Soccer Match: Mother-of-the-Year v Clinician Mother

As a mom, part of my job is giving my kids choices and supporting them in the activities they enjoy.    At least that is what I righteously believed when the girls were engaged in activities I liked – ballet and gymnastics. 

While I had acknowledged to the girls that team sports existed as well the martial arts, I put more hype and enthusiasm around my presentation of all types of dance and gymnastics.  This was going well and I was feeling like I had it made.  Not only were they happy in dance and gymnastics, they were excelling and recommended onto invitation-only pre-team.  I was going to make it through their childhood without having to watch them play the games I detested in all those horrible phys ed classes. 

Then their father entered the picture with his growing fondness for soccer….

I am not ashamed to say that I prefer the “girly” sports or loner, non-competitve sports like running.  There’s nothing wrong with that.  To say there is would be to devalue the athletic skill and rigor that dancers and gymnasts go through. Those sports take both major strength and skill. It might be cool to be a girl and conquer the so-called male dominated sports, but that shouldn’t take away from the cool-ness of doing something stereotypically reserved for girls such as dance.     

Power to the pink, I say.

I am happy to dress my girls in pink tutus or shop for sparkly tiny-hiney shorts for gymnastics.  I can coach them on  “butt in, chest up” pliaes.  I will put their hair up in buns, and smear bright red lipstick on their kissers for the end-of-year dance recitals.  Waiting outside of dance class I will (sometimes) tolerate small talk with the too-perky, Mercedes-driving blonde mother of Brittany “who just LOOOVES to dance and is SOO ready for pre-competition  dance because she’s ALWAYS wanted to be a dancer and cheerleader.”

But I cannot for the life of me pay attention when anyone – even my own children -- do anything that involves a ball.  Don’t get me wrong, I understand that being engaged in team sports can have beneficial effects on any child’s development.  I get that. And I get that I am very much in the minority when it comes to detesting team sports and the competition that goes with them.  The sound of the theme song for Monday night football brings tears of sorrow to my eyes and unleashes “Oh my God! I thought football just ended and it’s starting again?! Turn it off or shoot me, please.”

I get Dave’s irritation with me when I spaced out during our (then) 4- year-old twins’ soccer games and claimed, “I AM paying attention” despite the fact that I was not even facing the soccer field. What I don’t get, are all the rules and regulations of these games and how passing a ball

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For what seems like hours on end…

Is able to hold anyone’s attention.

There are no pretty colors to look at.

No fun music. 

No fun shoes to buy. 

No pretty leotards.

No glitter, rhinestones or sequins.

No pink…

or purple.

What there is, is an UGLY blue and yellow mesh reversible shirt.

And ugly black soccer shoes…they don’t come in pink.

Trust me. I asked. 

There is also wet, dew-y grass to sit on at 9 AM on a cold fall morning with plenty of bugs to swarm your hair as it begins flattening from the humidity.  There is a dirty wet ball that occasionally flies in your direction, eliciting the leftover panic and trauma of failed kickball days of grade school.

I was always the last one picked for the teams.  And rightly so.  I hated playing all those stupid games and usually just stood there and let the ball fly by me and let someone else chase it. If I caught it, it was only because it had bounced off my face or head and then landed in my hands. 

God, I hated PE class…

And team sports.  It was just a game and there was not a single ounce of me that cared if we won or lost.  If it’s all for “fun,” then why are people screaming and getting so worked up?  This is NOT fun.

It’s too much pressure.  And I don’t wanna play.

And the male PE teachers with their pot-bellies and whistles hooping and hollering “GET IT! RUN!”

Like. Really.  Who the fuck cares? I was pretty sure I had better things to do than get worked up and chase a god-damned ball up and down the grass.  I used to wonder who the hell these old fat guys were to tell me to run like the wind when it was obvious they were the ones who could use a little exercise.  If you want the ball in the goal, YOU do it, I used to think.

The summer is winding down, swim lessons are wrapping up, and I asked the girls what activity they want to do. 

“Soccer,” Sophia told me. 

My girl-y little brain must have misheard her.  Or perhaps she doesn’t understand what I’ve asked so I try again.

“It’s fall and ballet and gymnastics are starting again. Do you have a favorite?” 

“Yes. I like gymnastics.”

Relief flooding me, I swipe my brow realizing that was a close one.  I almost ended up having to trade in enjoyable May dance recitals and mock gymnastics meets for watching a bunch of un-coordinated kids chase a ball

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“Ok, Sophie. So you want me to sign you up for gymnastics?”

“Um. I think I’ll do soccer.”

Son of a bitch!  I begin cursing in my mind at Dave for his new found enthusiasm for fricking soccer. Not only does it distract him from his responsibilities, it’s now spreading down to our children.

Mother-of-the-Year begins tapping furiously on my shoulder telling me to lie to Sophie and tell her that soccer isn’t a fall sport. 

The Clinician Mother with two degrees specializing in human development and healthy  psyches who practices as a mental health crisis therapist sticks her damn big nose into the scene and reminds me “you have to support your children. This isn’t about you.”

Bitch.

“Ok Sophie. You know what? I’ll make an exception.  We’ll do two activities this fall.  How about soccer and gymnastics? Or maybe you’d like to do ballet and gymnastics?”

She doesn’t even think about it before agreeing that gymnastics and soccer sounds great.

“Are you sure? If you want to really excel at something it’s best to stick with it so you get really good at it.  You’ve been in dance and gymnastics for a few  years…” 

And Mother-of-the-Year jumps in, “If you don’t do dance, you don’t get to have the end of year recital. Or wear make-up and get a costume.”

The Clinician Mother jumps back in, “But if you want soccer….I can talk to daddy about signing you up.”

“Ok.”

Rats!  I think I’m going to cry and  Mother-of-the-Year has all out lost it. She’s set off to find Dave and blame him for distracting her budding ballerinas.

The Clinician Mother grabs  Mother-of-the-Year by her arm and asks her to hold off on the witch hunt for a moment.  We must put this in perspective because things could be worse.  It’s not like the girls are shooting up heroine, dying of cancer, or voting Republican – an offense which would warrant disowning them.

Clinician Mother calmly asks self-centered Mother-of-the-Year who hates all things involving balls and bases to let go and allow the girls to follow their passions.  It is by following their passions that they are most likely to succeed and, more importantly, be happy. 

Mother-of-the-Year feels her heart sink far, far down and sighs.

So just as another mother may get annoyed that I favored all-things pink and girly for my girls, I get annoyed when people put down “girly” things.  Because, isn’t that just the same offense, only in reverse?

The twins start soccer in a couple weeks.  Maybe one season will be enough.  But if not, maybe the coach will be willing to consider pink and purple shirts for the girls with the numbers outlined in sequins and a round of Zumba dancing as the warm-up.  This blue and yellow mesh really has to go.

And I can always stare blankly at the

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of the ball and meditate on the fact that things could be worse….

At least they aren’t voting republican

At least they aren’t voting republican

At least they aren’t voting republican.

Charlie

Last week I took the girls home to Iowa  where they celebrated Uncle Pancake's and Gramma Bobo's birthdays, took a couple private swim lessons, and spent time with their new little cousin.  In the 24 hours that we were there, we of course made time to go to the local Dutch bakery, the chocolate store, and stroll down Main Street. 

Fun in Gramma's pool

Clover helps us pack

Paisley May 1999-July 14, 2012

Paisley was a brindle Boxer with a kind, gentle spirit who rarely barked, loved to lay in the sun, and earned the name Tigger for her vertical bouncing as she greeted you back home.  She had a stump of a tail that wasn’t big enough to express her happiness so she resorted to wagging her whole rear-end.  She loved running at the dog park and had kisses for everyone she met.  So powerful were her kisses, that you could hear her tongue as it thwacked her nose. 

She came to live with Dave and Shannon at the age of eight weeks-old for their first wedding anniversary on July 18, 1999.  It was Shannon’s gift to Dave.  Paisley spent the better part of her puppy obedience classes walking around the ring backwards trying desperately to greet whoever  was behind her. 

Paisley spent her last few years living with Shannon’s parents.  Shannon’s parents were able to give Paisley the walks and attention she deserved.  When Paisley still had energy and good mobility, she loved to watch Judy (Shannon’s mom) swim laps in the backyard pool.  Paisley would race from end to end, licking Judy’s hands as she touched the wall to turn for her next lap.  When Paisley got too hot, she would sit on the steps of the pool in the shallow end to cool down. 

Paisley would take nightly walks with Art, Shannon’s dad.   “She’s kind of a chicken,”  Art had said about his walks with Paisley.   Paisley had been known to be spooked by her own shadow and in her scramble to get behind whoever was walking her she’d nearly trip whoever was on the walk with her. 

Paisley was a sensitive soul.  If someone got mad at her she’d slink away and pout for extended periods of time.  She was a sneaky girl when it came to the comforts of furniture and loved to spend her time sitting on the furniture she wasn’t supposed to sit on.  If caught, she would move in slow-motion off the couch or chair which broke the tension and evoked laughter.  It is hard to stay mad at someone with brown puddles for eyes.  

Shannon recalls the time 65-pound Paisley and three-pound Alli the Pomeranian joined forces.  Alli showed Paisley where the treats and food were kept at Art and Judy’s home.  Paisley then clawed the closet door open.  Both of them enjoyed their team effort thoroughly and were found with their heads in a bag of dog food stuffing themselves silly.  The family often joked that those two dogs, big in heart and little in brain, shared a bond and a brain and together made a good pair. 

Paisley joins Mocha, Alli, JoJo, Rusty, and Mindy at the other end of the proverbial Rainbow Bridge.  She and her gentle spirit have left a hole in everyone’s hearts and a trail of tears glistening on sun-kissed cheeks.

"(S)He took my heart and ran with it, and I hope (s)he's running still, fast and strong, a piece of my heart bound up with (hers)his forever"
 Patricia McConnell

Our Own Little Toothfairy

Ella has had a front top tooth hanging by a thread for a few days. I don't pull teeth out. Makes me woozy.  She doesn't like teeth pulled out, makes her woozy.

The tooth fell out on it's own today without her knowing it.  

Thinking Clover was chewing on a squinkie, Ella ran to fish it out of his mouth. Turns out he had found her top front tooth on the floor after it quietly exited her mouth.  Clover was playing with it, perhaps trying it on for size as his puppy teeth have recently started falling out. Were it not for his fascination with eating tiny things off the ground -- as well as butterflies, moths, and earthworms -- we might never have found the tiny front tooth for Ella to stick under her pillow tonight.

Lasik, Tummy Tuck, or Bust

I need surgery.  For five years I have known that I need to get surgery on my belly.  Various doctors have talked to me and told me to get it done.  A full-term twin pregnancy left me with with “severely separated” muscles and a hernia.  Recently, doing a crunch in the gym, something twinged painfully and I thought my insides were coming undone.

Last fall when I re-entered the corporate world as a clinician, I elected to put a large chunk of my pre-tax salary into a use-it or lose-it account to cover medical expenses. 

I reasoned that if I tucked away that much money from my paycheck that my desire not to waste the money would propel me past my fears of going under the knife.

I reasoned wrong.

Here it is, 2012 is half over, and I have not moved forward with my surgical plans and I have plenty of excuses not to get it done.  I am beginning to wonder, am I really going to lose all my money because I haven’t any courage? 

Not only do I need my stomach repaired before I completely burst open, but I would like to get LASIK so I can lose the nerdy glasses that I hide behind – it’s totally psychological – my idea that I am hiding, but still.  I am afraid to get the procedure done, and afraid not to have anything to hide behind. 

In an effort to reassure myself LAKIK is safe, easy and a wonderful thing to do, I googled for people’s experiences.  There I learned about doctors botching surgeries, people’s vision being distorted,  permanent eye damage and even the risk of going blind! Holy shit! 

Thinking that maybe I should hold off on Lasik, I googled abdominoplasty pictures and recovery.  There I found pictures of women with drains and tubes coming out of the freshly operated on bellys, horror stories of the pain and the feeling of being sewed back together so tightly they “can’t breathe.”

I thought maybe if I added in a boob job with the tummy surgery that it would serve as an incentive to get the work done; and of course Dave was supportive, “You deserve it,” he told me.  Visiting the plastic surgeon’s office, I tried on different sizes of boobs.  In stead of looking in the mirror seeing a buxom beauty, I saw myself as top-heavy and fat and asked the nurse for a smaller pair.  “Those are the smallest ones we have," she informed me. "We rarely use those.”

Oh dear.  Why must you make everything so difficult, I asked myself.  You have really got yourself in a pickle now.

 Maybe I should use the money and check into a chemical dependency rehab in Florida or HI or CA.  Not that I have an addiction, but I am sure I could fake one, and then it would be like a vacation.  There are treatment centers have serve lovely meals, offer massages and meditation times, all set on a private beach, not to mention the meetings with the therapists in which I could talk about myself guilt free, the opportunity to sleep in without children pestering me, and the fantastic psych drugs that may be prescribed.  I could probably afford at least a few days rehab with the use-it or lose-it money tucked away for medical expenses…

3 Months

Clover headed to the vet yesterday on his 12 week birthday.  He weighed in at 2.6 pounds.  Andi was recently overheard saying, "I love you forever.  And I like you, too."  Clover didn't mind his shot at all; the girls became more upset than he did.  The vet found him to be a calm, good little dog, but reminded us to stay on top of things by doing obedience training because, "These little guys have big personalities."

As if the nights aren't full enough since the girls got recruited to pre-team at gymnastics with classes twice a week and dance class one of the other nights, Clover starts his puppy class in a few weeks on Tuesday nights.  We had to wait a little longer to start class because I was going to be damned if I took him on Zumba class nights. 

He is a mellow little guy who is getting the hang of going for walks on his leash, is still working on potty training, and who doesn't get the big deal about potty training.  He runs up the stairs, but doesn't like to go down them. 

In the midst of raising the new puppy, we headed to the girls art show at school...

I better get the pictures posted and get on with the day.  It's 7:20 AM and per protocol, I have overscheduled myself with things to get done before heading back to work...but this is far better than the endless, boring, somebody kill me days of stay at home motherhood.

But What About PFB?

After my post on Clover I am getting messages asking what happened with Princess Fluffy Butt? 

We are not getting her. And I don’t exactly know what happened to her. 

I was dealing with Wisconsinpoms.com, formerly known as Tristaspoms.  A googling of the woman’s name – which she never gave to me, but I found through investigating her on paypal after giving her a $100 deposit – tied her to a permit violation of some sort, a domestic violence charge, and a comment thread about her being a backyard breeder at best, and a puppy mill at worst.

In my interactions with her, she often didn’t directly answer my questions, she would usually respond with a one line response, and she never signed her name.  She was not in any way forthright about herself or her dogs. 

I began to get concerned.  After seeing firsthand the effects of puppy mills on the dogs that we provided fostercare for – as much as I wanted a new pom puppy --  I didn’t want to give my money to someone who was mistreating animals.

I delicately sent her an email indicating that I was concerned and needed more information from her about herself and her set up.  She was non-compliant with our request to visit.  She was only available on the days I had stated we absolutely could not come.  Convenient? Or perhaps a coincidence?

Anyway, that email set off a rage in her AND her husband.  I got a nasty defensive email from them and they refused to sell their puppy to us. 

Very fishy. 

Princess Fluffy Butt has never reappeared on their website as being for sale to another family.  Daily I get a sick feeling inside wondering what is going on there….wondering if I should never had said anything and just taken the dog and run and not looked back at whether I had funded a bad woman. 

So that’s the long answer…I don’t know what happened to Princess Fluffy Butt.  L