Thump Thump Thump

My house (thump) is filled (thump) with a constant (thump, thump, thump) drum-(thump) beat.  Thump, thump, thump, thump, thump.  Annoyed yet?  Try living with an 11-year old boy who is constantly playing with balls.  Nope, not those balls.  (Although, that might be quieter, so I might welcome it. I'll get back to you on that in the next couple years.)  These are soccer balls, tennis balls, really anything round that could possibly be called a ball.

Parker plays soccer.  Saturdays are games, Mondays and Wednesdays are practices.  And every other minute of his life (at home) is spent kicking and throwing balls.  His bedroom has become his own personal sports arena.  All he needs in there are (yup) his balls, a pen, and his brackets.  I swear the kids has brackets for his brackets.  Now you will ask "what are brackets and how does this apply to his balls?".   I don't truly get it, but he plays fantasy 'games' with the balls.  Sometimes it is hockey teams, playing with little rubber stress balls.  Two teams play against each other, round-robin-style, they get eliminated until I hear something like "Hey, mom, the Red Wings won in my bracket today".  What that means is something that only his brain truly understands.  So I smile and nod, just glad that for that brief moment, the thump has stopped.  Tomorrow, it might be a tennis ball and the Minnesota Vikings have succeeded.  (thump) Yesterday, he tried to play basketball with the Christmas ornaments I had out to make a wreath.  (This was more of a ting-ting-ting, but equally annoying.)

Someone is always asking "What on earth is Parker doing up there?"  (Right now, he is using his balls to pretend he has uneven boobs in his shirt.  I give him about 3 minutes of this before the thumping begins again-or he decides to line them up in his pants like a giant penis.)  We ask him nicely to stop playing with his balls.  That usually lasts about 37 seconds until we hear it again.  Then one of the girls will say, "Parker, please stop."  That lasts about 12 seconds.  Then it's Jeff or I yelling, "Parker, knock it off and put your balls away", followed by some under-the-breath term of endearment that rhymes with "trucker" and starts with an "f".  

Now any good parent would be asking "Why don't you just take away the balls?".  Oh, my dear friends, we have. They have been on top of our cabinets, in our trash, in our drawers, our closet, our basement, garage. . . and yet they mysteriously find their way back.  I think he must just keep a personal stash of them somewhere, hidden under an invisibility cloak.  I'm telling you, ANYTHING round, and he is compelled to launch it.  (Maybe it is time to move the fat Guinea Pig out of his room, now that I think of it.) Nothing we have been able to do will keep the constant thump at bay.

And even more obnoxious is the thump of his entire body when he chases after these balls.  He throws the ball and then his body.  It kind of like someone trying to play catch with himself.  We have no problem playing catch with him outside when the weather cooperates, but more often than not, he is perfectly content with his self-made version.  It sucks! (thump, thump, thump)  The windows shake and the dogs run for cover.  I cringe with every new thump.  But it ends (thank goodness!) when he is finally asleep; my hair simmers back down on my head, my eyes stopped bulging out of their sockets, and my blood pressure returns to normal.  Only to have him hit the wall in his sleep, shaking me awake once again. . .

Dayna

ps.  He chose to make new butt cheeks with the balls instead of the penis.