Brown Family Olympians

Dear Family, Friends and Countrymen:

Whenever I watch the Olympics I’m reminded of how I could have been an Olympian. Everyone said so when I was growing up. And now that I’ve watched a few Olympics from my couch, I heartily agree that I could give those athletes a run for history. Is it too late to sign up as an alternate somewhere?

Speaking of future Olympians, we now have four kids in school full-time! I thought Jill would be in celebration mode, but she is super sad. I’ve tried to comfort her by telling her that she can get a job and I’ll stay home with Sam, but she thinks I’m kidding. Secretly, though, I’m looking to train more. After all, who couldn’t become an Olympic athlete if they worked out all day?

I have recently taken up golfing again. I take it up about once a year during the summertime when it is so hot outside the golf courses practically pay you to play. I’ve now taken Scottie twice and Josh and Zach once each. The universal theme is that they all think I stink. And I can’t disagree – collectively we’re quite a spectacle out there, holding up the fast-moving golfers who tell us our type should be confined to the driving range or purgatory. Note that golfing is not an Olympic sport . . . and there is a reason for that – it’s not a sport for real athletes.

Scottie has taken up the Olympic spirit, too. He told me and Jill that he's going to start training for the 50m freestyle in swimming. When I told him I was going to be in the 2012 Olympics, too, he and Jill started laughing. It took them a while before they could regain their composure. I don't mind -- it's just extra motivation.

I took the kids to the cabin without Jill. She banned me from taking my .22 rifle – apparently she didn’t think there was enough “adult” supervision, whatever that means. So, we were stuck with shooting an old $10 bow and arrow set that we bought Scottie for his third birthday and a bb gun that can’t penetrate paper plates. Nevertheless, we enjoyed ourselves, shooting in tournaments that I set up. I won them all, naturally, but the kids did well, too. I’m pretty sure bows and arrows and bb guns are in the Olympics.

I finally bought a fishing license a month ago. I’ve been fishing three times since then and have been skunked every time. Part of the reason is that I am too lazy to wake up early in the morning to go fishing when the fish are actually biting. Part of the other reason is the adult to child ratio on my fishing trips, generally 6 (kids) to 1 (adult). One of these days I’m going to go fishing by myself at 4:00 in the morning just to prove to myself (and the world, who is always watching me in my Olympic fantasy) that I can still catch a fish.

Misty has a stink problem. She’s generally been a stinky dog, but over the last year she has really outdone herself. During that time she’s rarely spent time in the house because of her unbearable smell. Finally, Jill took her to the vet, which we have been informed is a doctor for pets that are sick or otherwise injured. Anyway, the pet doctor said Misty’s ears are infected and that is the cause of her increased smell. Indeed! Now we have to squirt stuff in her ears morning and night and clean them out with cotton balls. It’s a gross job and smells really bad, which is why Jill and I have fought more these past few weeks over whose turn it is to squirt and clean Misty’s ears than we have the entire length of our marriage combined.

I’ve decided that job or no job I need to start training for the 2012 London Olympics, so I took Misty jogging the other morning. She is out of shape! After the third mile she wouldn’t run anymore and after the fourth mile she laid down in some shade and stuck her tongue out at me. (Okay, so Misty was lolling her tongue out the entire time, but you get the point.) Luckily we were close to civilization so I asked a lady in a parking lot if I could use her cell phone to call Jill to come rescue us. The lady was very helpful. Won’t she be surprised when, in 2012, she sees that strange man from the parking lot win gold against his son.

Love,

The Phelps-Browns