High Fly

I sat at the kitchen table tonight, with son. We both looked at the pancake mix on the counter that should have long ago been put away - by whoever had used it, I might add. He was insightful enough to catch my vibe ~~~ and lobbed it, from a sitting position, straight into the pantry cupboard (that yes, was left unattractively open all day.)

My point, you ask? In a boy home like this?


Everything Must Be Thrown In Our House.

It is not my rule -- I assure you. Still it has sunk in like a molasses I can't dissolve.
Around here "please pass the---- (. . . whatever it is)" really means please pass the -- whatever it is!


If God had wanted me to catch, He would have sent me here as a baseball mitt. I've had a heck of a time learning how to catch keys, the salt & pepper, presents, laundry, milk jugs, remotes, and scissors successfully. And yes, I use the term 'successfully' very loosely.




Not many people know I was the star player of kickball in my elementary school days. Well, the star girl player anyway, after all the boys were picked for sides.
Still - I could kick, yell, and run like nobody's business ( . . all talents that would come in handy in my future career as mother and wife).
But also -- back then -- I could catch!

Something happened in those years of giving birth. My shoe size grew with each pregnancy (not so pleasant), and my catching reflexes morphed into slow motion, before disintegrating entirely.
I've got hearing like Superwoman - (should you decide to complain or moan at me from two bedrooms, one hallway, and a bathroom away - beware) ~~~ but catching? That's gone to pot.


But men throw, toss, or chuck all the time.

I'm unable to catch anything anymore.
I can't tell you how many times I've been hit in the face with pencils, a ketchup bottle, and gardening tools. I have literally become a spectacle, as my loved ones (male family, that is) laugh, gawk, and guffaw til their eyes water.

Great. I've got the kind of sensitive men who don't cry at movies or weddings -- but when mom tries to catch.



It doesn't matter to them if I have my palm open for the hand-off -- it automatically looks like an invitation to throw something at me.
It's also not a blast being constantly inferior when I'm just trying to blend-in.

Case in point. Sitting car to car at Sonic, I tried to toss Hubby a jalapeno-popper through the window from two feet away and beaned his car door so hard it left a dent.



I still know how to throw-up or throw a fit. But so do toddlers . . . so that doesn't exactly make me feel like a genius.
So I can't catch? Do I care? No!

I'm just going to have to concentrate on what I know. I can pick things up with my feet and put mascara on while I drive.
If that doesn't make you want to pick me for your team . .
. . . well it's your loss.