Team Sabo In Norfolk, Va.

Grandma and Grandpa Sabo are in town for several days before they ship out to the Middle East for a couple of weeks. On a glorious Fall day when the mercury scared 70 degrees, we trekked down to Norfolk to check out some joint that invented the waffle cone. We managed to arrive at the exact location where the waffle cone was reputed to be invented, but just one small problem. The place was closed. D'oh! We went with Plan B and headed to the Norfolk waterfront, where we quickly spied a behemoth with big guns ... no, it wasn't Ethan, who benched 170 lbs. the other day even though he weights just 125 lbs. It was the USS Wisconsin, a battleship sporting 16-inch guns that battled the Japanese in WWII, the North Koreans in the Korean War and even got in the scrap known as the Gulf War. Back in the day, the battleship could launch a one-ton shell up to 23 miles. That's range, baby! Now the USS Wisconsin is moored at the Norfolk waterfront and is open for tours as a floating museum. One small detail is the cost. For the 15 of us to see the Wisconsin, it would have cost approximately $1,785. Well, maybe not quite that much. But with prices starting at 12 bucks for an adult, I would have had to take out a second mortgage to finance it. We passed on the tour, unfortunately.

So we went with Plan C. We let the kids crawl around an anchor from the USS Antietam, an aircraft carrier, in a nearby waterfront park. The anchor, in a word, is h-u-g-e. Then we hit an indoor mall a half-mile or so away, where we cleaned out a Hershey's ice cream stand on the food court. Grandpa's retirement fund took a big hit by the time we finished with Hershey's. The kid with the ice cream scoop saw us coming and called the headquarters hot line looking for emergency supplies. I think they sent someone to the nearest Wal-Mart. As you can see from the photos, the ice cream was good, real good. After wrapping up the ice cream fest, we piled into a nearby bookstore. After some quality book window shopping, we launched on the journey back to the van, zigzagging through downtown Norfolk, which is always an adventure when you're herding 2 dozen kids! Well, maybe not quite that many kids. But with Ezra on the run from the time we got out of the van, and some other kids scrambling around a bit oohing and ahhhing in the "big city," it felt like I was trying to herd cats. Ezra is a flat out runner. The kid just loves to run. A chip off the old block, I reckon. I'm happy to report that not only did we make it back to the van, but we also brought back 10 Sabo children ... the same number we left with! Amazing!

One more little detail. To get to Norfolk from Gloucester we have to bisect the James River. If you think the Willamette River, or the Deschutes River, or the Columbia River is a halfway significant body of water, you ain't seen nothin'. The James River at its mouth is 5 miles wide. To get to Norfolk, you go over the James River part way, then you go under the James River the water in a 2-lane tunnel (one way) ... then back up and over. It's the first time Grandpa and Grandma Sabo had made the trip through the Hampton Roads Bridge Tunnel. They thought it was pretty cool, especially when you see 3 aircraft carriers berthed at Norfolk Naval Station off in the distance.

A Zoo In The Van

Julie arose at 5:41 this morning to prepare for a grand adventure. She was heading to the National Zoo in Washington D.C. with the 5 youngest Sabo children and a friend and her 2 daughters. What a noble cause! Today would hit 60 degrees here in Gloucester, about that in D.C., a crisp gorgeous Fall day with leaves aflame, the sun orbiting lower on the horizon but shining bright, nary a cloud in the sky...lovely, just lovely. A perfect day to hit the zoo. Now mind you, this is no small feat for Julie, a third of the way through pregnancy and energy-challenged by the seed growing in her womb. What a trooper, though. What a dedicated mother! Such maternal instincts to desire to drive her young children 2 1/2 hours into the very teeth of our nation's capital, to treat her progeny to the sights and sounds of gorillas, pythons, hippos, giraffes, crocodiles, monkeys, zebras, polar bears, Democrats and whatever other unusual species inhabits the National Zoo. The plan was to leave at 6:30 a.m., and departure time was actually 7 o'clock. So not too bad in that department. But things got interesting.

Alas, a slight hiccup as it were on the journey north. About halfway to D.C., Olivia decided it would be a good time to test the very limits of her ability to projectile vomit. Let's just say the results were impressive. Somewhere on Route 301 northeast of Tappahannock, Olivia hurled in a sudden, unexpected fury the likes of which, thankfully, have not been witnessed in the Sabo Family Truckster for quite some time. No warning, no time to don protective plastic wear ... just one big urp. Julie pulled the van over for the inevitable cleanup. And what a chore it was, I'm told. We're still unsure what prompted the hurling fit because afterward, she was quite chipper and showed no ill effects of flu-like symptoms the rest of the day. Was it a bad granola bar she had gotten into on the road? Was she merely car sick? The genesis of the mysterious vomiting sickness remains a mystery.

We do know this. Ezra had a solution to the problem. Not knowing whether Olivia was genuinely taken ill and intending to vomit repeatedly, the agonizing decision was made to turn around and head home. Now mind you Ezra woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning. You can't blame the dude, because 6:15 a.m. comes awful early, especially for Ezra. He refused to get dressed and when he was finally coaxed into getting into a shirt and given the option of 4 -- yes 4 -- different pairs of pants, he decided to have a protest. No pants were going on him. It's unclear why he was protesting, it's just that he was. Possibly because he equates getting dressed after breakfast, but that's just a guess. Various methods of "coaxing" were unsuccessful. Until it was announced the van was leaving to go see the wildebeests, lions, tigers and water buffalo without Ezra. Then we saw some action. The nearest pair of pants were donned in record time. Anyway, for a guy who didn't want to get into the van, he sure had a change of perspective along the way. When told after the Olivia incident the trip to the zoo would have to wait, Ezra said, "Can't we just leave Olivia here?" Uh, on the side of the road, in her diaper? Julie broke it to him gently that they couldn't just leave Olivia on the side of the road. Then he suggested leaving her with Daddy. Apparently he was under the impression they could just drop Olivia off with Daddy and hit the zoo. The 1 1/2 hours in the van just to get to the spot where Olivia hurled must have flown by for Ezra.

Imagine my surprise to see the van pull into the driveway, just a few hours after departure. We can report with certainty that the kids were troopers and made the best of it. Julie made the best of it as well. She managed to get a nice nap in today, which made me happy. I know how hard these pregnancies are for her and how tired she gets and sick she feels. Not enough to go all Olivia on us, but we do appreciate that she was willing to take them and came home laughing about it. As for Ezra, I just asked him if he still wanted to go to the zoo. "Yeah," he said. "Maybe some other day when Olivia doesn't throw up. If Olivia wants to go we can still bring her. And if she doesn't throw up we can still take her." What a guy.

A Great Cosmic Mystery

See this kid here? Yeah, right up there with the blue eyes and easy smile. Dude's got issues. He's going through this phase lately where he harrumphs and announces rather menacingly that he's not eating dinner, doesn't like dinner and wants something else. So there. This new 'tude erupted out of the blue one night and he's been on a kick lately, doing this every few nights. We have no idea where it came from, the cause of it -- did he suffer a severe case of indigestion after a recent meal that aroused his anti-dinner antics? -- and when it's going to end. I wasn't home for dinner tonight due to being in Newport News working late on a story with another reporter about a 71-year-old woman who's been married at least 10 times, sometimes without the proper divorcing proceedings occurring before the ensuing marriage, and has left a slew of angry ex-husbands, not to mention she now faces charges of bigamy, perjury and theft. Look for the story in the paper soon.

Anyway, back to Ezra. Julie reported to me that he once again refused to eat dinner tonight. He stood there, lip thrust out, arms crossed and 100 percent attitude. So he got sent to a room until his attitude improved, with the warning not to dare come out until he was ready to grub or he was likely to have a cheeky encounter with Mr. Spoon. After a while, he made an appearance and slinked out of the room before eventually sitting at the table. He still refused to eat, however. Everyone else finished the chicken and rice casserole, the plates were cleared off the table, the kids who dutifully finished dinner headed off to play ... and there sat Ezra. He was relentless in his determination to show everyone that eating is a sign of weakness, the consuming of food the mere Achilles heel, or soft underbelly, or shortcoming of lesser 4-year-olds. Ezra was in for the long haul, his commitment evident in his steely glare. This fast was on!

Until, out of the corner of her eye as she busied herself in the kitchen, Julie thought she spied a fork lifted to a little boy's mouth ... could it be? Did Ezra just take a bite? She approached the stalwart young defender of the Principle of the Matter -- that principle being that sometimes a boy has to stand for something he believes in, that something being in this case the right to decide whether or not he need partake of the nightly sustenance. Did you just take a bite? queried Julie. The look on Ezra's face can only be described as scorn, as if to say, "How dare you even suggest I would lower myself to take a bite of dinner, demeaning the very essence of my being. You may as well dress me in a frilly pink tutu and curl my hair with curlers and have me prance around. I may be 4, but I have principle." She pressed him on the matter and his brow furrowed more deeply, the squint of his icy glare becoming more fierce. She urged him to open his mouth so she could see for herself whether he took a bite. He relented and slowly his lips parted, his jaw slackened and it was revealed at last the truth of the matter. Julie peered in his mouth. She saw rice. And chicken. "You did take a bite!" she gushed. "I knew I saw you!"

Ezra smiled. Then he proceeded to wolf down his chicken and rice as if he had not eaten even a tiny morsel all day. The storm had passed. The mysterious force that erupted in such sudden fury with extraordinarily severe consequences disappeared as suddenly as it had reared up. The sky cleared, the sun shone brightly, all was good again. In the end, only one small detail remained. It was the vexing question that haunts every parent, a mystery of untold depths that sometimes comes in staccato bursts, depending on the child and the circumstances and whatever else causes this cosmic behavioral quirk to burst forth like a supernova: What on earth was that all about?

`Red Dragons' Are History

In case you've been wondering, and frankly I can't imagine a scenario where you would be, I'm happy to report that the "Red Dragons" got into the win column this Fall. We didn't exactly light up the win column, but we battled to the end of the season and finished with 2 victories. Against 9 losses. Somehow some other coach got the league's coach of the year award. I will say, however, that those 2 victories were very glorious, no doubt about it. One of the games was a victory against the dread "Cookie Monsters," a team that had beaten us on two previous occasions. In what can only be described as the biggest sporting victory on American soil since the 1980 U.S. Olympic hockey team victory over the Russians at Lake Placid, we trounced the Cookie Monsters 2-0 in a game I may never forget for the way the Red Dragons battled, fought and got every ounce of ability out of themselves to defeat what had been up until that moment a superior opponent. (Of course, it helped that during the match one of our players sent the other team's best player to the hospital when, during a collision when both players were going for the ball, he landed with his size 9 cleat on the back of the other player's hand, crushing it.)

You can see here a photograph of our team in between a couple of our tournament losses on Saturday. We played three games, lost all three by a combined score of something like 15-3 ... but look at these kids. Smiles! They're having fun! Even while getting beaten to a pulp! I'm not sure whether that's because we just got done feeding them pizza and handing out trophies to them or whether they're smiling because they knew the season was, mercifully, almost over. Whatever the case, several of the parents and players asked me when it was all over if I was going to "coach" again in the Spring. They thought it would be good to keep the team together.
I wasn't sure how to answer that. Yeah, I had a great time and it was fun coaching the kids and they were a great group of kids, but it is a pretty big commitment. And there's probably someone out there who could actually teach these kids something about soccer. You know, maybe coach them up to at least 3 or 4 victories. We'll see. Maybe between now and the Spring season I'll pick up a few soccer strategies. Gain some insights. Understand the nuances of the game, such as the difference between "indirect" and "direct" kicks and "offsides." I'll just put this out there right now. Gloucester Parks and Recreation 9- to 11-year-olds watch out. The Red Dragons might be back. Be afraid. Be very afraid.

28 Weeks To Go ... Time To Pick Names!

Julie went to the doctor on Wednesday for an ultrasound and brought home a snapshot of a healthy little baby boy or girl in her womb. Baby appeared to be waving, sort of letting us know every thing's fine and it's nice and snuggly in there. We have no clue if it's a boy Sabo or a girl Sabo percolating in there. That's another 8 weeks off before we get that photo confirmation. If, that is, we decide to find out if it's a boy or a girl Sabo. I'm not sure if I want to know. Surprise is good, though I'll be 42 when baby is born and I'm not sure if my heart will be able to handle all the excitement at that ripe old age.

We've been tossing around names here at Sabo central. We're experienced at this. I must say, though, this seems to be the first time we've been seriously kicking around baby names this early in the game and possibly even settled on a couple. There's some logic behind this. Our experience is that traditionally our babies have been born rapid-fire. Sort of the Uzi of baby birthing ... one right after the other. (Was that a good analogy? Could I have chosen a better one?) I have barely had time to get the last baby's name down pat before the next one is upon us. Who has time to pick another name?

This one is a little different. With a full 2 1/2 years since the last Sabo baby exited the womb, there's been plenty of opportunities to name drop. We have some pretty serious candidates at the moment, as far as names go. That's good because it will give me plenty of time to practice remembering the baby's name when the need arises to remember said baby's name at critical junctures, such as when someone inevitably asks me baby's name. I've actually had some rather embarrassing moments lately when someone asks me the name of the kid who is with me and I give them a name. You know, just sort of throw one out there without thinking about it too much. Then the kid gives me a strange look and I suddenly remember, `That's not Ezra! That's Gabe!' I quickly correct my mistake, uttering the disclaimer, "I was just making sure Gabe knew his name. Heh-heh." The person usually gives me the `Yeah, right!' look, followed by the look that says, `Egads! Someone pull his parenting card! He can't even remember his kid's name!'

Here's the thing. As a parent of 12 kids, I have to remember 24 names -- first and middle names -- not to mention the occasional mother's maiden name I have to remember to fill out certain important documents, as well as my own names, my wife's names, my wife's maiden name and on top of all that now I'm coaching a soccer team with 12 kids on it and I have to remember their names (at practice the other day I just randomly started calling some kid on my team `Bob'; he thought it was funny but the truth is I couldn't remember his name) ... can you give a brother a break? And I'm not even getting into birth dates, anniversaries, social security numbers, pin numbers, addresses, passwords ... what's really frightening is when my kids start getting married and there's spouses names to remember ... and then they start having kids! What if there are 20 grandkids! What if there's 40! What if there's 60! Don't be surprised if when the Sabo grandkids start appearing I just make everybody wear nametags. And one other thing. If we do have 60 grandkids, what's Christmas going to be like?

Warning: Little Boy In Bathroom

You're probably looking at this photo and thinking, `What a cute photo.' I look at this photo and think, `Claire just peeked into the bathroom after one of these little boys came out of it.' It's a look of horror, in case you're wondering. I've had it. I'm tired of having to put yellow police tape over the door of our bathrooms after one of the little boys exits it. Don't get me wrong, I love our little boys. But mercy sakes, can you aim sons? It's like a firefighter who can't handle his hose in there! Maybe it's just our house. Maybe I'm a bad dad who hasn't taken the proper time to cover the subject of "Toilet: The Hows and Whys of Proper Aim" with his wee lads. All I can say is that it seems like every time one of the little shavers walks in there it's going to be a seat-soaking, wall spraying, floor warping experience.

One thing that doesn't help is the wait-until-the-very-last-second habit of some of our unnamed little boys. Instead of taking care of business at the first inkling of a full bladder, they wait until the full bladder is about to explode and the end result is the tinkling turns into a jet spray horror show. I can see it coming, too. The little potty dance jig that sometimes includes full-blown crotch grabbing to stave off an "accident" is something I can spot out of the corner of my eye. As soon as I see the potty dance I "encourage" the little lad to get into the bathroom to take care of bidnis ... and we all know what happens next. The bidnis starts before the britches are properly dropped and the seat properly lifted and you have the equivalent of the Bathroom Armageddon.

Somehow we'll survive all this. I'm sure I'll laugh about it. Someday. When we're not wiping down the seat, mopping up the floor and giving the wall a good cleansing. Until then I'm investigating the costs of 6-foot-high urinals. The kind with a little faux fly painted on it at the bottom. Seriously. I, uh, saw one of those recently. Believe me, everyone I know tried to hit the fly. I can only hope that it would work in our house.

She Said What?

The other day Olivia was upstairs eating Doritos. On the carpet. That's a no-no in our house. So Claire called her on it and told her she needed to go downstairs and eat the chips in the kitchen. Olivia looked at her, licked her lips and said, "I'm busy." Then she proceeded to eat her chips. We have a wee lass here, just 2 years old, with a "Princess complex" and that is not a good thing. This morning she was wearing some new hand-me down pants that looked great on her. Fit nicely, didn't sag anywhere, not too short, not too long. Just right. She walked up to me and wrinkled her nose. "These don't fit," she said. I tried to convince her that, au contraire mon ami, they look great on her. I was half-expecting her to say, "Do these make me look fat?" Needless to say she went in the bedroom and changed her pants.

The other day Olivia said to MerriGrace, "I'm funny." MerriGrace said, "No you're not." And Olivia said, "I'm funny." So MerriGrace told her to tell her a joke. Olivia said, "Your life's a joke."
Um, where does she learn this stuff? I've said for quite some time that I have my work cut out for me with this sweet little girl. It's going to take some doing. Prayer is appreciated. We've also said for quite some time that one cure to the Princess complex would for her not to be the caboose of the family, so to speak. But the Lord has had other plans for us as far as having the No. 13 Sabo baby. Until quite recently. A shocking development has occurred in the house o' Sabo: Julie is pregnant. The ultrasound shows a healthy little one growing in her womb with a heartbeat Julie got to hear tapping along at 170 beats a minute. Julie's 11 weeks along and we're praying for a healthy baby in the middle of May (Let's see, what is it about August? We have Taylor's birthday on April 29, Brenton's and Madeline's on May 1 and Claire's on May 17 ... ). It would really be helpful for me if the baby was born on May 17. Since that's Claire's birthday it's easy for me to remember. So perhaps the solution to Olivia's Princess complex is just months away.