Put a Mom in Charge

I consider it my sacred duty as a mother to be ready for all sorts of emergency situations, be it a torn pair of pants or a scraped knee. All moms feel the same.  However, when said parent has an anxiety disorder, the "emergency" becomes more bloody and horrific.  We can't help having visions of our precious offspring suffering some terrible malady, and we will do anything in our power to avoid such an occurrence.

When my son began to play soccer, I realized that various injuries were highly likely.  After all, soccer involves a bunch of kids running after the same ball in a swirling mass of legs and arms, trying to score goals.  Eyes get poked, ankles get turned.  What parent wouldn't be worried about that?  

The best way to alleviate anxiety is action.  Instead of being paralyzed by the vivid images in my brain, I started planning. When Zane was younger, I planned on those instant cold packs and band aids for the sidelines.  Since three year old Zane was of the opinion that an ice pack solved every ill, we were good. 

As Zane has become older, however, I've had to plan the first aid kit out more carefully.  In addition to situations requiring an ice pack or a band aid, we now have to concern ourselves with bug bites, allergic reactions, dirt in the eye, broken or sprained limbs, heatstroke, bloody noses, annoyed referees, and the occasional broken shoe lace. There's also the mud that gets on your cleats and makes a kid feel like they are running in quicksand. 

I have not sat idly by, nursing my anxiety.  I may not be able to rush out on the field when my child is hurt, but I've made sure to pack the most ridiculously comprehensive first aid kit in recreational soccer history.  At least that's what I think.  I was prepared for pretty much everything.  I've even got thermal blankets in there, too, in case someone goes into shock.   I spent one morning organizing and packing everything into a special container, labeling each bag with the contents, so my husband, who does get to sit on the sidelines near the players, can find what he needs quickly.

Except for the fact that Larry doesn't know the first thing about first aid, we're golden. 

But this exercise made me think that perhaps there were other areas in life where moms should be in charge of the planning and organizing.  In addition to first aid, moms should probably be in charge of other situations that require such preparation.  Maybe emergency management?  A mom would be able to stock up on everything needed to prepare for just about every situation.  How about managing the large crowds at a football stadium.  Moms might not be able to do crowd control, but they can spot areas of concern in an instant and they know how to fix the problem.  Moms do a lot of on-the-spot problem solving, and they should get credit for that. Whereas a man tends to be initially stymied by surprise occurrences, moms just wade right into the situation.

Maybe what this world needs is more moms in charge?    

A Different Kind of Soccer League.

Our son has played soccer since he was three years old.   Zane's an only child; team sports offered him an opportunity to acquire the socialization skills he needed.  Both of my brother's boys played soccer, and they seemed to enjoy it.  However, our reasoning at the time was one of self-preservation; our child was wearing us out.  Zane is in constant motion, and soccer offered him the opportunity to get some of that energy out of his system without warping the Time-Space Continuum.

Soccer at age three looks pretty much like a bunch of cats all chasing the same mouse; lots of running, and occasionally someone accidentally hits the ball.  Zane loved it, so we continued to sign him up with the same league. It didn't cost very much.  All the boys got along, and after playing together for so many years, they were becoming a well-oiled machine.  However, during the past year we started noticing that Zane's team was winning games 20-1, 18-0, etc.  That's pretty bad, even for a children's recreational soccer league.

Zane wasn't interested in learning anything new; he just wanted to play the same kind of soccer he'd always played.  He scored so many goals that he seemed a bit cocky, and he started to mentally wander off during games. Zane knows how much I love to watch him play, especially during the past year, but it didn't seem to matter.  He was in a rut.  Larry and I have learned from experience that when Zane's behavior deteriorates, it means that things are too easy for him. If it was too easy, it wasn't interesting.  It was time for us to try something different.  The boy needed a challenge.

Time to move on to what is known as "competitive" soccer. The big leagues. 

The cost to play went up, of course.  But I've come to realize that when it comes to children's sports, you get what you pay for.  Where we had been playing on what had been a parking lot with scraggly bits of grass growing over it, now there are thick fields of grass, carefully tended and cared for.  And  Zane received two practice jerseys in addition to his game kit.  He now has a coach who is paid, who writes up lesson plans before every practice, and who is an extremely patient young man to take on a group of seven year olds.  A group of seven year olds who were all used to being the star, the ones who scored all the goals for their team, the ones whose parents felt that their boys needed a challenge.

Zane is now learning to pay attention, because if he doesn't, he gets to do toe touches.  He has met an entirely new group of kids, and his natural extrovert has come out.  Zane is learning new skills faster than I ever thought he would.   I can already see my son's skills blossoming.  Anything worth doing is worth doing well, but the main thing I want for my son is that he love what he does.  You can see it in his face every time he is out on the field; he is having fun.

And that is worth everything. 

Football By Any Other Name is Soccer

Football is big in this state.  Boys start playing the game as young as 4 or 5 years of age, when their helmets are bigger than they are.  I became interested in football from an early age, probably because it was the only thing on military television when we lived in Germany. When we returned to Texas, my parents enrolled my brother in Pop Warner football, when he was eight.  I was dragged to his practices, and when I didn't have a book to read, I watched the players slam into each other without regard for their personal safety.  They were being boys, and that is what boys do.  I can remember the sound of eggs cracking; that was how it sounded when helmets struck together just so.

My love of football stuck around for awhile.  I read books about the sport, and even subscribed to Sports Illustrated for a while to stay current.  I was a faithful viewer of the NFL.  I was watching the night that Joe Theisman broke his leg on Monday Night Football, and I sat through the 300 repeat viewings of the incident without throwing up like my roommate. Although I never got into college football much, I did manage to attend an icy Texas A&M vs. the University of Texas game one Thanksgiving.  Those fans kept me warm with their chanting and screaming, but I really didn't get the hype.

But my love of football has cooled over the years.  I've always had soccer in the back of my mind.  When you mention football in other countries, that's the mental image people get.  Foosball, futbol...means soccer.  In Germany, soccer was king if you weren't living on a military post.  Germans love them some soccer, and I can remember posters and magazine covers of the local stars, even if I usually couldn't read the headlines.

Soccer is not for the faint of heart, certainly.  Soccer doesn't allow for timeouts, or commercial breaks, or coaching from the sidelines.  Once you're on the field, that's it, until half time 45 minutes later.  The larger, heavier players are not usually as successful as the lighter, more limber players, like Lionel Messi.  A soccer player has to be able to think on his feet as well as run, as there aren't really specific plays. Just about everything happens in the moment, based on decisions made by the player with the ball.  He(or she) must quickly make calculations and predictions based upon the other players on the field, ball trajectory, and the placement of other team members.  No wonder studies have shown soccer players to have higher IQ scores than other athletes!

So now my own boy plays soccer.  He's never been interested in any other sport.  Besides, soccer was a natural choice for an active child like mine.  Zane runs all the time, so why not throw a ball in the mix and point him at a goal?  He's actually not too bad at the sport, and he loves it.  His skills improve every day.  He's not only learning about the game, but he is also learning about working as a team, following the rules, and other life skills. He doesn't have any padding on him, like they do in American football, but boys fall down a lot.  They're boys. 

There are 600 soccer balls all over my house, because Zane likes to run around with a soccer ball in front of him.  The entire family watched the World Cup this year, and that's what we will be doing in four years.  We attend soccer games even when Zane isn't playing; his cousins play soccer as well.  My husband, brother, and my father all coached soccer at one time or another, so they have plenty to talk about at family gatherings.  Soccer has become a family thing.
 
My son may decide to play American football one day, when he is older.  This is Texas, and American football is king.  If he does want to play that sport, I'll try to be okay with that decision.  Right now, he loves him some soccer.  And so do I.



Mamakat had an extra prompt that caught my eye: write a post inspired by the word football.  Thank you, Mamakat!

Dirty Politics and Children

My husband became a coach, and a commissioner, in order to support our son's fledgling soccer career. In his capacity as commissioner, Larry started noticing things. Things that, if they happened in a business, would be considered criminal. At the least, they were unethical.  The organization's bylaws outline specifically the procedures necessary for the functioning of the group. Yet things were happening without anyone knowing a thing about them.  When my husband raised questions and asked for transparency, he was patted on the head and told to "trust them".  He began to suspect that financial shenanigans were afoot, and when his concerns were not addressed, he did what any normal adult would do.

He decided to run for President of the soccer organization.

Larry didn't want to rule the world, he just wanted to make soccer a more enjoyable experience. He did everything that you're supposed to do for the election. Everything they harp on in the government classes. Everything that they say makes our country great. He made phone calls and sent out emails listing why he was running and where he saw the organization going.  He met with people, and shook hands, and talked with them about soccer. He'd never run for office before, but he did his best.  When my son asked about what his father was doing, we briefly explained the political process and encouraged his interest.

We should have instead explained about cheating, lying, and other forms of political corruption.

The woman he was running against brought in random people to vote, people who were not even actual voting members.  When my husband started to complain, his opponent started an argument with him as a distraction, so he wouldn't notice the ballot box being stuffed.  Larry "lost" the election 43 to 13, which combined is more than the number of coaches AND voting board members in the organization.  One person even voted twice; she told us so.

Politics are part of life. I understand that. There is no interaction between two or more people that does not involve some form of politics. It is the oil that gets the wheels moving in the right direction. At least, they are supposed to do that. Nobody seems to be in the mood for compromise anymore, and nothing seems to get done without a great deal of screaming and name calling.  I get that.  I understand the gridlock that bogs down Washington.  I don't like it, but I get it.

But this? This I don't get.

Let's be clear here: Members of an organization dedicated to building character in children through sports cheated to win an election. A person in charge of referees, who is a referee herself, cheated to win an election. And you wonder why people believe that games are fixed?

This is a youth soccer organization we are talking about.  It is supposed to be all about children, not about alleged kickbacks and unreported income. We should be enjoying the games, not worrying about someone fixing a lousy board election.  But now I'm struggling with the fact that the people who are supposed to have my son's best interests at heart are possibly criminals. I shouldn't be worried that my hard earned registration fee is going to end up in the pockets of the new President, or that a contract with the company that makes our uniforms involves a kickback. But now I am.

How do I protect my child from that and still allow him to play sports? How do I explain to him about the evil that people do to each other without killing that spark that makes him want to excel at sports?

If someone is so very set on grasping power that they corrupt the very ideals that our country is supposed to represent, what does that say about them?  What does that say about us, that we tolerate such behavior, dismissing it as "politics as usual"?

More importantly, what message does that send to our children? That it's okay to cheat to get what you want? That you can call in favors or work out deals under the table with impunity?  That it doesn't matter how hard you try, it matters who you know? 

It doesn't get better if you change organizations, either.  I am not naive enough to believe that someone will suddenly rush in and fix this travesty, or demand a new vote based on those actually able to vote. That ship has sailed. Because I have a strong sense of fair play, however, I've looked into filing a complaint.  But there is no one to complain to.  These youth organizations run with very little oversight from anyone.  They can do whatever they want. There's nobody making sure that a parent's cash payment doesn't end up in someone's pocket, and no one to report it to if it happens. There's nobody making sure that the coaches are not sex offenders.  There's nobody making sure that the rules, whatever they may be, are even followed.  Doesn't that sound wrong to you? People complain about FIFA, but it's not FIFA who are working closely with our children.

Public school sports have oversight, parochial schools have oversight; even college sports have the NCAA. Why not these groups? Why isn't there a National or even a South Texas Youth Sports Organization that is charged with keeping track of complaints against these organizations and making sure that things are done ethically?  An argument may be made that youth sports are small potatoes, but I don't buy that for one minute. If we are ever going to teach our kids about honesty, integrity, and character, it starts at the ground level. Change begins at the roots. Organizations working with children should be above reproach, and any efforts to allow otherwise should be stomped down hard. Shenanigans  or unethical behavior of any sort with any nonprofit organization should result in the loss of nonprofit status.  Any efforts to fix elections at any level should be brought into the light and the perpetrators banned from office, and even from voting. That is how you get the message across, that our children's organizations are not the place for such behavior.

Something must be done.

My Imagination Tends to Wander

Since the spring soccer season is about to start, we headed into the local Soccer Factory to try on cleats. Zane is way more a fashionista than I could ever be, and he's all about the soccer shoes. His favorites are usually whatever Lionel Messi is wearing, but as his parent, all I care about is whether they fit correctly and cost less than the GDP of Ecuador. 

As we walked inside, I noticed these HUGE shoes.  

They were obnoxiously large.  As in, that is a full-sized soccer ball underneath that cleat.  I hope that those shoes weren't actually intended to fit anyone, because I cannot even imagine how tall a person would have to be in order to have a foot that large. Would it even be possible for someone to survive if they were that huge?  The amount of food needed to support such size would be astronomical, not to mention finding clothing that fit.  

Now that I think about it, nothing would fit for this person. Not a single chair would be able to hold their weight.  No bathtub would be big enough.  And forget trying to use a regular sized toilet!   Poor guy. He wouldn't be able to go anywhere--no school, restaurant, or even church would be able to accommodate his size. He would be an outcast, not because of anything he did, but because of his enormity.   

I was starting to feel a little sad for my imaginary person, with his gigantic shoes, until I asked one of the sales people whether the shoes on display belonged to actual people.  He assured me that there were no naked giants out there looking to buy soccer cleats.  That eased my free wheeling imagination a great deal. 

This is just one more reason why I'm better off just shopping online.

Making New Memories

The San Antonio Scorpions FC, our hometown NASL soccer team, played a match against a major league soccer team, FC Dallas.  (I am pretty sure that the 'FC' stands for 'Football Club', because football in every other country but ours is actually soccer. We had to be weird, us Americans. But don't quote me on that, because I'm winging it here.) 

The game was a 'friendly', meaning that it wouldn't count for anything. The Dallas club needed some practice, and the freshly selected newest members of the Scorpions needed practice as well.  It was also discussed that the Scorpions would like to be one of the MLS expansion teams at some point, and this would be good experience. 

Larry, Zane, and I had already taken a trip to Dallas to see the Dallas team play Los Angeles a while back. Well, to see David Beckham, really.  Zane wanted to show the soccer legend his new cleats, and we were all disappointed when Mr. Beckham bowed out.  Something to do with those pesky Olympic games and the jet lag of overseas travel. Or something.  

But this would be different. This would be on our home turf, so to speak.  It would be fun! And I decided to splurge a little and get as close to the green as possible. My goal(get it?--a soccer metaphor!) in splurging was simple. Life is about shared experiences.  The best memories that I have happened with other people, most of them my family. I want my son to have those kind of experiences, too.  My parents and my brother were also in attendance, so this was a family event of epic proportions.  

It is beyond exciting to be that close to the field of play in any sport, close enough to catch a ball if it flies into the crowd.  Or to yell at the ref when he misses a perfectly obvious yellow card.  Not that I would ever do that--that would be my brother. We were seated next to the section where the Scorpions Fan club was gathered, and the game was accompanied by the drums and chants of almost eight thousand people.  The energy of the crowd was inspiring.

When he is an adult, my son may recall an unseasonably warm March 1st when he went to a Scorpions soccer game, ate blue cotton candy and drank a blue snowcone, and pooped blue for a week(if you're a mom, you know how I know that).  Maybe he'll also happily recall that the Scorpions tied a major league soccer team in the final seconds of the game, and that he was with the people who love him the most. If so, then it was worth it.

The Hooligan In Our Family

Soccer is an extremely emotional sport, at least for its fans.  Especially for its fans.  We've all heard stories about the soccer hooligans in other countries, yelling racist comments and throwing things onto the field, fighting in the stands, stampeding, etc. The United States is not immune from such behavior, if the recent assault on a referee in Utah is any indication.  In the younger soccer leagues, the fans are the parents of the children playing.  We all say that we want our children just to have a good time, to learn good sportsmanship, a valuable life skill.  But secretly, we all harbor a fervent wish for our child to be the very best athlete out there, which is completely understandable. College scholarships are gold, and nobody ever says that they wished that their child were more average.  Soccer at that age, however, is ultimately played for fun.

Soccer parents are normally friendly, generous, pleasant.  But put some of them on the sidelines of their child's soccer game, and these same lovely people begin to behave in a manner that would frighten hardcore prison inmates. Sometimes things get ugly. The poor referees tend to get the brunt of the ugliness. My husband, a youth soccer commissioner as well as a coach, has gone to great lengths to emphasize proper behavior for the parents who attend the games. And he's emphasized to the players that the referees are to be respected, no matter what.  It's worked very well, and our son's games have been much more pleasant.

We decided to go to an older kid's soccer game a few weeks ago. It was a very competitive game, and the players were giving their all.  The parents from both teams were sitting along the sidelines. There was clapping and yelling of encouragement to the players, their teenaged children. There was one guy sitting near us, however, who spent most of the game yelling at the refs.  He felt that the referees were not officiating the match as well as they should, and he screamed his annoyance at them.  Every time it appeared that a call should have been made, this man hollered, made gestures, and suggested that the refs do things that are no anatomically possible.  We were appalled. Larry and I gave the man many nonverbal cues regarding his behavior, frowning at him and rolling our eyes.  Other people who knew him were doing the same thing, and a couple of them told the man to knock it off.  Finally, a coach walked from the other side of the field walked over, and he pulled my brother aside for a little chat. My brother was politely told that if he didn't stop his behavior he would be asked to leave. That finally did the trick.  The man sat down and didn't yell anything else for the rest of the game, while the rest of the family pretended that we didn't know him.

My brother isn't normally so verbally aggressive.  He is one of the more laid back people I know, and he's usually the calm one when there's a family crisis.  Something about watching his children play sports just causes him to go nuts. He's been thrown out of many of his boys' games because of his behavior. His kids are embarrassed.  His wife won't go to the games with him anymore.  People won't sit near him.  He knows that it's wrong, and that he should just shut up, and he does try to sit quietly and watch the game.  It never lasts.

My brother is a soccer hooligan.  I will just have to sit on the other side of the field from now on.

It's a Mom Thing

I am not one of those mothers who overschedules her child's day.  I don't believe in that sort of thing, plus I don't want to be sitting at all these different places for hours at a time.  It's not fair to me.  But we have made an effort to involve Zane in a couple of activities.  One of those activities is soccer, of course.  (I may have been ostracized by the other soccer moms, but as long as Zane loves the sport and wants to play, I will cheerfully put up with it.) 

We've also started letting Zane participate in karate.  They offer the class at Zane's school as an after school program.  As soon as I knew they would be offering the class, I mentioned the idea to Zane's father.

"Heck no!  He's too young for that!"

Not the least bit deterred, I consulted an expert.  My nephew Tristan was in karate until middle school, when he gave it up to pursue soccer full time.  I texted him, and he actually texted me back, to say that karate would be great for Zane's balance and coordination.  Thinking of my own lifelong tendency toward imbalance and dyscoordination(Is that a word? If it's not, just pretend it is), I was sold.  Plus, karate teaches self-discipline and who doesn't need a little of that?  When the opportunity presented itself, I signed the boy up.  The first month was rough. 

"Zane did you go to karate today?"

"Yep."

"Well...did you like it?"

"Yeah, it was okay."

Great, I thought.  Kiss that cash goodbye. I had been so sure he would enjoy karate! 

And then Zane sat down with me last night and showed me the correct way to make a fist.  He demonstrated the procedure first, and then he took my hand and 'helped' me, moving my fingers and thumb just so. 

"Like this?" I held up my fist, just like he'd shown me.  Zane acted all impressed.

"Whoa!  When did YOU go to kindergarten?"

I didn't answer, because at that particular moment, I couldn't remember exactly when I went to kindergarten.   And I was a little choked up with pride, to see my boy able to 'teach' what he'd learned. 

It's a Mom thing.




5.) Talk about something your child learned this week.

Random-dee-dom-dom

We were able to have our first soccer game of the season last weekend.  There was a big opening ceremony, with mayors and councilmen and reverends--Oh my!  I had my camera out and was snapping away.  I may have gotten a little carried away with taking pictures of my own child, as he so eloquently informed me.

Okay, okay! I parked myself on a lawn chair with all the other moms and put the camera away.  Zane's team played beautifully, and they won.  Zane had one almost goal, but more importantly, he remembered what he was supposed to do during the game without anybody telling him, and he passed the ball instead of hogging it.  That's progress in my book!

I am completely shocked these days when I read about how other countries treat their little girls.  Supposedly a 40 year old man married an 8 year old girl.  In this day?  That has to be a sign of a backwards society--a 40 year old man marrying an 8 year old girl. That's pedophilia, by any definition.  India has all but killed off most of their girls by aborting them, because they don't want to be saddled with a dowry. Now men in India who want to marry have to buy their brides instead of wooing them; CNN says there are poor girls stolen from their parents and sold for that purpose. What is wrong with these other countries that they treat their women so poorly?  Girls are not property, they are not a burden, they are not to be sold by the pound.  They are to be loved and cherished and nurtured into adulthood so they can love and cherish and nurture the next generation!  I just need to stop reading or listening to the news.  I always end up upset.  

Hurricane season seemed to start with a whimper, but it certainly heated up in a hurry.  I think that last week there were three storms in the Atlantic--Gabrielle, Humberto, and Ingrid. We are supposed to be getting rain from Ingrid in the Gulf and Manuel from the Pacific.  I feel strongly that we need a hurricane Millicent.  That just seems like a good name for a hurricane.  Also, perhaps they can have a season where all the hurricanes are named after characters from the Harry Potter universe?

We FINALLY got to see the last Star Trek movie.  My husband went out and bought the blu ray, and we watched at home, with commentary by Zane.  He wasn't really watching the movie, he was hiding in his Boy Nest and playing games on his tablet.  Every now and then he'd pop up, make some comment, then burrow back underneath his pile of pillows.  He decided that he liked the character of Chekov, but I think that was mostly because of the accent.  The accent made Zane giggle.

Yes, that is indeed a Christmas tree.  They were putting them up at Macy's when we were there on Sunday.  Here it is, not even the end of September, and Macy's is putting out Christmas stuff.  There is something wrong with that!  Everyone knows that the everlasting candy of Halloween(I still have some on the shelf!) comes before the evergreens!!!!

Let's try this visiting Stacy again, even if it is a little early.  Last week there was some sort of glitch. Have a great day/week!

Keep Calm and Random

Yes, we have been watching the Spurs in the playoffs. Yes, I saw that horrific game on Sunday.  I even skipped watching the season finale of Game of Thrones for that loss, and I was less than pleased.  It was as if the Spurs were just playing around, not really very serious, and of course, all of us in San Antonio are screaming at our television sets for them to knock all that off, like they can hear us.  We fans wanted the Heat stomped on, crushed in four games of complete annihilation.  Just like the Heat fans wanted their team to crush the Spurs.  It's the way of sports, that the fans get so emotionally involved.  However, complete destruction does not make for thrilling basketball.  The winning team has to look as though they earned that trophy, right?  So, I suppose that we will just have to follow the directions on this shirt.

I was happy to discover that my summer will begin earlier than expected, as in next week.  My first thought was, "Hooray!"  My second thought was "Crap, how am I supposed to get all this stuff done before then?"  Am I the only one who does that? The piles are shrinking slowly as I get files completed and sent off to be checked and refiled, and I am extremely happy about that.  I would very much like to have a somewhat clean desk when I leave.  At the very least, just a couple of small, easily manageable piles. I used to sweat those leftover items, not wanting to put them off, but I've turned a new leaf.  As far as I know, nobody was ever lauded for their paperwork completion rate, and I certainly don't want to be the first.

Isn't that a cute little sunflower?  I'm not partial to the color yellow, but I do love sunflowers.  They are so cheerful!  A little ball of sunshine, without the sunburn.  I grew this from a seed, intending to place it in a garden spot, but now I am afraid to move it.  I don't know if you're supposed to interfere with the sunflower once it has begun its flowering.  Does anyone know?  Besides, the last time I grew a sunflower in my garden, a huge swarm of caterpillars swarmed over the entire plant and ate the whole thing.  It was rather horrific to watch, and I did try to remove the pests, but they started biting me, and I was worried that they would like the taste of human flesh and go all B Horror movie on me. Okay, C Horror movie. Or maybe D.  The sort of horrible movie that would have ended up on Mystery Science Theater 3K.  I remember cracking up over a movie with a giant Praying Mantis--what's a few hundred caterpillars?  Maybe I should get a camera rolling, and figure out a way to get the barnswallows to notice the caterpillars.  That way I'd have movie greatness AND pest control. 

Larry signed up Zane for a soccer camp AND his first soccer tournament this month.  I'm a bit nervous about the whole thing.  Right now he and his father are playing FIFA soccer on the Xbox and watching soccer on television. Way too much soccer, not enough brain building, like reading or writing or exploring.  Larry tends to get obsessive about the various topics that he is interested in, and that can end up overwhelming a kid.  I know that I get overwhelmed keeping track of it all.  I really don't want Zane to get burned out on playing soccer.  Zane seems fine now, so it's likely that I am just being my usual worrywart self.  

Johnny Depp is 50.  FIFTY.  What the heck is that man doing that he doesn't look 50?   I want it.  Yes, I know that he is rich, and he has person chefs and trainers, and all that, but the bone structure is pure genetics.  That guy is the prettiest man that I have ever seen, and he would also make a very pretty woman.  That bone structure and that skin is just that awesome.  I'm sort of jealous! 


Go visit Mrs. Stacy, who is gearing up to move cross country!

This Post Has No Title

Today’s going to be free writing. Feel free to write for five minutes about anything or nothing. Dump your brain. Go back to basics and let it be a true Stream of Consciousness post. I can’t wait to read what’s going on in your head…


Today it was all about the soccer. Zane had his first game this morning bright and early.  Except that it was neither bright nor all that early.  It was cloudy and cold and windy is what it was.  I should have known, considering that Friday's USA game in Colorado was played during a snowstorm.  Larry thought that it was a blizzard, but I pointed out that during a blizzard, all you would see on the television would be white.  Honestly, I felt bad for those poor Costa Ricans--not only did they lose the game, they froze their butts off.  Do they even have snow in Costa Rica?  I know that it is a place that a number of seniors are retiring to live out their days, but I'm not sure about much else.  I suppose that I need to break out the atlas.  Do they even make atlases anymore?

I'm still not exactly sure how I feel about my grandmother dying on Friday.  I'm sort of sad, but also relieved, and then I feel guilty about that.  She had dementia, caused by tiny strokes; nobody knows for sure when those started, but they took her away bit by bit.  My grandmother forgot me a long time ago.  She was the grandparent I spent the most time with growing up; my grandpa was always out working on the farm.  My dad's mom was gone before I was even born and his dad died in 1976.  So Grandma and I spent time together whenever we visited, which was every other summer when we weren't overseas.  Grandma was always trying to lose weight, so often we would walk up and down the gravel roads around the farm.  Her hair was cut short, and when she washed it, she would put it in pin curls using lots of hairpins.  She would say that she never put salt on any food, but I would watch her pour it in the cooking pot by the fistful.  She did not like snakes.  She kept the hideous afghan that I crocheted for her; my mother got it back when they sold the farm and everything on it.

She used to have a Mickey Mouse tea set from the 1930s that she played with as a child.  I played with it when I was a child.  That tea set was supposed to come to me, but one of my aunts took it, and I don't expect to ever see it again, except in my memory.  That's where I'll see my Grandma, and I'll remember her as she was before the dementia. 


This was my 5 minute Stream of Consciousness Sunday post. It’s five minutes of your time and a brain dump. Want to try it? Here are the rules…

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Random Is, As Random Does

So, if the show is called "Finding" Bigfoot, doesn't that imply that they actually do find Bigfoot?  We've been watching this show for some time, and they have yet to find the elusive creature.  Lots of running around in the woods with cameras, but no actual critter.  Isn't that false advertising?  If nothing else, throw on a costume and wave at the camera!  

Last week, I announced that I would be participating in NaNoWriMo.  I even put up my little word counter in the sidebar.  See it over there? I should have just kept my mouth shut! Yeah, well...my computer, Hal Jr., died.  I think it heard me talking about NaNo, and it just couldn't take that kind of pressure.  I was upset, of course.  Then my husband said that I could use his computer.  Hooray!  I said.  Crisis averted!  I sat down in front of my husband's computer, ready to start typing.  You know what happened?  No, his computer didn't die.  It was his monitor.  Have you ever tried typing on a computer without being able to see what you're typing, or even where?  I don't recommend it. So anyway, now I am sneaking to various unattended computers or trying to type on my phone in order to keep up with my blog. I am still determined to participate in NaNoWriMo.  I just may have to resort to less technically challenged methods.  Last I checked, all of my pens are in working order.

I took Zane to see my nephew Tristan play soccer this weekend.  Tristan plays for an Olympic Development team these days, so we don't get to see him in town often.  It was nice to see him out there, except that I remember him when he was Zane's age, and he's almost an adult now.  I feel downright elderly!  It's nice to see all that hard work and practice has paid off for my nephew, since he has been eating and breathing soccer for most of his life. While I hope that Zane develops a lifelong love of soccer, I don't intend to be one of those parents who 'pushes'.  Except for good grades.  That I will be pushing for! 

My husband, who insisted on playing adult soccer this season, has been hobbled by his Achilles.  Both of them. I was worried about this happening before he even started, but his doctor said it was okay for him to play.  He came home on Sunday, almost crawling.  It was at that moment, watching him, that I realized that it might not have been a good idea to buy a two-story house, because Larry had tremendous difficulty getting up the stairs at all.  He spent all day Monday having MRIs and X-rays, and is getting around with a cane. 

So some of my relatives aren't talking to me now, after the election.  Several of my cousins are a bit overdramatic, and of course it was the end of the world because Obama won.  The reality is that who is president is not going to make that much of a difference in most people's day to day lives, and it is ridiculous to get all worked up about it. That's my opinion, anyway.  But I am okay with the silence if it means that I don't have to listen to the whining. 

I am hoping to visit Stacy over at Stacy Uncorked today, but if I don't make it, I hope that you will visit her and say hi for me!

Random Gratefulness

As my regular readers know, yesterday was one of those "bleah" days where you wake up with a gray rain cloud above your head, and it follows you all day.  Except in my case, I have my very own ray of sunshine, who chased that gray cloud away.   Yes, my dearest bloggy friend, Andrea, from over at Maybe It's Just Me, is one the most awesome people I know. She brightens everything, and is funny and witty, and I adore her!  I've never even seen her in person, but I know that we would be up to cookie-related shenanigans if we did.  Andrea not only sent me a very cheerful email on Sunday, she sent me what was probably the very best care package somebody like me could receive.  It was chock full of my favorite candy!!!  That's right--Twizzlers, Almond Joys, Bit O'Honey, to name a few.  Even gummi bears, the Haribo ones, that I always eat after separating them by color.  I was already feeling more cheerful after her email, but that package in the mail just blew right through my little rain cloud, and I am actually giggling over which piece of candy to eat first!  And when I say giggle, I don't mean in a Renfield-sort of way--it's true happiness.  Go visit Andrea and you will see what a wonderful person she is.  Thank you, Andrea!

This gentleman's name, on the back of his jersey, is SPAZ.  He and his teammates were playing Larry and his team in the adult soccer league.  I happened to be sitting on the orange team's side of the field, not to be disloyal, but because that side of the field has a tree big enough to sit under.  But if I hadn't sat underneath that tree, I would have missed seeing Mr. Spaz, and I would not have had a little laugh to myself.  You see, I just like saying the word.  The way the lips purse together right before you spit it out always strikes me as funny.  So thank you, Mr. Spaz.  (Oh and Larry's team pulled together to finish the game with a draw 3-3.)


On Saturday night, I heard what sounded like running water.  I made a circuit of the house, checking faucets and toilets, and the outside hoses.  Everything was off.  I said something to Larry about it, and he didn't hear what I heard, so we went to bed.  In the morning, when we stepped outside to get into our car, we found that our front yard had become lakefront property!  Turns out that we sprang a leak somewhere underneath the grass.  I was grouchy about this, since I knew that we would be seeing a water bill of epic proportions in our future, not to mention the cost of fixing the leak. My dream of doing my Christmas shopping early was looking impossible.  And then...Larry's mom knew a guy.  (Larry's mom is a talker, she is very friendly, and she just knows lots of people.)   This particular guy is a plumber, and long story short, he came over today while we were at work and fixed everything.  Thank you, Mr. Plumber, and thank you, Larry's mom. 

Last week, when I went to pay my bills online, I could not log in to the bill pay site. I knew that I had the correct password, because I have it written down in a secret spot in case I forget. I thought that perhaps I hit the wrong key or something. I tried so many times that I got locked out!  Because I was tired, I perhaps got a little hysterical, thinking that my long run of paying my bills on time was history.  I called the bank and told them my tale of woe, and the guy asked for my account number, and my address, and my date of birth, and the name of my first born son.  Then he asked me for my secret word.  Secret word?  Yes, he said.  The secret word.  The one that you entered when  you first joined the bill pay site.  There was a secret word?  I said this in disbelief, because I joined this bill pay site almost ten years ago.  I've slept since then.  And they tell you never to write stuff down because someone could break into your house and then they learn that your password is 'Rosebud' and it's all over.  I was about to get hysterical again, when the bank person took pity on me and told me that he would reset my password and send me the code to log in.  Thank you, bank person, for taking pity on my poor memory skills.  I feel much better when my bills are paid, even if it means that my balance lowers.

And I am so very grateful to Stacy over at Stacy Uncorked, because she is always cheerful and sunny and she can change topics at the drop of a dime.  Plus she has wine, which always makes life a little  smoother around the edges. Go visit her!

The Ostracized Soccer Mom

The last two seasons of soccer, all the moms sat together during practices twice a week, chatting, while we watched our kids.  We all got matching shirts with little sparkly soccer balls, to cheer on our kids on game days. We all sat together at games, yelling encouragements, clapping when goals were scored. We weren't besties, but we all had something in common, so we hung out.  I am not normally comfortable in most social situations, but there was a consistency, a routine, that alleviated some of my anxiety. I felt as though I got along with these women, although I did do a lot of self-censoring, just in case.

But this season is different. 

I am usually the first mom to arrive at practice this time, so I park my chair along the sidelines.  None of the moms will sit with me this season.  Where ever I put my lawn chair, the rest of the moms are not.  Instead, they sit far enough away that I cannot hear what they are saying.  At first I thought that it was a fluke of some sort, but it has happened three or four times now.  My husband, who never notices anything, has even joked about it, asking me if I have cooties or something.  I have no answer to give him.

I admit that it does look rather sad--me sitting by myself on one end of the sidelines, with a crowd of people sitting on the other end.  One of the mothers has designated herself as Switzerland, of course.  She will place her stuff between me and the other group, and she will walk over to me for a few minutes of conversation before she heads over to the other group, leaving me isolated once more. Somehow, that just seems to make it worse.

What did I do?  Am I just a terrible soccer mom?  I have thought about it, sitting by myself, all alone, on my end of the field.  I bathe regularly, and I brush my teeth daily, so it's not a hygiene issue. There's no specific dress code that I have been able to discern. When it is my turn to bring snacks, I bring the good, organic snacks instead of the high-fructose corn syrupy stuff.  I don't work with any of these people.  I haven't talked mean to any of them, at least not intentionally(and really, if someone is mad at you for some reason, shouldn't they at least tell you what they are mad at you for, so you can apologize?).

At first, when I realized that nobody would sit with me, I was upset.  My immediate reaction was to take the blame.  I must have done something to displease the group in some way, my brain yelled, and I must make amends by sucking up more; something along those lines.  Since I sometimes stick my foot in my mouth without realizing it, that response was not unusual.  Rationality won out, for once.  I could not think of a single thing to warrant this treatment.  I went through a few stages of grief--anger, disbelief, etc.  Okay, I even cried a little bit, but to be fair, it had been a long day, and I was out of chocolate. 

I can manage this for the next month or so.  I am used to this sort of treatment, after a childhood full of worse.  Probably won't be the last time I see it, either.   I am made of pretty sturdy stuff, and I will survive. Maybe I'll start a support group; surely I am not the only soccer mom out there who has been in this position?  I am not sure what I will do next season yet, but I will cross that bridge when I get there. 

If Only There Were Random

My father claims that I was going to be named Bernadette.  The way he tells it, he had my mother convinced that Bernadette Marie was the perfect name for a girl.  My mother had other plans.  She named me Tina, after the actress Tina Cole.   Thank goodness!   I just cannot see myself as a Bernadette.  Do you think that your name suits your personality?

 

Yesterday was the first day of soccer camp for my son. British soccer camp.  As in, taught by actual people from Britain.  I was initially concerned about possible soccer hooligans, then I was slightly hoping that all soccer players from Britain might look like David Beckham.  You know--just like all old men from America look like Harrison Ford, and all teenage boys look like Justin Bieber. We all know how daydreams go!  Most of my daydreams tend to be very similar to those Old Spice commercials, actually.  Or the Direct TV commercials.  I watch too much television. 

My son does not like for me to read aloud to him. He prefers that my husband do the reading.  I don't begrudge that at all.  I have a tendency to read fast, and I don't have that "voice" that makes reading aloud pleasant listening.  I probably sound like Minnie Mouse reading aloud, if Minnie did a hit of helium. Does anyone who isn't in show business like the sound of their speaking voice?

I am an auditory mimic.  When I am listening to other people talk, I tend to start speaking with their accents.  For example, if someone from Mexico is speaking to me, all of a sudden I have their accent, complete with the random exclamation points, although I don't understand any Spanish but the bad words.  I usually don't realize that I am doing it, and some people might think that I am poking fun at them.  I am positive that I am doing it because it helps create rapport, but it drives Larry nuts. 

So I did get a pedicure. I wanted to go for a bold, royal purple. Then I wanted a bright red.  Then I saw a fuchia that I liked.  In the end, there were just too many choices. I was afraid that if I chose a color, I would want a different one twenty minutes later.  Now that I am thinking about it, that's pretty much how I think of food.  I went with the French manicure, which I am told is not actually something that they do in France.   Yes, my two middle toes are longer than my big toe.  I got lucky--most of the members of my family got the webbed feet gene.

I found out that one of my favorite state wineries, Llano Estacado, is now making sangria.   So I'm heading over to Stacy's Uncorked, to see if she's tried it.  I'm also going to visit Seriously Shawn and her friend Impulsive Addict because they are fun party girls, and they have snakes over there.   I'm kidding about the snakes.  

Father's Day Musings

Being a father requires strength, selflessness and sacrifice.  It requires the strength to turn off that football game, even when it's the playoffs, to go and read a bedtime story.  It requires the selflessness to buy a toy that your child will enjoy instead of the video game you've been wanting to buy for months.  And it requires the sacrifice of never being able to have spontaneous sex in your own house for many years.  It is just a fact of life that not everyone is meant to be a father.  Oh, we are all biologically programmed to want to pass on our genes, but that doesn't mean that you automatically get the 'parent' gene.  Just because a man fathers a child doesn't mean that he has the capacity to be an actual dad. 

----

Larry exhibits extraordinary patience with our son.  I am not a patient person.  It's something that I will always be working to improve, but I'm definitely not there yet. I am a 'get to the point' person, and children often take many detours to get to their point.   I don't like to repeat myself, and repetition is really the heart of all conversations with young children.  So I become frustrated easily.  Not my husband.  He will patiently explain, then re-explain three or four more times, what he is trying to say to our son.  He will sit patiently, listening to Zane tell a story, even if that story lasts longer than twenty minutes and he repeats the same sentence fourteen times.  I admire this, and I aspire to have the same patience.

----

Zane wanted to play soccer, so my relatively sedentary husband became involved in soccer, and is going to be pursuing his coaching license, just so he can make sure that his son's sports experience is as positive as possible.  My husband doesn't handle the heat very well since his chemo, and he gets very sweaty, but he is out there, kicking the ball around and cheering for his son. Not many dads would do that for their kid.

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They built the Lego Millenium Falcon together, with Larry pointing out where some pieces went and Zane pushing them together.  It was a genuine father-son effort, but it was definitely a father moment when they finished, and Zane decided that he wanted to actually "play" with the ship instead of just looking at it. My husband is a geek, and geeks put things like Legos together so that item can be placed on display and admired by other geeks.  They don't actually "play" with said items!  Yet Larry did the fatherly thing and let Zane take the Millenium Falcon out for a spin, knowing that four-year-old boys tend to drop toys, and knowing that Legos don't tend to stay put together under that sort of stress.  Not many dads could do this. I am sure that he winced and cringed every single time Han Solo's ship came crashing unceremoniously to the carpet, but he never said a word. 

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The NICU nurses allowed Larry to take a picture of our son before they whisked him off, he told me, but they had their jobs to do.  Later, after I had been stabilized and settled into my own ICU bed, Larry went to see our son, in his little incubator.  My husband told me that Zane's little hand had grabbed one of his fingers.  Zane had opened his eyes and looked right at his father.  That look, however brief, had a profound impact on Larry.  It was in that moment that Larry became a dad, when he realized what being a dad was going to be, when he embraced that ideal with both hands. He's never looked back.  

Herding Ca--Kids

As part of our soccer family experience, my husband managed to secure a sponsorship with the San Antonio Scorpions, a professional soccer team.  This past weekend was a home game, and many of the kids in the soccer league were invited to come perform various activities during the game.  Some kids got to unfurl a huge American flag and wrangle with it in the middle of the field while the pros were coming out.  Other kids got to be the ones who chase after the ball if it goes out of bounds.  My husband was very adamant that our son get to participate in the festivities, but there aren't a lot of options for four year olds.  Except...escorting the visiting team out to the field. Brilliant! So Larry signed 10 three and four year old kids up to be escorts.  

We got Zane and headed to the field for the game; we all had to be there an hour early.  We gathered all the little ones and herded them down onto the field to wait.  For. An. Hour.   Little kids don't wait very well.  Some of them are able to sit still for short periods of time, but that is a rarity in nature. 

So they sat...then they got up...then there was breakdancing...then there was more sitting...then there was a little handflapping...more sitting...one skinned knee...some bathroom visits..more sitting...

In the middle of all this mayhem, Larry kept wandering off, because he was as 'in charge' of this event as anybody else.  Luckily, one of the other parents snuck down there with us, and she was ridiculously prepared with stuff like wipes.  Otherwise, I would have lost my mind trying to keep track of all of these kids.  There were only ten, but it seemed like 30.  Heck, my own child was the perfect example of how not to behave in a large crowd.  (Take one of those Super Balls into a room and throw it against the wall; the resulting ricochet resembled Zane.)  He was feeding off of the energy of the crowd, and I was regretting that nap I made him take. 

Finally, it was time.  The visiting team were Canadians, and I made sure that they all knew that the kids were three and four year olds.  All of the little ones were looking up and up and up at these BIG versions of themselves.  Well, almost all.  Zane wasn't the least impressed; he was excited and happy and he did not care who knew it.   The players each took the hand of a child and led them out onto the field.  All the other kids were sedately walking; Zane was bouncing, skipping, and practically dragging his professional soccer player along.  That poor, poor man!   The players stopped in the middle of the field for the introductions.  Zane is still bouncing and from the sidelines I can see that he is chattering away.  He is not facing the audience, he is facing HIS audience of four professional soccer players, who are all smiling at my son while he is hopping and jumping about. 

Did I mention that I regretted the nap? 

When the National Anthem started, in my mind I'm thinking, "CRAP!"  Because while we've practiced what you are supposed to do for the Pledge, we did not practice what you are supposed to do for the National Anthem.  The Canadian player, with the last name of Pinto, did his best to get Zane to stand quietly, to no avail.  The boy had to dance to his own music.  It didn't help that what Larry called one of the worse renditions of the National Anthem ever(I've heard much worse), seemed to go on and on because the singer thought it would be great to sing as slowly and as flatly as humanly possible.   It got no better when they played the Canadian anthem; Zane chose that moment to throw himself on the ground and pretend to be dead.  By this point, the boy next to him was joining in and flopping on the ground too. 

The players seemed to be laughing about it, which was good.  I was horrified.  My child was being disrespectful! I would have to move to a new town and change my name.  My parents would disown me and cut off Zane's college fund.  We would not be able to show our faces here for at least a decade.  Every worst case scenario was speeding through my head.  CPS would be waiting at the gate to take Zane, since we had neglected him so...the monologue went on. 

And then that wonderful, blessed switch went off in my head.  The switch that seems to shut off all the internal naggery that my brain subjects me to.  I took a deep breath, and let it out, there on the sidelines of a professional soccer game. I relaxed.  Zane is a kid, he's happy, he's excited, and most people like that.   There wasn't a thing that I could have done that would have changed Zane's behavior; he was in the zone.  His happy place.  If he's happy, then I'm happy.  

Some people probably got upset about his behavior during the Anthem, but it was looked upon more kindly because he is four.  Little kids are not expected to follow the rules as well as the older kids.  Little kids still get to be kids.  The important thing is that Zane had a great time, everybody had a great time, and I did not have a major coronary.  I might even do this again, if beer is served. 




*And if you want to see my child, you will have to go to the San Antonio Scorpions website and download the game video. My son comes along around the 20 minute mark.*

Happy Mother's Day

My son was on the soccer field, eye on the ball, in a race to gain control of the game.  He was able to kick the ball ahead of his opponent, and he ran ahead of the melee on the field.  When he was near the goal, he kicked...and he scored!   I clapped and cheered, one of a multitude of mothers and fathers. Zane's father was cheering from the coach's bench, but my son's eyes searched for me. 

Zane looked right at me, smiled...then he raised his hand to give me a thumbs up.  Everyone on the sidelines laughed, but I raised my hand to salute my boy with a thumbs up of my own. We had a little mother-son moment.

It was perfect.

Soccer has mostly been about my son and his father. They watch it on television, they practice in the back yard, they discuss strategy(well, Larry discusses...Zane points out bugs or birds outside). Sometimes I've wondered if they even knew that I was there!  So it was wonderful to find that my son does know that I am there.  That touched my heart, right in the soft spot. 

So happy Mother's day to all the unsung heroes out there, who do little things, like show up at soccer games or buy the special Spiderman band-aids or give extra special hugs.  Your children DO notice!

Bad Mama Tales, Part 439

Most of the time we can talk him off the ledge of his convictions, but my boy can be very literal in his interpretations of what people say to him.   When he had his last immunizations, he wasn't upset about the needles--he was upset because no one told him they were going to put "holes in his legs".   If you tell him that you are going to give him something, or be somewhere, or take him someplace, then you had better follow through.   He does not yet understand that things happen that we have no control over, or can't help, and he is pretty vocal about his disappointment.  If you say it, make it so.    
It is probably developmental.  I was a pretty literal child, which delighted my father.  I don't know how many times I fell for the "Pull my finger" gag, but that was probably due to oxygen deprivation. (Those of you who have experienced that particular prank understand what I am referring to.)  Zane is just one of those "concrete" kids, for lack of a better description.

If his soccer coach says that it is Zane's turn to kick the ball, then by God, it is HIS turn.  The other players must therefore part, like the Red Sea, and clear the way for Zane to have his turn. We all know that this is not how youth soccer works for four-year-olds.  Every last child out there, and even a few kids on the sidelines,  are doing exactly what they were told to do:  kick the bejeebers out of that soccer ball.  They don't care if there is anyone ELSE trying to kick the ball, and as far as they are concerned, it's everyone's turn. 

For the past three weeks or so, Zane has been having a wall-eyed fit when the other kids don't let him have HIS turn.  He stops everything and starts bawling his fool head off.  Do the other kids care? 

Nope.

They are wherever the ball is, a whirling mass of legs and a single thought:  Must. Kick. Ball.  The coach is down there with his players.  Nobody notices the dramatic performance at the other end of the field, because they are where the action is. 

So my sweet precious baby boy(yeah, he's four, but to me he's still that little 3 pound kid gripping my finger with all his might), is having a fit all by himself out there.  What is a mother supposed to do, in these situations?  The other mothers were watching, ready to snap pictures.

Did I go out there, hug him, and offer encouragement?  Did I pick Zane up, cuddle him and take him out for ice cream?  Did I yell at his coach for missing an Oscar winning performance?

Nope.

I stormed out to the middle of the field, where my son was crying, his hand in his mouth.

"HEY!"  I raised my voice a bit, and put on my Mean Mama face.  Bad Mama.  Zane looked at me, ready to go for the drama, and cried louder.

"SUCK. IT. UP. SON."   Zane looked shocked.  Bad Mama.  

He did stop crying, however, and explained to me in a teary voice about how it was his turn and they wouldn't let him kick the ball....and the rest was lost in those hiccups kids get after a hard cry.  I tried to be sympathetic; I patted his knee and put my arm around his shoulder. 

"This is soccer, son," I said.  Everyone is trying to kick the ball, and if you want to kick the ball then you go and get that ball.  No more whining about not getting your turn. I don't want to hear it."

Then I turned around and marched back over to the sidelines.  I cringed a little, worried about my widdle piddle.  But he was out there chasing the ball like nothing had happened at all.  The rest of practice went perfectly. 

So It Begins

It's that time of the year when a young boy's thoughts turn to Halloween candy...and soccer. We signed our son up for soccer, and it's go time. Today is the first game.

We went to pick out soccer shoes a few weeks ago. It was a family event! They had LOTs of shoes...and nobody around to help you figure out what shoe. Larry, Zane and I were completely discombobulated. What are turf shoes? How are they different from cleats? Which shoes should we buy? My son was not as stymied as his parents. He knew exactly what he wanted. He marched over and grabbed...a pair of PINK shoes.

Really, son? That's what you pick? I rub the side of my face where that vein starts bulging. The other soccer moms were snickering. We kept throwing black and white shoes in front of him, but he was very firm in his decision...until we found these YELLOW shoes. YELLOW. As in, brighter than the sun YELLOW.



The picture doesn't really do justice to this color. These YELLOW shoes glow in the dark, without a black light.

First soccer practice, we had to leave the house with two chairs, a canopy, an umbrella, a cooler full of water and gatorade, a soccer outfit, shoes and shin guards. For practice. None of the other parents had a canopy set up. None of the other parents had a cooler. They brought chairs, and a couple of bottles of water. My husband is a big believer in being over prepared. My big thing to remember was a camera.

There are six kids on the team, two girls. Right off the bat, you could tell who had the mad soccer "skillz". The older kids were much more confident. Zane started kicking his ball, and he kept kicking it. We finally caught up to him three fields over. He was kicking in a straight line, if that counts.

The practices have been a huge learning curve for everyone, including the coach. Three year old kids don't know what a pass is, and they don't know what it means to "stop" the ball. They don't know their left from their right yet. Adjustments had to be made. Adjustments also have to be made for the short attention spans. There was a lot of playing in the dirt, poking ant piles, and chasing dragonflies. I promised Larry that I would do a better job of paying attention, but that really depends on the dragonflies.

But now the big day is here. The first soccer game of my son's life. My husband is more psyched than I expected, and I guess that I am excited as well. I just want him to have fun and be a kid...but if he happens to kick the ball into the goal by accident, I am going to do a victory dance.