soccer mom

 Tagg's first soccer game was Saturday. I am officially a soccer mom. His team is called the Ladybugs. I don't know why. It's a mix of boys and girls under 4. After one practice and one game, I am already learning a lot.

One, just be happy if your kid runs around on the field for some or all of the game, poses for at least one cute picture, does not hit, kick or push any other kids, and does not yell a swear word - especially not the really bad one.

Two, you need some stuff. A lot of stuff. Just when I thought I was done with diaper bag nonsense, I now have camping chairs, a first aid kit, snacks, a blanket, sweatshirts (for me and both kids), drinks, spare clothes including a long sleeve shirt, a port-o-potty for Sloane because there are no bathrooms, and an extra ball for Sloane to play with — all in my car. I suspect that summer soccer may also involve a sunshade of some sort, maybe some spray bottles. And I need to make sure the iPad is in the bag and charged up just in case #4 (see below) doesn't happen.

Three, Saturdays are no longer my day. Or even "our" day. We have to get up early for 8am soccer games, or juggle our usual Saturday plans around 11am or noon games. I'm actually pretty happy about that. How we're going to handle it when Sloane gets in on the soccer/dance action, I have no idea. But I'm pretty sure there are not going to be any Saturday pedicures in my near future.

Four, enlisting a cheering section (aka, aunts, uncles, grandparents) is critical. Otherwise, you will not be in any photos with your little superstar. Your non-playing child will be a screaming mess or trying to run into the parking lot or onto the field while you're trying to get your little soccer star to get up off the ground (the team has decided it's "nap time" so they are all laying down at mid-field while the opposite team is scoring goal. Plus, there may not be anything better than having a huge cheering section when your son gets his first goal in a soccer game. Even better when he proceeds to get three more goals for the other team. And then lays down in the middle of the field because he's tired. And it's nap time.

Five, this is what it's all about. I have never been more proud that Tagg was the first and only kid on his team to score a goal. That he's really good at dribbling, even if it's not always toward the right goal. That his super-giant soccer shorts stayed up. That he scores the most, if not the only goals for his team. That he now loves his shin guards that make him look like a Transformer so much he won't keep his socks tucked over them. That he almost always listens to Coach and tries really hard to play. Watching him clap his hands with excitement about getting to practice kicking a goal. The big hug when the game is over. That's everything it was cracked up to be and more.

 I'm a soccer mom. I think I scored!

PS...you will notice that I am not in one single picture with my little soccer star. Please refer to tip #4. Must have paparazzi.

ouch...that's a good app

I've been getting back into the workout routine. Let's face it. I can't just run all the time. (A) I don't love running in an addiction kind of way. I mostly run so I can drink wine and eat Cheetos occasionally, and because I love the medals and my run buddies. (B) My knees and ankles certainly don't love running. They remind me all the time with little sharp pains and dull aches. You'd think that would remind me to stretch more but I still don't. (C) I need variety! It's the spice of life, as they say. I don't really know anyone who says that. But I get bored of doing the same thing all the time. 

My sister showed me this Nike Training Club app for my iPhone so I figured I'd give it a shot. I was running a little late to get the kids so I picked the 15 minute "Get Focused" workout and opted to do the "Leaner Legs" workout. How hard could that be? I just ran 9 miles the week before and it barely phased me. I am obviously in great leg shape, no matter what they look like. The workout had 5 different exercises, a combination of squats and lunges. One exercise for one lousy minute each, three rounds. No equipment other than a couple of weights or a medicine ball, so you can do it easily at home. The app shows you step-by-step images of the moves, and has a video of each move so you can see exactly how to do it. And you can sync it to your playlist. Plus there's a lovely little audio "coach" who motivates you and counts down the time from move to move. I was thinking this would be a breeze.

I'm embarrassed to say this but...I was out of breath. Full on winded after about the third move. I even skipped a few reps by the third rotation, just to catch my breath. This is FIFTEEN minutes of exercise, people! I run half marathons. Sure, I don't do them fast or train enough but still. Shame. Spiral.  

Wait...it gets worse. The next day I was sore. Really sore. The kind of sore where every time you stand up it takes a half-dozen steps to loosen up. Stairs? Ridiculous. And sitting down? Old. Man. Noise.  That lasted for three full days. I am not joking.

So, a few things I learned. One, I need to cross-train. A lot. Two, running a lot does not necessarily deliver strong legs. Three, the Nike Training Club app kicks ass! Literally.

happy birthday, nana

Nana with the grandkids and her fabulous birthday cake.

Leave it to my mom. She's 60-uh-something and for her birthday, no spa days or fancy dinners or expensive jewelry. Nope. Let's go camping! And, just because we're all busy, she'll even get all the food for breakfast, lunch and dinner. You gotta love her!

Marc and Papa working the grill

The guys barbecued some wonderful chicken, but seriously, how much do you think we eat?!

We got this Pili-Pili hot sauce at a full-on, hippie, green festival
they were having at the lake campground. This stuff is HOT.
Like burn-your-face-off hot. But delicious, and award winning.

Do not ask me about the bangs. It wasn't me.

My little princess. She digs in the dirt. Runs down the rocky dirt trails. Climbs up the slide and hangs with the boys at the playground. But she'll pick up a broom and start cleaning up the campsite, too. Because, you know, she can find all kinds of gross and dirty stuff to put in her pockets - or her mouth - by sweeping.

Tagg found this stick in the water and immediately dubbed it his "Jedi walking stick."
I didn't get it until he said it was like Yoda's. Duh.

You get a little spoiled by Lake Powell boating and camping. The beaches at Jordanelle - where the water is down a ton! - were insanely rocky and muddy and kind of gross. And the water was 10 or 15 degrees colder. Still super fun, but not...Powell. Needless to say, we did not spend a whole lot of time in the lake.

Besides cooking, cleaning, boating, playing, beaching and running around, we also managed to do a cool art project where we painted a bunch of sea shells, and some frames. We ran out of time to glue them to the frame but the shells alone were just cool. Note to self: the best paint for the sea shells is not washable. So when your kid wipes his hands on the baby's special blanket...not so good!

Me and my mom "camping" back in the day. No wonder I love getting all back to nature with my family.

I have to say that I love this trip with my family, and I'm so grateful to celebrate another birthday with my mom. We played cards, games we haven't played in years. Papa made Yoda and Dora shaped pancakes for the kids. We went to the beach, the playground, the hippie festival and introduced my parents to the Chow Truck, Best of all, we got to celebrate my amazing mother. The woman who made us crafty, taught us to love cooking, musicals, reading and basketball, and loves all of us - her grandkids most of all - with a heart so big and forgiving and patient and sweet and strong.

We love you and happy birthday, mom!

got an extra hundred bucks sitting around?

Yeah? Really? You have that kind of money to burn? Then you might be in desperate need of this plaster HORSE HEAD! Yes. This is for real. A $100 plaster horse head (if you count tax, of course).

I found this "decorative" HORSE HEAD at a furniture store while shopping for a new loveseat. Apparently the rich - or interior designers who work at furniture stores - have no taste AND no sense of humor, just money to burn. I mean some ceramic roosters, sure, sign me up (not really). But a white HORSE HEAD? Who would shell out a hundred bucks to put a white plaster HORSE HEAD on their coffee table?!

Me! Well, it's not exactly going on the coffee table. I'll paint it brown, put it in our bed, under the sheets, liberally doused with a bunch of ketchup to look like blood, and let Scott have a Godfather moment. That's fucking funny, right?!

I guess money can buy happiness.

boots

Finally, you shall be mine. Serious cowboy (aka cow-LADY) boots. Tried them on at the Buckle. Fell in love. And they had two left feet (literally) not in my size. DAMMIT! I knew they were meant for me because every time I see the photo on my phone, I'm a little sad and I talk about them a little too much and I have dreams about wearing them. Just found a killer online deal and now, finally, I will have my boots. 

Even Scott says, "good for you." I think that's a pretty good hubby validation moment. We will probably be going on a Harley ride with my new boots soon.

the good stuff

I have a friend who is in her early 60s. She's a brilliant, interesting woman and I gather she may have been a bit of a wild flower child back in the day. I also happen to know that she placed a child for adoption when she was a teenager. She shared this very personal story with me when she found out we were adopting our daughter and as much as I appreciated it then, I really treasure it now. Why? 

Sometimes it's hard being so open with your birth parents. There's a lot of anxiety, paranoia and fear that comes along as part of the package. Some of it's justified, most is completely fabricated from dark, icky places in your head and weird stuff people say to you. There are days when you don't want to share the title of "mom," or when you vividly see a day in the future when your dramatic teenager will crush you in the heat of a stupid argument about curfew by saying they want to go live with their "real" parents, or when you tell someone you had lunch with your baby mama and they look at you like you said you sent your baby to the zoo with a kidnapper, or a Catholic priest. There are days when you wonder if you've shared too much, or not enough. And, the worst of all, what if they try to get your baby back. Sure, not realistic, but in crazy-brain town you still worry about it. And bear in mind, our birth families are AMAZING people. Like unbelievably cool, normal, awesome people. And I still play out these internal soap opera moments in my head more often than I care to admit. 

So that's where my friend and her story serve as a beacon of light. AKA, a virtual bitch-slap to the face. I see my relationship with my birth parents fast-forwarded 40 years. I see our relationship from their point of view, with a veneer of wisdom and life experience to boot. I hear her talk about how much she struggled with her adoption decision back then. A decision that didn't feel like a choice based on the circumstances and pressures at the time. A choice that opened up a future full of adventure, love and success. But I can tell she still has traces of regret. I see how much she loves the child she gave up all those years ago, and how much she cherishes the precious little time she is able to spend with him and her grandchildren now. She calls him "my son" and speaks about him with an ease so natural that most people never know that of her two sons, she raised one and watched one grow up from afar. My heart aches to hear how hurt she is by his adopted mother's territorial nature which keeps her so very distant and removed from her son and his family. I "ooh" and "ahh" over the family photos she proudly shares and the stories of her grandkids' triumphs in school and sports. All proof that a mother's love doesn't require a formal title, or a typical family tree, or daily conversations. It just is. And when someone asks her how many kids she has, she doesn't hesitate when she answers, "I have two children." 

Seeing that love and conviction, and the joy and pride she has as a mom, reminds me why it's important to invest in this relationship with love, trust, hope and, maybe most importantly, with open hearts and open minds. Because the more you open up, the more room there is for the good stuff. And it's really all about the good stuff.

crap

Welcome to my life. I hit "publish" too soon on this blog post, among many other "dammit"-worthy errors I make every day. I have to stop swearing in front of my kid (hi, I'm dammit girl). I don't know who made this necklace, but I want one.