It also is “just like him.” I laughed and laughed out loud at work each time I read it. It’s a great email to get anytime, but especially on your anniversary. Lucky me!

[WARNING: VERY GROSS BEGINNING.]

So, I was dropping some really large turds in the church toilet this morning after the intestinal pressure had built to a point I could no longer withstand. I have this nice pair of fleece pants that you like so much, that however, are not good at keeping my cell phone in their pockets. Many a time my cell phone has fallen out and under my seat in my car. So, I put the phone in my jacket pocket, which has never failed me. Today I found that my jacket pocket also has one position where it likes to release its contents. Warning: this is where the story gets gross, if you thought it was gross above think again. Having found this new weakness in my pocketing systems, my cell phone dropped down into the toilet and found itself a place surrounded by large, fuzzy turds. I briefly considered leaving it there but quickly realized sooner or later I would have to dig it out because it certainly wouldn't flush down, and I would lose all those numbers like I did when my sweet phone from China got wet shortly before we got married. I quickly grabbed it out, tossed it on the floor, and finished my business.

Well, what do you do with a poop-water soaked cell phone? You don't want to get it more wet, but you can't leave the poop-water on there. So, I briefly rinsed it, hoping not to further the damage too much. Then I dried it with paper towels and remembered a recent article in consumer reports on "what to do if your cell phone falls into a liquid" (this may have paid for the magazine in itself) and quickly took my phone to the oven, which was warm from something that somebody from seminary must have baked or warmed up. I left my cell phone in there being careful to check it often that it at least wasn't getting too hot to touch. Of course, I also immediately took the battery off, since corrosion, as we recently learned, is essentially an electrical process that is advanced with the presence of water. It can also be advanced in the presence of electrical charges.

I baked my phone while at seminary and then put it on my defroster on the way home, which I ran the whole time even though that meant running the ac. It actually got hotter there than it did in the oven. Hopefully not too hot.

I brought the cell phone home, took off some of the outer casing, blew it out with the compressed air computer duster, and it is sitting in our warm oven as we speak.

You will not be able to reach me today because I do not plan on turning the phone on today. I will just gently bake it and hope it dries out by tomorrow.

I'll see you when you get home from work. And don't worry--I have washed my hands and will likely shower before you get here anyway.

Love, B

I had done it. I had actually shot my eye out.

As a lover of all things muy spicy, I have been known to buy and cook with fresh jalapenos. I am fully aware of the danger inherent in such cooking—not to the mouth, but to the eyes. I use a tiny food processor that chops the jalaps to a near-pulp in a couple seconds, thereby limiting the amount of skin to jalapeno contact, however the jalapenos must first be sliced lengthwise and the seeds must be removed. It is inevitable that essence of jalapeno will get on your hands, and while it causes no pain to hands and fingers (provided, of course that there are no cuts or hangnails), ANY contact with the eyes brings instant, intense, incapacitating pain. Seriously, remove your contacts BEFORE you cook with these, and be prepared to wear glasses the next day. I suppose you could instead wear gloves while cutting and gutting the jalaps, but I have always resorted to wearing glasses for 48 hours.

Sounds extreme? Every few years I think so too. Too much worry. It’s not really THAT bad… I cooked with them hours ago and have washed my hands repeatedly since that time. Then, inevitably, I burn my eye out when I pull my contacts out. Lesson learned, again.

Unfortunately, the requisite number of years had passed for me to once again discount what I knew to be true about jalapenos—in a big way. Recipe called for one? I did three—of the spicy size (the bigger they are, the milder they are). Although I did use the food processor, I used no caution when cutting and gutting the jalaps—in fact, I pulled/brushed the seeds out with my bare fingers. Hands were washed repeatedly, I’m sure. But, a couple hours after dinner, while getting ready for bed, I removed a contact. [Luckily, I got it in the less-than-a-second that my finger was in contact with my eye, although it had to be thrown away.] I was doubled over in searing pain instantly, unable to open either eye or to explain what was wrong. Eventually, I communicated the problem to B, who tried unsuccessfully to force water into my eye in the bathroom sink. My head and face were under the running water, but my eyes would NOT open. There’s not much space in a bathroom sink under the running water, so B decided we need to move to the kitchen sink. Not only is the kitchen sink big, it also has one of those retractable spraying devices. Perfect! I was incapacitated (eyes cemented shut, crying, dripping face/head) so B moved me there.

At this point I was really worried. It had been 10 minutes of continuous burning. Had the essence of jalapeno eaten away many layers of the eyeball? Do these layers regenerate? I tried HARD to force my eyes open—which is not easy to do under “normal” conditions when someone is spraying you in the face with a hose of water, but even more difficult when they hurt so bad and just won’t let you!

Then it happened. The burning pain, mixed with the trauma of water being shot at my face, mixed with the extreme effort I was making to force my eyes open more than a millimeter every ten seconds overcame my bladder. Yes, I lost control. It really can happen. As it was happening two thoughts ran through my mind:
1. Well, THIS is different.
2. This is not the worst of my problems right now. [How often would peeing your pants not shoot to the top of your list of problems?]
Luckily, I had just used the restroom five minutes before this episode, so it wasn’t THAT bad. (B was surprised it happened at all. Didn’t you just go? Well, these days one of my talents is being able to go anytime, whether I think I have to or not.)

Eventually, I did manage to open my eye for a good long time. Then B had the difficult job of extracting the OTHER contact lens from the in-tact eye. After all that, it was into the shower with me. There, I attempted to scrub my hands with ALL the soaps/shampoos we have. Even so, my entire face was mildly burning after I used the face wash. The bedtime routine took an extra hour that night. It’s been over a week and I have not stopped wearing my glasses. I think the lesson has REALLY been learned this time.

Waffle House is for lovers!

When I saw my first Waffle House three years ago, I thought I was seeing THE Waffle House. The diner’s appearance did not suggest that it was actually one of hundreds of Waffle Houses. Who would have thought it? The place looks small, dirty, old,…and that sign? It’s as if they aren’t even TRYING to get people to want to eat there. These flaws can be overlooked if the establishment really is just ONE hole-in-the-wall diner or if the food is fantastic. Well, the food is not fantastic and I was shocked as I realized I was not, in fact, driving past the same Waffle House over and over. Shock turned to disgust as I realized just how many there were. If you pass one, no need to be a hero and turn the car around. There will be another soon.

I certainly had no intention of eating at a Waffle House. A hole in the wall diner? Maybe. But not a hole-in-the-wall chain. If I want breakfast, I’ll go to IHOP (bigger, nicer, cleaner, a MENU (with TONS of choices),…and a blue roof! Now that’s effort. A blue roof says, “notice us and eat here; you’ll be glad you did!”) So, after about a year, a best friend comes to visit. She brings with her a list of “things people have told me to do in Atlanta,” which is sort of a variation of the lists I bring to places I visit (“things I want to do in ______”). The list was quite amusing, except for the requisite “Eat at a Waffle House.” Great. “You don’t want to do that,” I reasoned. But B thought it was a funny and legitimate request, so we went. It was everything I expected—once again, fine if it’s a single hole-in-the-wall establishment purposely trying to create some sort of ambiance from the flaws or simply unable to fix them, but not fine for a chain. I ordered what they serve (there’s no need to consult a menu; we only serve one thing in this restaurant…) and the food was acceptable. Months later B and I ate at a Waffle House again, although I can’t remember the circumstances.

Two days before Valentine’s Day, I saw in the paper that one Waffle House location would be serving Valentine’s dinner (well, their normal fare [and price], but at dinnertime…for Valentine’s Day). The restaurant would have red plastic over the lights to give it a “rosy” glow and the tables would have red or white plastic over them. Servers would wear red ties and were ordered to whisper instead of bark. There would even be candles and fake red flowers! Reservations required. This intrigued me. Strange, I know, that I won’t eat there on a normal day, but I would love to eat there on the one day that most people are trying to do something special and nice by eating out as fancy as their conscience will allow.

B is of the opinion that Valentine’s Day is “stupid.” I agree with some of the reasons he hates it, namely, the pressure to do something/spend money on THAT DAY, the restaurant madness (busy and overpriced), the exorbitant cost of flowers at that time, and the silly merchandise produced just for this made up day (red stuffed bears, valentine boxes of chocolates, etc.). However, I really ENJOY Valentine’s Day celebrated in ways other than the ones he likes to rant about. I really like making, giving, and receiving valentines, and I like thinking of something fun to do/give to my family members. And, frankly, I do not feel it is acceptable to ignore the good of the spirit of Valentine ’s Day just because of the commercialism. I wrote about last year’s V-day in a previous post [see "A Golden Ticket"]. Unfortunately for B, “stinky cheeses” are currently [and regrettably] on my do-not-eat list. What says I love you like stinky cheese? He was nervous. What could he do this year? Luckily, my office bailed us both out. We decided to use our free weekend getaway [see "I will gladly share with you…the grand prize"] as our valentine celebration. So, both of us had no intentions of planning/doing anything for V-day. But, how could I pass this up?

So, I made reservations. It was all going to be a surprise for B! I had no fear that he would be doing something at that time to surprise me, given his aversion to normal V-day celebratory practices and our weekend away just a couple weeks before. How the “surprise” part went is another story, but the actual Waffle House valentine dinner was more than I ever hoped! It was so great! In addition to the things mentioned in the paper, they took your picture, printed it, and put it in a little cardboard frame, embossed with “Waffle House—Valentine’s Day 2009”. They gave out free desert after your dinner/breakfast, along with other fun freebies. Mostly though, it was just fun. The staff acted so excited and treated everyone so special. And the whole place DID look positively festive with the plastic over all the lights.

If we were to have another V-day in Atlanta, we would do this AGAIN. Next year. I highly recommend it. (Check the website for the location/phone number; they start taking reservations the week of Valentine’s Day.)

So, I married a Thermian...

In honor of V-day, I would like to share a story that illustrates one of B’s most admirable qualities. However, let the reader be duly warned that the story is sad and embarrassing, in addition to being inspiring and [a tiny bit] funny. Read on, once you have your tissues handy.

B is a fit guy. He exercises all the time. What he loves to participate in are individual sports, like cycling (road and mountain biking), swimming, running, and, therefore, triathaloning--also rock climbing and kiyaking. Despite the solitary nature of these activities, B is also a friendly guy—much more of a social creature than I am—and will accept any invitation to play anything (racquetball, volleyball, and, in today’s story, basketball) for the fun of it. For example, if you’re out picknicking with friends and someone brought a volleyball? Who’s in for a game? B will play…and have fun. He has no practice or training in these “games,” but, as I said before, he is fit [capable] and he tries hard [hustles]. Still though, he usually calls himself the “worst one on the team” when he finishes playing. (I don’t think he’s as bad as he thinks he is; I think he just compares himself to people who are very talented and have worked hard to become so. In any case, even if he’s NOT an asset, he isn’t a liability.)

Last year, we were too busy for B to participate in “church ball.” Our congregation is so large that we actually have two teams, whereas the other congregations have just one. We also have A LOT of very talented (and competitive) players. [Keep in mind that although some players are competitive, everyone out there just really loves playing and it’s all pretty low key, although they do have a scoreboard... So, although B did not attend ANY practices this winter, he shows up at their first game two Saturdays ago. No problem. Anyone can play. Practices were just our two teams playing each other. There are no coaches/drills/plays. It’s all for fun…]

I did not attend this opening game. I would rather be asleep on Saturday morning at 7:30AM when he leaves (plus, I have my own gym class to attend a little later). I had asked him in the days leading up to the game if, perhaps, he should have some basketball shoes. I believe in having the proper equipment. But no. He decided to use the skateboarding shoes he’s had since junior high. ZERO traction. An interesting choice. After I got home from my gym class, I immediately asked:
L: “How did it go?!?!”
B: “I was the worst one on the team.”
[totally expected him to say that]
B: “I only touched the ball once the whole game.”
[ooooohh. This sounds worse than I thought…]
L: “How long did you play?”
B: “Half the game. I got NO rebounds and they passed it to me ONCE—well, I guess I touched the ball twice, but one of those times they were passing it in from the sideline [from one end of the court to the other end where the players were now congregating]; they were throwing it way down to another player, but I didn't see and walked right in the way and it hit me in the head.”
MUCH worse than I thought. Passed to once and hit in the head by a hail mary pass that was meant for someone else, but you weren't paying any attention and walked right in the way? [To quote the Crazy Quilt Dragon, "Shame to the left of me! Shame to the right of me!"] I asked about the shoes and he admitted that indeed he was sliding all over—flailing his arms, sliding everywhere. I suggested yet again that he consider getting some basketball shoes and secretly wondered whether he would go back the next Saturday after what sounded like an utterly humiliating display.

Friday, when I got home from work, he was making dinner wearing regular clothes. I only got through two-and-a-half sentences before I stopped, mid-sentence. He was wearing shiny new basketball shoes!!!! Hooray! This means that he WILL go back! Maybe the experience wasn’t as damaging to him as it would have been to me! This guy never gives up!

The next Saturday I hoped to hear a good report when I got back from my class. It happened. No sliding, he got rebounds, they passed it to him, he even shot, [next week perhaps he’ll score!]!!! Total difference! Although, he’s “still one of the worst on the team.”

This week, because my class has ended, I will be attending the game (and maybe others till the game season ends in about six more weeks). So far both of our congregation’s teams are undefeated. They play each other on Saturday. I love that it could well be said of B that he lives by the same motto the Thermians adopted:

“Never give up; neverrrrr surrrrrender.”