Sportsmanship

This past week the theme at our house has been sportsmanship.  This has happened not because I am a thoughtful mother who decided my children would learn about sportsmanship.  The topic was thrust upon me by my 10 year old son. 

Just picture me sitting in my chair at the baseball game where I am so excited every year to watch my athletic boy play America's sport. (The kid plays hockey 9 months of the year, so this is MY time baby).  Imagine me cheering him on as he throws strike after strike from the pitcher's mound. 

Then imagine my angst as the umpire begins to call "balls," and my reasonably shy son decides it is a good idea to argue with the umpire's call TWO different times FROM THE MOUND.  I was giving the "loud whisper" and "evil eye" to tell him to get his rear end back up on that mound and pitch the ball.  He finally shut up when his team got the third out, but guess who was up to bat in the final inning with two outs.  Yep, Mr. Mouthy.  In my estimation, the umpire was merely calling them the way this mouthy kid wanted him to call them when he was on the mound, so when he called an obviously "inside" ball a strike (for strike THREE), my son threw a temper tantrum, saying that it wasn't a strike and then proceeded to swing his bat at the fence.  Right in front of his adoring mother, AND his adoring mother's husband's ex-wife and family.  I'm sure they were thrilled that the same mother who raised this devil-child often cared for her offspring.

To be fair, I kept my composure in the moment.  The very second the doors closed on our car, I tore into my son without ceasing for somewhere near two days straight.  It was unpleasant.  I didn't sleep the night it happened, dreaming up the best punishment for this particular crime.  I conversed many times with his dad, with my husband, with my sister, with my mom, with all my friends on facebook.  Here is what we came up with:  my son's coach would be asked to not allow our son to pitch for one week and we would also ask him to move my son to the bottom of the lineup.  Additionally, my son would apologize to the coach and the umpire AND he would write three paragraphs on sportsmanship. 

It's been almost a week.  The game that my son wasn't allowed to pitch was excruciating for all of us.  The team did not win, but they did play well.  The playing well taught my son that his team could do it without him.  He watched from the bench.  My son has now complied with his entire punishment with the exception of apologizing to the umpire who we have not yet seen. 

Weeks like this one make me wonder if I will ever survive the growing up process. 

I guess I should've seen this coming...

I grew up in a blended family.  And boy was it ever blended.  My parents split up when I was only 4.  My dad remarried when I was 10.  My stepmother was much younger than my dad, and she soon gave us my half sister and half brother.  My mom remarried when I was 12, and from that union, I got two step-sisters, who I at least thought were "evil" part of the time.  My older sister and I grew up this way, with all too much knowledge of step-siblings and half-siblings, but why didn't I ever imagine it would happen to me again? 

My first marriage ended after five years (this blog is NOT about that).  Almost three years later I met Modern Dad at a sushi place I was frequenting against my will.  He had two kids, and they were the very same age (and same gender) as my kids.  A modern Brady Bunch was born. 

So this blog is dedicated to the trials, tribulations, and total chaos that is our life with (count them) FOUR tweens.  The boys are older at age 10, with the girls sometimes seeming older, even though they are only 8 (going on 18?).  We love our kids, and they love each other.  We have coined them the "steptwins."