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Okay, it's mid-July.  I say this in a tone of mild astonishment, as in, "What the HELL?  Where has my summer gone?"

Yes, apparently I have had enough free time to sit on my posterior watching other people play video games on television, but for the most part this summer has been nothing but a blur.  Last week, Hublet started a three-week course on writing here at the University, and The Boy wanted to go to vacation bible school at his buddy's church up the road, plus he had swim lessons, so our days looked something like this:

7:00 a.m. - Get up.  Bathe, dress, make breakfast taco for Boy. 

8:00 a.m. - Drop Boy at friend's house, where friend's mother kindly offered to tote him to bible school and look after him until Hublet could retreive him.

8:30 a.m. - Arrive at work.  Oh, a giant PR crisis.  Awesome.

5:30 p.m. - Traffic.

6:00 p.m. - Eat leftovers, make next evening's meal, wait for Hublet to return with Boy from swimming lessons.

7:00 - 9:00 p.m. - Deal with swimming lesson aftermath, re-feed hungry Boy, get him into bed.

9:00 p.m. - Exercise.

9:30 p.m. - 12:30 a.m. - Get everything ready for next day at work, including laundry, finishing up the kitchen cleanup, etc.  Relax for an hour with a glass of wine.

Lather, rinse, repeat.  Meanwhile Hublet was the designated pack mule, going to class, rushing home, retrieving Boy from friend's house, getting him fed and getting him to a 6:00 p.m. swim lesson.

Then on Friday, just for variety, The Boy's friend fell off the monkey bars at vacation bible school and broke his arm.  And The Boy had a birthday party to attend in Raleigh.  So Hublet drove to Raleigh for class, drove back home to retrieve Boy from his buddy's grandma's house (long story involving relatives, random kid shuffling, and ER visit for Boy's buddy), and then BACK to Raleigh to the Putt-Putt.  I merely stayed in town from 8:30 a.m. until 9:00 p.m., when not even the consumption of a giant pixie stick could sustain The Boy's energy level.

This week, we're gonna do it all over again, and then we're going to drive 2 hours to grandma's house on Friday night!

However, we will have a kid-free week following this one, during which we will just flop limply onto the sofa and stare at each other, shell-shocked.

Oh, and we'll go see the new Batman movie.  And then go to Carowinds to pick up The Boy the following Sunday. 

Sigh.

How much longer until school starts?

So all that stuff about posting more often?  Bunk.  Sorry about that.  And now I will reiterate my promise, because the T-ball season is officially over, which should mean that I have more time on my hands. Although t-ball's demise also means I won't be able to share stories like this one with you until at least the fall:

One of the two annoying players on the team is a boy who I shall call Dennis.  Unlike his randomly violent teammate, Dennis isn't cruel, he's just categorically incapable of listening or paying attention or doing what he's told.  And also?  He has a REALLY high opinion of himself.  Kindergarten is going to be a rude awakening for ol' Dennis. 

Dennis' exploits have included wandering off (during the game) to play on the field equipment, refusing to put down a bug in order to throw a ball, laying down in the middle of the infield and refusing to get up, leaving the field (also during a game) just because he got "bored," and resolutely ignoring anyone who tells him what to do.  I really, really, REALLY do not like Dennis. 

Last Wednesday was going to be Dennis' last game, and as we got underway he was, true-to-form, annoying the hell out of everyone and not listening to a word either I or his parents said.

FINALLY it was his turn to bat, and I told him to get ready.  He said he didn't want to hit right then, he wanted to hit last.  I told him he'd hit when it was his turn, and walked over to get him his helment and bat.

And then the smell hit me, just as Dennis said, "I need to go potty!"

I told him to run, not walk, to get his mom and hit the port-a-potty.

That's the last I saw of Dennis until our next at bat, when the entire family appeared, chalk-faced, at the dugout and his daddy made a rambling excuse about an "upset tummy."

"Okay!" I probably said in a way too cheerful tone,  "Feel better, Dennis!  BYE!"

Later, as Hublet and I pondered whether or not we were going to hell for being happy that Dennis crapped his pants at the ball park and had to leave, Hublet shook his head and said, "Wow, Dennis' father looked as if he'd stared Death in the face."

I thought about having to deal with copious amounts of Big Kid poop in a small green port-a-john in the middle of a field in Johnston County, and realized that Hublet was probably closer to the truth than he knew. 

So, Hillary and Obama have departed, leaving the university feeling used, wrung out, and with a sneaking suspicion that maybe baths and an STD screening are in order.  God, I've never been so happy to see two people go away in my entire life.  We had random family members from both campaigns as well as the candidates themselves popping up all over campus for a month and a half, with very little notice. FYI, PR flaks aren't real big on the "very little notice" thing, even though our job description pretty much consists of doing crap with very little notice.  Contrarians, the lot of us, I know.

And no, if you're asking, I did not attend all those events.  I do not have time to participate in history, people!  I have a JOB. 

Hopefully I will have more time to do the bloggy thing now, and hopefully I will also have the time to actually be somewhat interesting.

On a lighter note, it seems as though my continued efforts at brainwashing my child are starting to bear fruit. Not only did he order water to drink - VOLUNTARILY - at a restaurant (so, okay, maybe I sort of told him that if he didn't drink water every day his kidneys would stop working and he would drop dead), when the water tasted like regular old tap water instead of our Brita-filtered goodness and I asked him what the problem was, he said:

"Well, this water doesn't taste very good...but I guess I'm just gonna have to deal with it." 

And then he actually dealt with it!

Bravo, Boy!  Bravo!

Or the T-ball field, whatever.

This year's team is only nine members strong.  Of those nine, seven of the kids are sweet and well-behaved.  And then there are the other two, who will drive me to snatch them baldheaded.

I'm the default dugout mom this year, primarily because Hublet is the official assistant coach, and the head coach's wife works 2nd shift at the local mental hospital. Insert your own joke there.

The positive aspect of managing the dugout is that it's helped me clarify my thoughts on what I have dubbed "Third Child Syndrome."  Apologies in advance to those of you have managed to raise 3 or more kids without it turning into your own personal version of Lord of the Flies, but know this - you are definitely the minority here. From my admittedly small sample, I have deduced that in many cases, by the time the third child comes along the parents are just too exhausted to deal with it, and so the child raises itself, often becoming feral in the process.  Think Mowgli without the jungle entourage.

The coach's son is an excellent example of Third (Feral) Child Syndrome, with a side of Potential Future Serial Killer thrown in for laughs.  He doesn't listen.  He is randomly violent.  He spent the entirety of last night's game attempting to zip himself into an equipment bag.  Full disclosure - I was EXTREMELY tempted to help him accomplish his goal, mainly so I could just hang the bag on the fence and not have to deal with keeping up with him. When I submit my final report on T(F)CS to the DSM-IV, this kid's photo will be included.

 Unfortunately, feckless parenting does not correlate directly to family size.  Nowhere is this more apparent than in the behavior of Belligerent Non-Listening Boy.  What does he do?  Please refer to his nickname for your answer.  He is defiant, whiny and incapable of listening.  He is also the eldest of two.  His parents, who attend every game, have no control over this kid, even though they try to intervene.  Well, the dad tries.  And he is a very nice man, which I believe dooms him to failure, because he cannot seem to make the carrot/stick approach work with regard to his son.  Or any approach, really.  I may suggest the Equipment Bag/Fence approach as a future option, primarily because I am tired of wresting a bat out of this flailing mess of a child's hands when we're in close quarters with other kids, peeling him off the fence, and rescuing caterpillars from his clumsy grip.  Seriously, he has cut a legendary swath of destruction through the local caterpillar population.  Combine him with Feral Child, and you may never see another butterfly in Johnston County.  Those two are like the Genghis Khan and Attila the Hun of anti-caterpillar warfare.

We have another month of T-ball.  At this rate, I'll end up in the mental hosptial and the coach's wife will be bringing me my meds during her shift.

Step 1:  Sit down to a somewhat rushed family dinner that's being consumed in the 20 minutes between arriving home and leaving for T-ball practice.

Step 2:  Glance over to see child stuff a huge piece of chicken in his mouth and then go still.

Step 3:  Panic, because you're convinced that child has huge piece of chicken lodged in his trachea.

Step 4:  Yell, "ARE YOU ALL RIGHT!!?!?!?!?" directly in child's face.

Step 5:  When child doesn't repsond with alacrity, whack him on the back 3 times as hard as you can, leap out of chair, yank child out of seat and prepare for Emergency Heimlich maneuver.

Step 6:  Realize that child is not now, nor has ever been in danger of choking on chicken, AND that said child is now staring at you like you've lost your mind and become a crazed back-pounding child abuser.  Which you kind of have, now that you think about it.

Step 7: Help child re-seat himself, sit down and say, "You just SCARED ME TO DEATH!" to child (and equally shocked and confused husband) by way of explanation.

Step 8: Ignore child's incredulous, "I was just a kid sitting here minding my own business, and suddenly mommy just WHACKS me on the back!" remark to husband.

Step 9:  Finish supper, and go lie down until heart rate returns to normal.

So I'm fixing a fine family feast (Sunday being the one night a week that I cook, sometimes), when The Boy returns from batting practice with his father and the following conversation occurs:

Boy:  "Mommy, can I say 'balls?'"

Me:  "Umm, what?"

Boy:  "Can I say 'balls?'  You know, like with your weiner?"

Me:  "Ah.  You mean, instead of 'testicles?'"

Boy:  "Yeah."

Me:  "Do your friends say that?"

Boy:  "Yes.  Some of them do."

Me: (buying time) "Ah."

Boy: (looks at me expectantly)

Me:  "Dear!  Can The Boy say 'balls?'"

Hublet: "What?"

Me:  "BALLS!  Instead of testicles!"

Hublet: (soft snicker heard coming from back of house where Hublet is located)

Boy:  (still waiting)

Me:  (sighs deeply.)  "Yes, just not in public."

Boy:  "Okay."

Me:  "Or nuts."

Boy: "Nuts?"

Me:  (can't believe I'm going there, yet there I go--story of my life) "Yes, sometimes people say 'nuts.'  Instead of 'balls.'  Just in case you hear that, so you won't be confused."

Boy:  "Oh.  Okay."  (goes to play)

Me:  (calls after him) "BUT NOT IN PUBLIC!"

So I've been pitiful about posting this week - my apologies.  Yesterday I took half a day off to get a leisurely cut-and-color from my hairsylist, and ended up with something that looks like a cross between Paige Davis' haircut and Katie Holmes bob.  So, it's short and razor-cut and perky and super easy to deal with, and Hublet is bummed, because he has a thing about long hair.  Not that I've actually HAD long hair since our wedding, nor will I ever have long hair again, because HELLO!  Long hair when you're pushing 40 tends to drag your face down and make you look older unless you've got a regular botox and chemical peel regimen, but whatever.

But Hublet's issues are not the point of this post.  No, the point of this post is that my darling Boy is awesome with the compliments.  Because when he saw my hair he said, "Mommy!  Your hair makes you look YOUNG!"

Which, okay.  If I were a pessimistic sort I might ask, "How old did I look before the haircut?" But I'm just going to take this at face value, because it's coming from a 6-year-old boy.

Now if I can just navigate him through the "does this make me look fat" minefield, I will feel as though he has sufficient life skills to make someone a fine husband.