Straight From the Soccer-Playing Horse's Mouth

Upon arrival and viewing the chaos of fifty or so kids plus their parents milling around on one field: "Once we got here, it was more scary than I was expecting."

Ten minutes and a few shots on goal during a drill later: "I think I'm getting the hang of this!" (And then he tripped over his ball and fell, but whatever.)

Half an hour later: "Mom! I'm playing the soccer!"

As we were leaving the field: "It was different than I expected. No one kicked me in the shin guards."

While brushing his teeth before bed: "I love soccer. It's my favorite thing."

I don't know if the love affair will last, but at least it started well.

The Big Day Has Arrived

Sports were a significant part of my childhood. I played baseball and ran track and did ballet and tap and even hula dancing when we lived in Hawaii. But mostly, I played soccer. A lot of soccer. For a lot of years.

I sort of forget about that now, because sports are no longer a significant part of my life. But they're about to re-enter my life in the form of my suddenly enormous son:

And his smaller sidekick, who refuses to believe he is not also playing soccer. (He is not.)

Cubby has his first-ever soccer practice tonight at 6 p.m. He is very excited, although also nervous. I've done my best to coach him on passing and dribbling and shooting on a goal and not touching the ball with his hands. And, of course, making sure he's appropriately attired.

Suitably sporty clothing courtesy of Nana*; shin guards, cleats, and ball courtesy of me. The matching colors were totally unintentional, but strangely pleasing.

The practice starts at pretty much Jack's bedtime, but I have to take him with me to the field. Plus Charlie, who is going to be very unhappy when he realizes he can't get on the field with Cubby. A. is going to meet us there after work to help wrangle the non-soccer-playing children. The logisitics of getting this one child to his one activity are kind of exhausting. Plus, it's supposed to be about 85 degrees with choking humidity. 

But excitement is still running high. Wish us luck.

* Who is now--a mere six days post-surgery--doing laundry, cleaning bathrooms, and making dinner with the help of her "knee scooter," whatever that is. You really can't keep a good woman down.

A Life of Crime

Before my sister came to visit a couple of weeks ago, she asked if there was anything she could bring the boys. And I said water guns for the beach. I figured I would regret this, but, well, you kind of HAVE to have water guns at a beach, right? We always did as kids. And I knew they would love them.

They did.

Jack is withholding judgment on his for the moment.

They brought the water guns back up to the house yesterday when we were done at the beach, and grabbed them first thing this morning when they went outside. Shortly thereafter, I went out on the front porch and heard Cubby yelling, "No, Charlie! You're wasting ammunition!"* 

Then Cubby came stomping up on the porch and announced in a most disgruntled fashion, "That Charlie. He doesn't know anything about robbing churches and stealing golden jewels."

Right. 

I think maybe Cubby's moral compass is starting to point a little south.

* I'm sure those of you in the drought-stricken West of the country appreciate his concern about wasting water, though it's not so much an issue here.

Treating the Parenting Hangover

We went to a Fourth of July party yesterday afternoon at which the children had the time of their lives AND we all stayed for the fireworks. Which meant after dark. Which meant my kids didn't get to bed until 10 p.m. For the older ones, this is about two hours after their usual bedtime. For Jack, this meant he was so discombobulated he didn't know what the hell was going on and actually didn't go to sleep for the night until 11 p.m.

And then he was up at 12:45 a.m. And Charlie was up at 3 a.m. And then Jack was up again at 4 a.m. And THEN, he got up for the day at 6:30 a.m.

At this point, I felt worse than I would have if I had spent the whole night raging drunk and awakened with a hangover. Plus, I didn't have the fun of getting drunk, since I had not one single alcoholic drink all day yesterday*.

So, not to put too fine a point on it, but I feel like shit.

However!

I had a capital "p" Plan for lunch that was guaranteed to cheer me up. We have one ripe tomato on the single tomato plant in a pot by the kitchen door. We have bacon from the MiL's pig. We have lettuce from our CSA box. We have the MiL's amazing sourdough bread. And, of course, mayonnaise, because we always have mayonnaise.

Basically, we have the makings of the best BLT in the universe. And I was having one for lunch. So there.

But wait! It gets better!

Just as I was putting Jack down for his second nap of the day at 11:30 this morning, A. decided to go to the farm store for some pipe or something and took Cubby and Charlie with him. This meant that I prepared and ate my amazing sandwich ALL BY MY MYSELF. You may recall how important this is to me.

But wait again! It gets even better! After my sandwich, I had some White Lightning ice cream.

It's not quite as restorative as a full night's sleep, but it's all I can manage at the moment. Happy 5th of July to me.

* Although I might have made up for this with, um, three of the homemade whoopie pies someone brought to the party. If you can't have alcohol, sugar makes a pretty good second choice.

A Pointless Endeavor

I've been trying to find a time to vacuum out my van for, oh, about four months now. The interior of vehicles here takes a severe hit in the winter and spring, what with all the mud and salty snow from boots, plus leaves, small rocks, twigs, and God knows what else. Basically, the outdoors ends up inside my car.

Easy solution, though, right? Vacuum! Just like that!

Except not.

I had to do it when it wasn't raining. And when Jack was asleep. And when either Cubby or Charlie was absent, so there wouldn't be a death-fight cage match over the vacuum cleaner.

This combination of factors was very difficult to achieve. But finally today it was sunny and dry, Jack was taking a nap, and Cubby was at the last day of his foreign language camp. Hooray! Vacuum ahoy!

What a sad life I lead.

Anyway.

It took longer than I thought, thanks to the sheer size of the minivan and all the innumerable cracks and creases and places for filth to accumulate. But eventually, I got it done.

When we left an hour later for Cubby's end-of-camp picnic, I reveled in my (relatively) clean vehicle. So tidy! So satisfying!

So temporary.

Apropros of nothing, here's a picture of Jack and my friend Alyssa's daughter at the picnic. She's exactly one month older than him, somewhat smaller, and a lot more mobile. Both adorable, though, without doubt.

When we got back in the van two hours later, the older children were covered with sand from the water play in the sandbox at the playground. Cubby announced from the way back* of my nice clean van, "Look at all the sand coming out of my sandals!"

Curses.

They were also clutching popsicles, which I took from them with the promise that they could have them back in two minutes when we got home. I was trying to salvage some small bit of cleanliness from my labors, you see.

Then, when we were almost home, I turned around to talk to Charlie (A. was driving, never fear) and saw what I thought was a chunk of dirt on the floor of van. So I reached over to pick it up, and literally as my hand closed over it, I identified it.

It was poop. Excrement. Shit. Probably of the dog variety. And I had picked it up with my hand.

Luckily, it was dry. I threw it out the window and then sat there in my formerly clean minivan with shit on one hand, popsicles clutched in the other, and did the only thing I could do. I laughed until I cried.

* This is what my siblings and I always called the last row of seats. As in, "I got the way back!" as we raced toward the car, throwing elbows and scrimmaging for the most coveted seats.

P.S. For those who were wondering, my mother's surgery went well. There was actually less damage to ligaments and so forth than was anticipated, so that's a positive. She's in the pain management stage of recovery now, which is to say her leg hurts like hell and probably will for awhile. But she is, as ever, her very pleasant and optimistic self.

To Nana, With Love

My parents were supposed to come for a visit this Saturday. The children were very excited to see Nana and Baca and play with them down on the beach and in the gully and wherever else the children wanted to play, because Nana and Baca are down with anything when it comes to the grandkids.

But then a stupid rock ruined everything.

Specifically, a rock on a hiking trail my parents were on last week. The rock was in the mud. The rock slipped in the mud when my mother stepped on it. Her foot turned under her and two bones at the bottom of her leg broke in a most spectacular fashion.

"Spectacular" in this case meaning very badly. She is not traveling anywhere in the near future. Like, not until October, which is the best guess for a full recovery. Serious, serious bummer.

Before the recovery can even begin, however, she has to have surgery. This surgery is quite involved and will feature plates and pins and OWOWOW. It's at 1 p.m. today. I really, really wish I could be there to lend moral support, if nothing else.

Alas, distance and small children mean that this is the best I can do:

These goobers do love their Nana.

And one more for good measure, because Jack is smiling in this one.

Smiling babies can't heal broken bones, but they're good for keeping your spirits up.

We love you, Nana, and we're sending all good vibes across the country to you today. And, more importantly, to your surgeon. 

In Your Face

Poor Jack. Being the third of three boys is going to be a challenge, for sure. It already is. Mostly because of Charlie.

Jack wants to play on the floor with a toy? Nope, Charlie's there hovering over his head, grabbing the toy, precariously balancing on one foot over Jack's face.

Jack wants to eat his yogurt and prunes? Nope, Charlie's all up in his face, patting his head, poking his legs, kissing his hand.

Mom wants to get a photo of Jack in his special Father's Day "My Daddy Rocks" shirt?

Yup.

There he is. In Jack's face.

At least Jack gets lots of attention. I guess.