Friday, August 30, 2013

Dirty kids...Dirty food

It's soccer time in Tennessee, my friends. With soccer season comes practice and, seeing as how it is Friday, we found ourselves in the middle of the hub of activity: the fields. It seems that after all this time, the routine is automatic. I carry the chairs, the kids carry their packs with their equipment, the hub carries the big blue Santa bag with cones and balls and pennies and pumps. We trek from one practice to the other, like a bunch of little soccer gypsies, looking more haggard with each location. The boy is usually covered with a layer of sweat which helps the second layer of dried cut grass adhere better. Rolling around and wrestling with his friends help with the grass coverage. His glasses are askew and his exposed flesh is eaten by mosquitoes. A great visual, I know. The hub grows more hunched by the minute and all the returning parents, who are aware of his history of back problems, cringe and wince when they see him jump to avoid the ball and hold their breath until he lands safely. Usually one or more of the kids ends up crying from the combination of heat, pain and thirst. By the time our two hour stint is over, the family is sweaty, nasty, grassy, tired and hungry. We trudged back to the car, threw all of the paraphenalia into the back of the van and began the journey towards food and home. G was feeling a little down, so we decided she could choose our Friday night eating spot. The boy said, "Pick something good, but not very nice." We all started laughing a little and he said, "Well. We're all kind of nasty. Why not a delicious but nasty place to eat." Uh, dude, have you ever watched Don Dare on Food For Thought? I know he has, because we watch him every week and have to restrain ourselves from saying his catch phrase to his face when we see him at church. They chose to have tacos at Salsarita's, the hot spot to see everybody in town and they get to see you at your soccer nastiness. Oh well. And the fact that the boy is dipping his grassy fingers in his queso, well, that's a hard one to explain away when his allergist walks by and sees that. Classing it up at the 'Ritas. We know how to do Fridays.

But let me tell you this, my three dear readers. They never argue about bedtime on Fridays...ever. Soccer Friday win!

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