All Things Soccer

Soccer season has cranked up again, and it may kill me.
Since the boy was about 6 years old, I've spent countless hours on the sidelines and driving back and forth from games and practices. 
This year, in addition to the Recreation league he plays on, he tried out for the Middle School team.
He made the team (Go, E!), but being on 2 teams translates to a lot more hours on the sidelines and in the car.
He has at least 2 practices a week, and there are times he has 3 games in one week.  That is a lot of back and forth in the car.
I'm tired from just typing it out.

Two of last week's school games were played in sub-zero temperatures with a little rain/sleet thrown in for good measure.  The parents all huddled on the sidelines and contemplated lighting a fire in a big metal trashcan.  The players' lips were blue.
Even when we got home, I was afraid to take off my boots for fear my toes would break off and stay in the boot.  Brrr.
 I've vacuumed mud out of my car seats about 14 times. There's even mud on the dashboard.

One of the weirdest things about teenage soccer players is their ability to sweat in 36 degree weather.
When your sweet little 6 year-old soccer player turns into a 6-foot soccer player, the smell is just as large.
Who knew shin guards could stink?  How much can a shin sweat?
I make the boy hang his shin guards in the garage.  When he takes them off, he sprays them with both Lysol and Febreze.  And they still stink.  The shoes are another story altogether.
In the last few weeks, Winter has decided to dig in and not leave; it's been COLD.
But I am riding home from practices with my windows down and my shirt pulled up over my nose to try and keep my gag reflex in check.

Good times.

All the hours in the car and all the hard work in bitter cold practices must be paying off...
The boy's rec team has won both of their games, and the school team has won all 3 of theirs.
I want a trophy for all my hard work, too.
It can be inscribed:

"For your driving around,

Sitting in the cold and sitting

in your car,

Cheering loudly when you can't feel your face,

And enduring the smell

of a thousand stinky shins"





More than likely, it will be 97 degrees in two weeks.  I just think those shin guards stink now.
I'll trade my windburn for sunburn, and I'll still be driving all over town for games and practices, but I will be sweating as well.
It's a good thing I love the boy.

In other news, it's the first day of Spring Break, and our yard is covered in snow.  More snow is in the forecast for tonight.  I'm one of the rare people who enjoys the Winter season and its companion, snow.  But now?

Dear Snow,
Why did you wait until Spring Break to pay us a visit?  Where were you on that sleepy Monday morning back in January?  We could have used you then.  We would have loved you more then.  Now, you are a cold nuisance.
Love,
Me

I'm waiting for my phone to ring and one of the coaches to tell me we have an impromptu practice... because it's snowing. 

The Day The Elderly Abused Me

I love senior citizens. I practically am one.
I love their ability to be blunt in every situation.  If your hair looks bad, they tell you.  If you have bad breath, they will tell you.  If you whisper in church, they'll turn around to shush you. If you've gained a few pounds, they'll tell you.  They are like toddlers with more money and more life experience.
And... if you let them, they will steal a shopping cart right out from under you.

Yesterday, I had to run into the Mart.  Sadly, it was pouring rain, so all the carts were soaking wet.
I tried, unsuccessfully, to loosen a cart from the jammed up cart pile for about 5 minutes.  When I finally got one free, I pulled it over to the side and wiped it off with an old Kleenex I found in my pocket.  Then I spied a roll of paper towels near the cart wipes.  (The "cart keepers" of the Mart were looking out for us.)  So I grabbed a few paper towels and kept on drying.
That's when the elderly man started stealing my cart.
He grabbed the front of the cart and was rolling it away with my purse in it.  For a grandpa, he was fast.  I had to jog a tiny bit to catch him.  Laughing as I ran, I finally grabbed the handle and said,
"You're stealing my cart!"

He said, "Oh.... I thought you worked here."

Well. 
I took my dry cart back and started my shopping.

For the record, I do not consider it an insult to be mistaken for an employee of the Mart.  But yesterday, there were some glaring differences.
I was drying off ONE cart... not the whole group.  The Mart employees are great, hard-working people... But none of them has ever dried off a shopping cart for me.
I was dressed up to meet Dan/Daddy for lunch.  By "dressed up," I mean "not stretchy pants and flip flops."  I had on a necklace and real shoes.  The employees at the Mart are nice, well-kept workers... But the sweater I had on was not "Mart blue." 
The Mart employee who stands at the door is friendly and chatty... But I wasn't even smiling.
So somehow, some way PeePaw thought I was a Mart cart wrangler.

My husband, my brother, my friend, and the boy all got the biggest laugh when I told them my story.
Dan/Daddy thought it was funny I had to run to catch the guy.
My brother told me he gets mistaken for a worker in stores all the time.
My friend said she didn't want to read about me abusing the elderly in the news.
The boy argued with me for at least 30 minutes about the color of my sweater.  He swears it was "Mart blue."  It's not.

When I paid for my things and left the Mart, PeePaw was walking out right in front of me. 
I laughed to myself, but I kept my eye on him.

Baby Jesus Goes To School

As a family, we don't usually celebrate Mardi Gras.  We don't live near one of those beautiful Deep South cities that holds a parade, and I can honestly say I've never shown any part of my body for a strand of beads.
We do, however, take any and every opportunity to expand our knowledge of the world around us eat cake.
We want the boy to know what other religions, cultures, and communities believe and how they celebrate.  If that includes food, then we're all a little happier.  And educated.  And fat.

So in honor of Fat Tuesday, I headed over to the local Publix to buy a King Cake.  The traditional King Cake has the baby Jesus baked inside, but in the Publix version, he comes taped to the lid.

My friend, M, went on a similar quest for a King Cake with a plastic Baby Jesus.  For some crazy reason, her cake box had no baby.  She sent her husband back to Publix for 3 more cakes.  None of them had a Baby Jesus.  Several people had theories, but I think someone went through those boxes and cleaned out the babies.  Sicko.

Before we ate our cake, I un-taped the plastic baby, flipped the cake over, and smashed him into the layers of sugar and cream cheese.  (The more I think about it, the more bizarre the entire ritual seems.)  We devoured the whole thing in about a day and a half, and the boy got the piece with the baby in it.  Maybe it had something to do with the fact that he stabbed into every area of the cake with a knife before he actually cut a slice.  (More and more bizarre by the minute.)

The plastic Baby Jesus hung out on the kitchen island for a few days, and then I saw him in the boy's bathroom... sitting on the counter.
Almost a week had gone by when I realized I hadn't seen him.  We were getting in the car, and the boy shoved his hands into his jacket pockets and said,

"Wheeeew!  I thought that was Baby Jesus in my pocket."

"Ummm.... why would Baby Jesus be in your pocket?  Where is he, by the way?" I said.

Without any hesitation, he said, "He's been going to school."

"He's been doing WHAT?" I asked.

"Going to school."  He said it like you might say, "I have a math test."  Or, "I need pencils."

"Just how many times has Baby Jesus been to school?"

"Lots.  Don't worry, though... He only comes out at lunch, because we don't want him to be taken away."

Truthfully, I wasn't worried about Baby Jesus being taken away.  I was worried about the phone call I might receive from the school office.  Or the school Security Officer... whose main station is the cafeteria. 

"What are you going to do if Officer B sees him?" I asked.

"Oh, he already has.  He came by our table, and we showed him Baby Jesus, and he even held him."

The boy rolled his eyes as I said, "Baby Jesus needs to come home."

"He can't right now," he said.  "I don't exactly have him."

"Who exactly has him?" I asked.

"My friend has him at his house,"  he said.  "He's making him some clothes.  We were feeling bad because he's naked."

"Well, as soon as he gets some clothes and comes back to school, I'd like you to bring him home."

He rolled his eyes again, protested, and tried to convince me the tiny plastic Baby Jesus would not get him into trouble.  He said something about Baby Jesus being the highlight of lunch, and he probably said something about me ruining all his fun.
I reminded him it's my job to ruin his fun, and I take it seriously.

It's been a few days since that conversation, so I asked the boy last night about Baby Jesus.  He is, apparently, still at the friend's house.  He's still naked, but I have a sneaky suspicion he has been back to school.  How do I even begin that phone call with another mom? 
"Hi!  I was wondering if our naked plastic Baby Jesus is at your house?  Could you send him home please?"

My poor friend, M, finally did get her Baby Jesus.  Another friend who knew of the missing Publix babies was at a (real) baby shower and stole a plastic baby from the centerpiece and brought it to her.  I guess it's not technically Baby Jesus, but my friend, M, was satisfied.

I may have to make a surprise appearance at lunch to confiscate Baby Jesus.  There's nothing like your mom walking into Middle School lunch to take away your plastic baby. 
While I'm there, I may take lunch to Officer B.  The man who is the first line of protection in the school took a few minutes to goof around with a table full of 7th grade boys.
And their mascot, Baby Jesus.

A Penny For Your Texts

At the rate I am posting blog entries, I may have a big whopping 12 by December.
It's not for lack of material... Life is full of great stories, but getting them to the page is another task altogether.
If I stopped long enough to record my thoughts, I might be able to think more clearly.  Get some of that craziness out of my head, you know?

Speaking of craziness, have you ever scrolled back through your "received" and "sent" text messages? 
It's scary just how quickly those messages pile up.  The content of my messages is even scarier.

Last week, I was sitting and waiting in the car line at the boy's school.  Instead of catching up on my Bible reading (I'm behind) or catching up on my Bible study (I'm behind), I scrolled through some old texts.
Here's a small sampling of what my friends and I had been chatting about:

1.  Cat food is like crack to my dog.

2.  Caramel cheese popcorn is like crack to me.  (How do we all know so much about illegal drugs?)

3.  The DMV is a pleasant place in our town.  (This may or may not be an exaggeration.)

4.  Skin tight leopard print pants are not acceptable church attire.

5.  Has the "no Saturday mail" thing started yet?

6.  There are 2 houses in our neighborhood with Christmas wreaths still on the doors.

7.  Baby Jesus went to school.  (This is a post all on it's own.)

8.  Someone stole a plastic baby from a baby shower centerpiece.  (This is directly related to #7.)

9.  I need to justify my Target run.

10.  I'm stuck in the bathroom... I will text you my order.

11.  I tried to cut off the end of my left thumb.  Again.  (True story.  I cut the same thumb I whacked the end off of years ago.)

I was going to list an even 10, but I couldn't leave out the thumb text.  The doctor reattached the end of my thumb the last time I removed it.  This time, I manned up and glued it back together.  I have no idea why I hate my left thumb.

Thankfully, no left thumb is necessary to type out the "Plastic Baby Jesus Goes To School" post I'm working on.
In the meantime, I will be cleaning out my text messages.

Knots In His Shoelaces

I love proud mom moments.  The boy is smart, funny, talented, and full of life... we are always proud of his accomplishments.

Last week, I had my proudest mom moment ever, and it had nothing to do with an accomplishment.  I think it's safe to say no one even saw what happened.  Thankfully, the boy tells me everything, so I got to hear about what he did.

It wasn't a huge thing; it was a small gesture, but it made my heart feel like it would burst.  It was plenty big enough for me.

In my typical nosey mama style, I was grilling him on the day's events at school.
He told me about lunch (a big deal for 13 year-olds).  He told me about a test he'd taken and grades he'd gotten back.  I'm sure there was conversation about who was going to the dance or who likes who now... all the gritty Middle School details.
And then he said,
"My shoe was untied before Social Studies, and I didn't have time to tie it.  So when I sat down, my Special Needs friend, C, asked if he could tie it for me."

"Well?" I asked.  "Did you let him?"

He said, "Yeah.  He wears shoes that zip, so I didn't know if he could do it.  So I let him try."

Holding my breath, I asked, "How did he do?"

He said, "I could tell he's been practicing!  When he finished, I had like 5 knots in my shoelaces!"

And then he moved on to the next item of teenage conversation.  Just like that. 
What he didn't know was that I was dying a tiny bit inside. 
What he didn't know was how I felt like crying.

"I am so proud of you for doing that," I said.  "That was kind of you to let him practice tying on your shoe."

"Yeah," he said.  "I didn't mind."

"Well, thanks," I said.

Sometimes (daily) I wonder if I'm getting it right.  I doubt my own steps, and the one thing I doubt the most is whether or not the boy is getting the messages we want him to get.
Sometimes we tell him how to behave.  Sometimes we yell at him for not behaving.
Sometimes I feel like I'm talking to a techno-lump on the sofa.

When I heard him tell about his friend tying his shoe, I knew he'd gotten it.
His intelligence may get him far in life, but his kindness is what I want people to remember.

He is so funny, and he makes all his friends laugh, but I want him to be a friend to all.

His athletic ability is amazing; I love to watch him score a goal. But, I would trade every goal he's ever made to know he's always going to be willing to have knots in his shoelaces.

We've always said we want him to have a heart like Jesus.  Knotty shoelaces seems like a good place to start.

Teeth, Bottoms, and T.M.I.

If you are the squeamish type, now is the time to stop reading.

 I warned you.

I only posted once in January, and it was to proclaim my new improved attitude about being less overwhelmed.  Less overwhelmed with the bad and more overwhelmed with the good. 

Well.  There's a saying that goes... "If you want to make God laugh, tell him your plans."
I think He spent the last few weeks chuckling to Himself over me.

First of all, Dan/Daddy had some dental surgery.  It was a scheduled procedure, but that didn't make it any easier. He was given some medicine to help him relax beforehand, so sitting with him in the waiting area was very entertaining.  He flipped through a decorating magazine and declared to me his future home would not have any lower cabinets in the kitchen.  When I tried to explain how his plan wouldn't be practical, he dozed off.  When the nurse came to put him in a wheelchair, he told her he didn't need it... then he promptly fell over.  The surgery involved a gum tissue graft, and - for the record - it is not pretty to look at. This surgery was also the first of 3 more to come, so the good times will continue.

Four days after Dan/Daddy's procedure, our cat had emergency surgery.  In case you are squeamish and STILL reading, I'll just say the surgery was in a very "private" area.  Because of the nature of the "injury" and the bacteria, the vet had to leave the wound open to heal.  Yep.  OPEN. Not only was the wound open, but it needed to be cleaned out twice a day. Not only cleaned, but scrubbed.  Dan/Daddy held her down, and I did the scrubbing.  It is as unpleasant as you are imagining.
It was also as expensive as you are imagining.

On the day after the cat's emergency surgery, I left our new puppy home alone... in her crate.  She's been doing fine with her potty training, and she loves her crate.  When I got home, she was not in her crate anymore.  She had unzipped the door and was hiding under a chair.  In the short time I was gone, she had gone "potty" in the house 6 times.  She left little presents in the den, in the dining room, and under the beds.  I spent all afternoon cleaning up tinkle and poopies.  We now refer to January 29th as Poop-A-Palooza around here.

That night, while the boy was playing with Miss Poops-a-Lot, she nipped him on the ear with those razor puppy teeth.  His ear bled like a faucet... all over the den floor.

I think it was while scrubbing the blood from the carpet that I considered jumping off the roof.  Or maybe it was while scrubbing the puppy poopies?  Or was it the cat's hind end?

Now we are 6 days into February, and Dan/Daddy is recovering well.  He loves showing off his gross graft.
The cat is much better also, and we have been released from scrubbing duty by the vet.
The puppy hasn't broken out of her kennel since Poop-a-Palooza, and the boy's ear healed just fine.
I am, however, sporting a gash over my right eyebrow from those same puppy teeth.

I was glad to see January go, but I have high hopes for the rest of this month. 
Even if things around here don't improve,  my Girl Scout cookies are on the way.  I can do anything with a Thin Mint by my side.  Except maybe scrubbing the cat's behind.

No Shirt, No Shoes, No Pants

The boy and I have some of our best conversations in the car.  We also have some of the strangest. We spend a lot of time in the car, so there's no shortage of words... good or bad.

While driving home from karate a few days ago, he asked me,

"Why do stores have that sign on their doors... the one that says
 NO SHIRT, NO SHOES, NO SERVICE?"

I said, "Well, believe it or not, some people would try to go into a business or a restaurant without shoes or a shirt.  Gross, isn't it?"

Instead of agreeing with me, (because all 13 year-old boys agree with their mothers) he said,

"The next time I go into a restaurant, I'm going in with no pants on.  The sign does NOT say
NO PANTS, NO SERVICE 
 I want to see if I will be served.  They have to serve me."

"You'll be served with an arrest warrant," I said.

"Then they need to be more specific on those signs," he said.

My friend, Y, also has a 13 year-old son.  She and I often talk about the strangeness that comes with having 13 year-old sons. 
We have no answers; we just hug and pray for each other.
We've promised to call each other if one of us sees the other's son anywhere without clothes.
Mine will be obviously be trying to buy some lunch.