Stop it, sinuses...

We have reached that time of the year when the ragweed and the crunchy leaves and the other allergens are swirling around in the air like some twisted snot producing soup. I woke up this morning with a tickle in my throat and a burn in my nostrils. Where's all the snorty stuff? Do we have a gross of Mucinex? Sigh. Oh well. I knew it was coming. When four out of seven days are spent on a soccer field, you can't expect a whole lot. I will be saturating myself with a cocktail of herbal and over the counter remedies, hoping to head the illness off at the pass. Let's hope I am successful.

Even though the allergies are no fun and my rear end gets numb from sitting in those camp chairs forever, pictures like these make it all worth it:



Just pure love, light and joy right there. Love it.
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Observations from a footballer's mother

Three games today and three victories for the kids today. Two were very decisive, the third cold have been more decisive than it was, but they still won. Being at the field all day, I see more than my share of spectacles. I am really trying to not be labeled as one of "those" parents, but it is more difficult each game. I want to yell and get obnoxious, but there are too many out there to watch to have time to get terribly obnoxious myself. The plan was to draw pictures with today's written offering, but my tired state has rendered me creatively empty and boring. So I will just describe today's offering of people.

1. The "Juvie Parent"- the adult on the sidelines who is screaming loud enough that the rest of the team parents have made a conscious decision to move their chairs, coolers and beverages a good twenty feet away so as to disavow any knowledge of the loudmouth downfield. They are named for my brother's former coach who, besides being one of our town's juvenile judges, but also the coach everybody wanted but didn't want that to be public knowledge due to his amazing tantrums.

2. The "I like it so you're gonna like it" Parent-the adult who wants to live their unfulfilled sports dreams out in their child who has absolutely no interest in the sport. Tis includes the parent who walked out during their 5 year old's game to wear his little rear end out when he didn't run after the ball like they wanted. Get a life, mom and dad.

3. The "Really?"Parent- the parent who yells ten times louder than the coach, causing the players confusion when they are being given orders from two grown ups. Their child is, sadly enough to say, the lumbering dump truck on the team. When they get a foot out and finally kick a ball two feet, the parents cheer and hold her up as a soccer prodigy, the likes of whom has not been seen in our area for years. They correct, no really CORRECT, the kids who play on multiple and club teams and tell them what they did wrong while their child is dressed by others so as not to exert anymore energy than necessary. All of this happens while my sweet and innocent 5 year old soaks up every bit of this example up like a sponge, waiting for the proper time to use it on us. Yeah, no dice kid.

It is a freak circus and I am sure someone is writing much more eloquent and accurate observations about the red headed mom of three who sounded like a wounded Wookie on the side of the field today. I'm going to go to bed and ponder that now. Night all....

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She's 11...good grief...

My oldest is officially eleven years old today. I cannot believe it. She came into the world sunny side up and squirming, with a cry like a little kitten. The lightest peach fuzz was on her little head. She gave us fits trying to eat and gain weight and she's still the same way today. Gone are the days of Little People and Polly Pockets for presents. This year she wanted books and knitting materials. Instead of 11, I think she turned 47 today at 6:42pm. I am proud of the girl she is and I can't wait to see what the future holds for her. Let's just hope there are no more head injuries. Happy Birthday, sweet girl.


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Writer's block...no, wait, blogger's block

I know that to call myself a writer is insulting all those who actually are writers, but I've got the block. My entries thrive on strange encounters with everyday people in less than exciting situations. Between the grocery store, school pickup line and local restaurants, I could blog for months. This new middle school-four soccer teams and three kids kind of life is screwing up my observation time. Okay, that's not entirely true. The soccer fields are a wealth of information, but most of the time I am glued to a game and trying not to vomit. You understand, right?

I will say this before I retire to watch the new version of Sherlock Holmes that I am suspicious about: my oldest turns eleven tomorrow. Eleven. I cannot believe it. Eleven years ago today, I had finished up nesting and had started a crying jag while my mother and the hub tried to explain that "the baby is coming and tough if you are scared." I think I may have slept an hour that night. I got through it and I'll go into that more tomorrow. Now I must away to bed and TV. Sloth awaits....


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Well, there's a first time for everything...

This has been a busy and strange day. Well, aren't they all? I read with the boy's class today, which is always an adventure. Children, especially kindergareners, have no whisper volume. Luckily the librarian is understanding. Thankfully so since one particular boy yells for his conversational voice. Jeepers...their teacher is a saint. I still enjoy it very much and the boy enjoys having me there, so every Wednesday we have a date. After reading, I ran several errands related to a little blonde's upcoming eleventh birthday. Whew! Thank goodness she likes to be crafty or we'd be in big trouble. I will admit that I took a little snooze and I liked it. Upon waking, I felt like groggy crap and regretted the decision. I needed a pick me up, and milk, so I ran to my favorite grocery store to hopefully run into one of several church members I always see. I instead ran into my favorite man in produce who was in a worse mood than I was. He hates Wednesdays, because answering the same question over and over from people who are hard of hearing is annoying to him. His bad day always means a good time for me, for he is at his funniest when angry. I've known the man for 10 years, so he knows I mean no ill will when I laugh:



I got a good laugh with Don which was good, especially since I knew church supper was coming. And we all know the crazy comes out at dinner. Tonight did not disappoint. The boy sat with his friend and the family he belongs to and the girls sat with their friends. The hub and I had a rare meal with all grown ups which honestly felt odd. It helped that we were sitting with our very entertaining friend Ed, who is a nuclear scientist of some important sort and a magician on the side. We were all laughing and carrying on when my friend came over and whispered in my ear, "I just want you to know your boy just licked D's ear." Crowds and noise can distort hearing, so I asked her to repeat herself. "Your son just licked the pastor's ear." Well this is not going to go well at the next staff meeting. Luckily the hub went to investigate. Pastor D walked by later, hands in the air claiming to be okay. A least that's what people told me...I had my head in my hands. After talking with the hub later, he explained that the boy was trying to give him a wet Willie. Obviously we need to educate him on the proper method for doing this prank before he gets the stuffings beaten out of him. Luckily he had a kind person. This time.

Well, I'm going to bed and try and figure out how to walk into church on Sunday without hanging my head in shame. The boy will have no problem. Just watch out for his wet willie's. They make quite an impression.
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The sweet and sour pain of parenting...

Once again I find myself on a Tuesday evening sitting at dance class, working out the problems of the world in my head whilst watching beautiful girls dance in ways that make my legs ache. Beth Nielsen Chapman's heartbreakingly beautiful "Sand and Water" playing in my ears but only adding to the darkness of my mood. "What To Expect While Your Expecting" fails to tell you of the terrible ache your heart feels when you can't kiss the hurt and make it better...when the obstacles seem too much for one little body to take. This pain that I wouldn't trade for a second, for in doing so would be emptying my life of the sweet soul it accompanies, a thought too devastating to contemplate. I long so for another crazy day, another Pizza Inn-cousin in a bite suit-weird encounter in a parking lot kind of day. The one where I can barely type from laughing so hard. But the mood hangs heavy over my head and over our family these days. There are so many people experiencing so much more devastating problems than ours, I feel tremendous guilt even expressing complaints or frustrations. We are truly blessed in countless ways. But, my friends, there are days when it is hard to sing of those blessings when one of my greatest blessings suffers as she does. Living a life of comparisons and unrealistic expectations to be someone other than herself. To live with a beautifully designed and wonderfully unique brain that makes her learn differently, makes her challenging to figure out and a puzzle to "fix". A girl who has to live under the specter, though wonderful she is, of her sister. Who can't be allowed to be the perfectly wonderful kid she is because she learns differently...doesn't have blonde hair and zero body fat...is an artist and athlete first and a reader second. This precious creature who God must smile about every day...who buries her head in my chest, tears magnifying her eyes when she can't take one more comparison, one more correction of her abilities. Why isn't being herself enough and why won't anyone give her the help she so desperately need and we want to her to have? My chest burns with fear for her fragile ego, with fury for her need for help with an obvious learning difference, for sadness towards those who have no idea what a bright, caring, ball of light this child is. This is the sweet pain of parenting...one that I'll gladly endure.



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I'll stop talking by October's end...

Don't get your hopes up people. Not altogether, just about soccer...until it starts in the Spring. I have played a lot of sports for a long time, even though I don't look like it now, and I have had a lot of coaches. There is nothing better and more encouraging than a good coach. One who calls you out when you screw up, teaches you how to fix it and cheers harder than everyone else for your success. There is nothing more damaging than a bad coach. The constant barrage of poor behavior, cutting remarks, negativity, discounting the worth of and breaking the spirit of budding athletes. It makes my skin crawl and my blood boil to think about it. The hub and I are at a crossroads, dealing with this exact situation. All I have to say is this is me during a recent game:



This picture shows me right before my head popped off. Get out of my kid's face. You're on the same team, remember?

I've got to go to bed. My blood pressure is starting to go up again.
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