Shoot me now.

So the tall boy is all about the fabulous Bulldawgs varsity lacrosse team -- he's a defenseman, which means he plays "long stick." Since the tall boy is, as you will have surmised, tall, this is not a problem for him. Playing defenseman this year has also meant that the tall boy tends to play the entire game; not that many guys play long stick.

The tall boy loves everything about lacrosse: the thrill of streaking down the field; the teamwork and strategy; and frankly, the violence of the game -- all of these make him happy. As you may remember I was a little skittish about him playing this season. People! Doctors removed part of the child's lung six months ago! But the tall boy was absolutely adamant that he would play during his senior year, and he convinced his doctors to work with him. They all ganged up on me and told me I was being one of those annoying, crazy worry-moms. Crazy worry-moms are the worst. My only defense is to remind everyone -- they hit each other in the chest with sticks. Hard.

tangent: When the tall boy was starting out in the sport, his first coach tried really hard to break these (young) boys of their "Stop the game because I got an owie" fearfulness. He gave out coveted red stickers for the boys to wear proudly on their helmets any time they bled.

So you can imagine how thrilled I was when the husband called on the way home from the game the other night.

"How was the game?" I asked him.

"It was a great game! A little frustrating for the tall boy because they lost, but we had a great time."

"Fabulous! Are you guys hungry?" The tall boy is always hungry so this was totally a ridiculous question.

"Well . . . . "

When the husband starts a sentence this way, what comes next is never happy-making.

Half an hour later, the tall boy and I had taken our usual seats in the waiting room at the hospital E.R. A lacrosse stick blow to the wrist, followed shortly by a fall on the same wrist, were enough to make the team trainer frown, and send us for x-rays.

tangent: Can I just say that the tall boy has received enough radiation -- through x-rays and CAT scans -- in the past two years that if he is able to parent father a child with fewer than two heads, I will sing my praise to the Lord.

Tall boy aficionados know to keep their eyes peeled for those texting fingers . . . .

. . . and my geeky athlete will always be able to produce a book. This one looks so light and fun -- a perfect beach read!

When it was all over, we came home with a wrist brace and a referral to the quasi-sexy orthopedic doctor. The tall boy is completely cranky because a) this hospital adventure has gotten him out of absolutely no academic commitments, and b) he has been benched until the sexy doctor gives the all-clear.

Poor tall boy!

. . . and then they brought more morphine.

OK, so what had happened was -- last year the tall boy livened things up around here when his lung collapsed. I can tell you way too much about this phenomenon, which is called a spontaneous pneumothorax, but whatever -- Google it if you must. The salient point is that once you've had one pneumothorax, your odds of having another one increase to 50%.

Well, now fast forward to last Thursday, when the tall boy said in a conversational tone, "I think I might need to go to the emergency room."

One waiting room full of H1N1 germs and a chest x-ray later, we got the fabulous news that his lung had begun to collapse again, and that we should be prepared in case he needed to have surgery. For the tall boy the important fact here was: no eating after midnight, and it was now 11:30. What to do?

Wendy's in the E.R., baby! Because that's how we roll.

Awesome fact: The Wendy's version of a Happy Meal has Scooby-Doo trivia card dominoes, with a secret decoder! The merry-go-round, on the other hand, has been pronounced lame.

It's a scary thing when your firstborn, the light of your life, is wearing an oxygen mask -- but you do see that he's texting someone, right?

So then a bunch of scary stuff happened that was not funny at all and hard to make light of, but words like cardio-thoracic surgeon and I.C.U. and pleurodesis were bandied about. Oh, my people -- they removed a piece of my child's lung. No pictures. [Actually, a picture of this exists -- the surgeon took a picture of the hunk o' lung and gave it to us as a memento. And the tall boy totally posted it as his profile picture on Facebook. But not here -- I can cope with just so much, but no more. I'm just saying.]

Hilarious note in this completely not hilarious day -- the tall boy, it seems, knows some really good swears. He used them all on the nice wonderful saint-like nurses in the recovery room, as they ran -- seriously, RAN -- to get more morphine.

At the end of this sucky day, the tall boy's life had been saved by an on-the-ball E.R. doctor, a pulmonologist who treated us like we were his own family, a surgeon who gave off a totally calming Chuck Yeager air, and all those saints nurses. Put your life in this woman's hands, and all will be well.

How much glamour can you take?

On Sunday, my oldest girl and I had the most fun, because we hosted a make-up party! My friend Barbara, who is a Mary Kay consultant, came over and showed us all the groovy products that will make our skin healthy and beautiful, and the girls and moms did make-overs, and critiqued each other's blush, and it was awesome!

Barbara is hilarious and only has sons, so she was giddy with joy to be able to play make-up with real live girls. Look how cute she is in her Mary Kay blazer.

We ate too much food, and I show the veggie tray here to trick you into thinking that I didn't serve chips or cookies or soda -- I would never serve crappy food like that . . . .

Mascara is v-e-r-y tricky when you have a broken wrist, but my oldest girls has mad skills.

Who is she texting?!

Check out the cute little Barbie mirrors that we got to use during our glamour party. They're flippy, and you also get a tray to hold the samples of moisturizer and exfoliant and cleanser. They made me happy and I don't know why.

So here I am at the end of the glamour-fest. This, people, is as good as it gets. Pay no attention to the Christmas decorations in the corner.

Meanwhile, in another town . . . .

OK, so the tall boy is away for a month, attending this swingin' program, and he is having the time of his life. Even though -- dig this: NO CELL PHONES ALLOWED! You know what this means, right? NO TEXTING!

The tall boy spends his time studying in a
rigorous academic climate.

The people are very formal -- a tie is often required for social functions. My shades-wearing knucklehead is in the back, still trying to master the Windsor knot.

Love the multicultural aspects of the program . . . .
Aloha Ladies -- who knew?

We stopped by for Family Day on Sunday, on our way back from the beach, and took care of all the necessities:

Junk food supply replenished -- check.

Ensure that he can live Coca-Cola in a Pepsi world (oh, the horror!) -- check! (three twelve-packs ought to be enough for the next two weeks, right??).

See the new Harry Potter movie
(# 1 on his list of things to do) -- check!

Gorge with food at Cheeseburger in Paradise
-- double check.

It was great to see the tall boy, because I do miss him dearly. Does he miss me? Not so much. When I say he's having the time of his life, I'm totally not kidding. He lives with a whole campus of nerdy goofs kids like him, who actually love to learn. He's taking classes like "Crusades and Jihads" and "Creating a Graphic Novel," as well as workshops on random things like swing dancing. Really! Swing dancing!

And he's very polite and all, and graciously hugged his sisters and me, but dang! -- he was so ready for us to leave. I had a foreshadowing taste of how it will feel to send this firstborn urchin off to college -- my nest feels emptier already!

Photo credits:
Virginia Governor's School for the Humanities/Christopher Newport University

Glamour Hair -- Par . . . Oh, Never Mind!

While it is true that the boy was part of the parade of urchins who got haircuts the week we returned from our beach adventure, it is also true that he would rather poke a stick in his eye than acquire anything that could even remotely be construed as "glamour hair." He's a Hair Cuttery man -- no muss, no fuss -- and absolutely no "products."



His excitement for the week was not hair-related; instead he had the pleasure of having his wisdom teeth removed. The ice pack certainly did not slow down his texting abilities -- let's be very clear about that.

I think these two are actually texting each other. I'm not kidding.

The "I just had my wisdom teeth out, and thus am snarky and belligerent" hair is definitely a look . . . .

. . . but on a good day (like the day he was honored by his high school principal for being selected to attend the Governor's School for the Humanities -- brag, brag) , my tall boy can rock the curly 'do.