Nighthawks? More like Fighthawks.

Here’s a newsflash for you.  Soccer is a rough sport.

[Wow, I guess I'll take "Captain Obvious" for $400, Alex.]

Yes, yes, I know.  This is no cosmic revelation even to the most clueless sports anti-fan.  But while bruises and scrapes are commonplace badges of honor after a tough game, and the occasional sprain is iced down and wrapped with an Ace Bandage of pride, there are  limits to what is considered acceptable risk.  I will even stipulate that an occasional busted ankle or torn ACL when the heat of battle creates collisions is not out of the realm of reason.  But the boundary to that realm comes in the form of intent.

If two players go up for a header, collide, and hit the pitch hard, it may take them a minute to remember who they are, what team they play for, what day it is, and possibly what sport they were playing in the first place.  As this information filters back into their scrambled brains, they sit up, reach over, and help each other off the ground.  It’s the way it works.  But when a goalie dives for the ball on the ground, and an opponent comes in with a slide tackle, cleats up, to the goalie’s midsection?  That, my friends, is malice.   (It’s also supposed to be an automatic red card, according to the NCYSA, but that isn’t the point.)

Last night’s Varsity game was one in which the other team came in with a raging case of malice.  They weren’t there for finesse, or for love of the game, for teamwork, or for fun.  They were there to dominate by force.  Their passing game was pretty good; they had speed and decent footwork.  Their defense was a little sloppy here and there, but they were fast enough to get back.  However, they also received, if memory serves, 8 yellow cards.  Now, to be fair, I do not have the official stats count, so I may be off by one or two.  But at least two of those yellows are supposed to be automatic reds.  One was a slide tackle in the back, cleats up, and one was train-wrecking the goalie when he was down.  (Yes, I have photos of both fouls.)  They also threw an elbow into the face of our team captain, nearly breaking his nose, but doing enough tissue damage that the doctor has benched him for the entire week.  Their coach encouraged the behavior at every turn; the rest of the team not only crowed when one of our players went down, but then hotly protested every whistle the ref did decide to blow.

What got me the most, though, was the parents.  We’ve all known rabid coaches who watched the Sensei in Karate Kid with glazed eyes of adoration one too many times.  And we’ve all known teenagers so pumped full of hormones, energy, and anger that their bullying behavior in the hallways at school flows easily out onto the sports fields as well.  But I simply have to ask the question to these parents: Are you proud of your child right now?  Are you bragging to your friends about how many yellow cards your player has this season, or how many injuries have been caused by your child’s elbow, cleats, or fists?  Do you rest easy, knowing that instead of learning the delicate footwork, or sensing your opponent’s next move before it’s made, instead of studying the plays and the geometric intricacies of patterns set up by the coach, your son or daughter tripped, elbowed, cleated, or pulled (by the jersey) his or her way to victory?

The Ambassador played hard, he played physical, and he played to protect his goalie.  But he has been raised to understand that no matter what, at the end of the day, he is to respect the game.  He will tuck in his jersey properly, he will address the ref as “sir” or “ma’am” no matter how much of a tool the person is, and he will be a gentleman on the pitch.  He has been raised to know that in a normal game, if he cannot win the game on his efforts (combined with the efforts of his mates, of course!), then he (/they) didn’t deserve the win.  His team lost last night, 6-2, but that was no normal game.  Not by a long shot.  But if my son had come onto that pitch and acted the way the Northern Guilford Nighthawks had acted, I would’ve held no pride for his team, and certainly not for him.  Instead of the elated cheers after a win, I would’ve worn a badge of shame as a parent.

For me, I am proud of every player on the Eastern Alamance Eagles team, and their coaches as well.  They got frustrated last night, and yes, they shoved back, talked some trash, and their tempers occasionally hindered their usual fluid and skillful maneuvers.  But at no point did they cross the line into “thugs” out there, and at the end of the day, no matter what the score, they showed themselves to be men.

Well done, Eagles.

Lousy Mom?

Yeah, I may be.  But I’m also a dedicated one.  This is a shot of my son on the soccer pitch in a varsity game tonight.  It looks blurry, right?  That’s because it was pouring rain.  Torrential.  Every fan was soaked to the skin right along with the players.

The Scientist offered to stay and take the Ambassador home from his game, but no way was I leaving.  That was my kid’s game!  =)

They wind up tying at the final, but I do love watching soccer, and most especially when the Ambassador is on the pitch!

Some days, I really think I am a “broken” mom

No, no, not in the usual ways that make you go, “Freakin’ DUH, Mick…next?”  This is something that has made me a little self-conscious over the years, and I guess after reading another blog post that I hit, almost by mistake, I figured I’d confess.  Now, let me say up front that I am not in any way saying even one negative word about this mom.  She seems like a great mom, and my own brokenness does not in any way reflect on her, or any other mom that has sparked these feelings in me.  Here blog post was merely the catalyst for my own ramblings today.  It can be found here. Please take a sec to read, or even skim, her post, if only because my own post will make a lot more sense.

This mom, along with so many others, got a bit teary at hitting another childhood milestone.  Everything from first steps to kindergarten graduations, to hitting double digit birthdays can elicit that wistful smile, those brimming eyes, and the little sniffles that show a mom who watches her baby achieve the next step in her growth.  It’s a very natural, normal thing for mothers, and moms across the world will nod in empathy even if they don’t know the other woman.

So what’s the problem?

I don’t do it.  My kids’ first tooth, first word, first steps, didn’t elicit a single tear.  Their first days of school didn’t find me reaching for the tissues.  I did not sniffle on my friend’s shoulder when they entered high school.  None of it.  I’m not sure what it is.  I’m not a cold-hearted person by nature; I feel emotion, and I show it.  But for whatever reason, the milestones of my children’s lives do not make me sad.

In the past, I’ve said that I never wanted kids.  This was true.  But once I made the decision to do so, not only did I discover that I was pretty good at it, but that it was also kind of a cool process.  I’ve watched in awe as the stories and adventures of their lives have been written on their “Tabula rasa.” I’ve felt fascination as I watched their own personalities emerge, seen their personalities develop and blossom.  It’s been so cool for me to see or hear that they were commended for their manners or their helpfulness and know that I taught them that.  I’ve instilled a respect for the earth, a love of diversity, and a passion for the exploration and education that comes with traveling our world.

But never did I find myself misty-eyed over any of it.  Excited?  Yes.  Proud?  Definitely.  Anticipating what comes next?  Absolutely!  But not wistful.

As they near their adulthood and move out into the world on their own, I know my life will change right along with theirs, just as it’s always been.  I’ll greet those changes with the joy, laughter, and amazement that has come with each passing day of their lives, but for whatever reason, I don’t see myself crying for the past.

If the flip-flop fits…

Yeah, some days I can be a kickass mom.  Other days, the moniker of this blog is a rather apt descriptor.  This past weekend was one of those times.

I was insane, and made an Irish Dance solo dress for the Professor.  It turned out ok, and she wore it to a feis in Dayton, OH.  (Dog only knows why the hell she wanted to go to Dayton, Ohio, but whatever.)  A few people complimented it, but there were a few snooty looks as well, seeing as it is very non-traditional.

Now, let me preface this next part by freely admitting that part of the fun of going to feisanna is snarking the hideous dresses.  We also ooh and ahh over the gorgeous ones as well, but there are those dresses that make you wonder just what brand of tequila they were smoking in order to think that the design or color combination looked attractive.  However, when snarking those particular beauties, it is very quiet, surreptitious, and never when the dancer is near you.  No kid deserves that ever, and I would never in a million years be that cruel.

Ok, back to the confession time.

Two Hollister Barbies were standing at the end of the row of chairs where we were sitting, cooling our heels before the Professor’s next event.  Their dresses were “eh” at best, but not too bad.  The Professor had to hustle out because one stage was finishing events faster than the other, and she needed to check in.  As she went by, both girls looked her up and down, raised their eyebrows, sneered, and laughed.  I almost dove out of my chair right then and there.  I asked the Artist to go beat the shit out of them for me, but she hissed at me to rise above it and be civilized.  Pfft.  Silly girl.  Well, the Ambassador, who was busy making time with a dancer from Indiana, (only that boy could wander into an Irish Dance competition and have a girl hitting on him in the first ten minutes, I swear!), got wind of this when I walked over to watch Jay with a homicidal expression on my face.  He heard what happened and was livid.

After having the girls pointed out to him by myself and the Artist, my sweet natured, adorable peacemaker bided his time.  When we were done for the day and were headed out the door, he was the last in our group to trail by them.  He stopped, flashed that gorgeous smile and baby blue eyes at the Barbies and said, “Hey…did you see that girl with the blue dress with the lacing on the front?”  The girls simpered, rolled their eyes, laughed, and said they had.  “Yeah, well that’s my fucking SISTER, bitches!” And he walked off.

I should’ve lectured him to rise above the low brow, inbred c*** monkeys that they showed themselves to be.

I should’ve grounded him for cussing in public AND near little kids, both of which are very strict no-nos in our house.

I should’ve reminded him to be the gentleman that he normally is.

But I didn’t.

Instead, I cheered for him, praised him to for standing up for his sister, and told him he did a good job.

Bad mothers everywhere are snickering right now, and the good mothers are gasping in horror and condemnation, but deep down, in those places you don’t want to admit exist, you know damn well you’d've done the same thing.

Musings on Moms

Despite the seemingly obvious timing, this really isn’t a follow-up post to yesterday.  Just some random ponderances after having a conversation with a good friend at work.  M is kinda like the Scientist’s mom.  Almost never angry, and certainly not outwardly so, gentle, generous, caring, one of the most genuinely “nice” people this planet has to offer.  Her oldest child is the same age as me, so at times our conversations almost seem motherly, but at other times, they’re very much on equal ground.

M told me, in confidence, that she received the best news in the world yesterday for her Mother’s Day — she is going to be a grandmother.  It is not public knowledge yet, and her daughter-in-law isn’t past the first trimester, so they don’t want people to know until then.  M, however, is glowing, as this is her first grandchild.  She is so full of joy that it’s spilling all over her beautiful face; what a wonderful thing!  I’m ecstatic for her, and told her so as I hugged her tightly.

It made me think, though, about my own kids, and while I don’t spend a lot of time considering the future of their biological plans, I do know that for now, my chances of ever becoming a grandmother are pretty slim.  The Ambassador and I just recently had very frank discussions about sex and the ramifications of it.  I have never been anything less than honest with him; my admonitions on sexual activity have nothing to do with religious, or really, even moral backgrounds.  I told him (as I told the girls) that he needed to wait to have sex until he was prepared to deal with -all- of the potential consequences.  First up, of course, is the risk of STDs.  That’s really not something one wants to consider when the romance, the lust, the heat of the moment strikes, but a nice bout of gonorrhea lasts a whole lot longer than even the best orgasm.  Which leads us to the second, and almost more important consideration — pregnancy.  Gonorrhea can at least be treated with antibiotics.  But if a man gets a girl pregnant, his “say” in the matter ends there.  If she chooses to end the pregnancy, it’s done, regardless of his desire to be a father.  The flip side, of course, is that if she chooses to carry the pregnancy to term, unless she surrenders the child to adoptive parents, that man is financially liable for the next 18 years.  18 years is a long time.  And while I was not trying to use “scare tactics,” I was also brutally honest with the Ambassador when I told him that if he knocked up a girl at age 16, he is financially liable right then.  He blinked and nodded, a bit taken aback.  Not that he was planning to rush out and have sex, but the words being set out there kind of set him back on his heels even further.  The Ambassador’s current plan is to have a vasectomy as soon as he can find a doctor to perform the procedure.  And here’s another point in which I am not a “usual” parent.  I do not automatically dismiss that wish as childish or immature, I do not laugh and tell him that he will “change his mind”, and I do not tell him to “wait until he meets the right woman” as if he isn’t a complete person in his own right.  I did tell him that for now, he will have a tough time finding a doc who will do it for him, considering his age, but at no time did I disrespect him by blowing him off.

The Artist has similar plans.  She wanted a hysterectomy, but I explained that it is considered major surgery, and is not done electively.  This news displeased her greatly, as she wants no part of motherhood either.  When she and I had a conversation one night about sex, the Artist was her usual blunt, to-the-point self.  She said, and I nearly-quote, “Having sex too early fucked up your life, Mom.  You wound up giving up everything you ever wanted to do and be to raise us.  No way I’m doing this.  I want my life, and I’m not risking it.”  I was stunned to hear the wisdom at her age, but then, the only conversation I ever remember having with a trusted advisor about sex was one time with my sister after I discovered and read her high school bio textbook.  I was 6 at the time, by the way.  With my subsequent introduction to sex and its intricacies, there really wasn’t any open communication, ya know?  My parents sure as hell never spoke to me about it.  Of course, they didn’t talk a whole lot to me unless I was in trouble for something, but that just fueled my desire to do things differently.  The Artist has been quite vocal about the fact that she is not going to risk her dreams for the sexual satisfaction of some guy.  Personally, I’m glad.

The Professor is the only one I really worry about.  She can be insecure at times, and question and over-analyze whether a situation is “right.”  (OCD, anyone?)  I don’t want her to let some jerk take advantage simply because she is trying to overcome that inherent tendency to overthink things.  But she’s a smart cookie, and I think she’ll be fine in that respect, really.  My only real, genuine, deep-down worry about her is that she -may- choose to have a child.  Her last appointment with her specialist involved the question of, “Can I carry a child?” which has never come up before.  Her doctor’s answer was a hesitant, “Yes.”  His explanation of the hesitance, along with my own research is that a person with Masto can have a tougher time getting pregnant, and then also has a higher incidence of miscarriage during the pregnancy, and almost always has an exacerbation of symptoms.   The Professor is a very sensitive creature.  The idea of her having to go through the pain and grief of miscarriage, quite possibly more than once, rips my heart out, and it isn’t even my pregnancy.  I realize that we cannot bubble wrap our kids, and I don’t have any desire to do so, really.  But if I could spare her that, I would.  It just kills me, ya know?  The weird coincidence that the only one of my Kellions that even remotely wants to consider the possibility of the thought of the notion of the idea of child bearing, is the one whose life would be infinitely easier if said idea never even hit the table.

I admit that while, if one of my kids -did- wind up making me into a “grandmother” that I would do my best to be the kick-ass-in’est Grandma ever, I cannot honestly say I have any real drive or desire to do or be that.  I know that M and her husband have been hoping for this for years, and are over the moon at the news.  But for me?  Eh.  Maybe it’s because I’m savoring the fact that I will finally have my own life, with responsibility to no one but myself.  Selfish?  Ayup.  But I have owned that one before, and continue to do so.  And while I am content with the notion that I will be in a “selfish place” then, I also know my own heart all too well.  I will take one look at the squalling, snot-nosed, rank-diapered house-destructor, and I will melt like a goddamn sliver of butter on hot toast.  I will see the Professor’s dark eyes, the Artist’s freckles, or the Ambassador’s grin, and that will be the end of me.  My heart will belong to the little brat, and I will be forever a slave to its whims.  I will bring him or her to my islands, teach her to make sandcastles, how to wind a mandevilla up around a post, in what order the ingredients are added for a margarita, which brands of flip-flops are best, (do NOT think that her first pair of shoes will not be Tevas, because they will be!), and how to gently graze a sting ray such that it swirls back around you in play.

But for now?  I will sit contentedly back to contemplate my life of quiet solitude in the islands, and wait to see what happens next.

Ready…Set…

PANIC!

OK, maybe not.  Well, yeah, maybe.

First, I’ll start with a quick brag.  I’ve been fighting my weight for as long as I can remember, and will probably always see it as an adversary.  However, as slow as it is for me to lose weight, I am at my lowest number in 12 years.  I’m kinda stoked about that, really, and it’s given me the motivation to keep going, despite getting discouraged and jealous when my friends can do so much more physically than I can.

But ok, let’s get back to panicking.  It is now May 4th.  Barely into the first week, and my schedule has exploded into the realm of Alice’s white rabbit.  Most times, I’m either swamped at work and mellow at home or vice versa.  Not so much this time!  So I need to kind of write it out, and get a sense of the whole picture so I can organize and plan to get everything done.

We’ll start with Home, because that’s the most important.  My huge, massive priority is the Professor’s solo dress for her Feis on June 5th.  We’ve hit the point of “seriously screwed” if I don’t start it NOW, and I know it.  I should’ve done it long ago, but wsa so intimidated that I made every excuse not to get going on it.  But now?  Now there’s no time for intimidation.  Now I’m at the point where I get my shit together and get it done, because the alternative is to let her down, which I Will. Not. Do.  That is simply not an acceptable option.  So the cutting table gets cleared off this evening when I get home from the Ambassador’s soccer practice, and the math will follow.

Also at home, I have the Ambassador’s soccer season extended (see my rant two posts ago).  The Scientist is stuck trekking all the way to East Podunk for a tournament that none of the parents wanted to attend in the first place because I am out of town that weekend.  I’m home the weekend before and after, but those will be dedicated to The Dress until it’s done.  Then we have a tournament in town, which will be easy travel.  30 minutes from the house?  No problem.  I need to remember to make sure that I give the Scientist one of those travel laundry things before I leave so the Ambassador can wash his uniform between tournament days.  I am not one for cheap advertising or product placement, but as a sports Mom, I have to admit to fully endorsing this one. It has made my life so much easier on Feis weekend, tournament weekends, whatever.  One sheet, in the washer, then the dryer, and voila, clean clothes.  Lovelovelove.

Aaaanyhow, where was I?  Oh, right.  Home stuff.  The Artist got screwed on her softball season because not enough girls registered, and she’s aged out of the other local league, but I’ll admit that the recovered time isn’t something I’d turn away.  I think she should look into an intramural league of adults or something, whether it’s local or on campus.

Speaking of campus, the Professor  has chosen one.  She will be a Spartan this fall, double majoring in math and hotel management. Woo! She’ll live on campus, but it’s local enough that she can hang out with us on the weekend, attend her brother’s soccer games, have real food, do her laundry, whatever. Another cool thing was that she was honored at her community college with a really neat invitation to Phi Theta Kappa. We were so proud of her!  So we’ll be working on getting her stuff ready and in place, before we start the process of outfitting a dorm room.

Then we move on to work.  I do realize that my faithful readers have pretty much no idea what any of this means, but honestly, this is really just about me trying to see everything “down on paper” so I can work out a manageable schedule.  Translation — you don’t need to understand it, I do.

– Need 30 Experimental Sections over 2 grades for this year — approximately 40-50% of these are started or in place.  This is for the 10-11 test cycle, so it needs to be pretty much done by Thanksgiving, Christmas at the absolute latest.

– Need to create 2 Item Tryout forms for X2 Grades 6/7 , each with 1 of each genre, 8 items per.  These should be ready to place by Labor Day, ideally.  Approximately 80% are started or in place, I think, but it could actually be more.  Check on this and create a spreadsheet.

– Need 120+ new selections *per grade* found and reviewed, and started with items for the new generation test cycle.  12 individual field test forms prepped as soon as possible.

– Need 30 new X2 selections per grade found and reviewed, and started with items for the new generation test cycle.  5 individual field test forms prepped as soon as possible.

Nooooooo problem.  Right?  Right?  Shit, still hearing crickets.

Justifiable coachicide?

DAMMIT.

I have had issues with the Ambassador’s coach all season.  Something about him just rubs me the wrong way, and emails from him set me on edge before I even read them.  Of course, I am polite and friendly in public, but I have explained my issues with him to the Ambassador, so that he understands why I’m frustrated, especially if he hears me venting to the Scientist or something.

The coach will change practice times, call practice when it wasn’t scheduled, and just expect that every player will be there.  I am by no means the only parent that works, and has to pray to Our Lady of Blessed Acceleration on the way into the city at rush hour to avoid cops, traffic, stupid drivers, and other such pitfalls.  I do pretty well getting him there mostly on time, especially considering my office is an hour east of my house and practice is 25min west on a traffic-free day.  I leave my office at 4, and have to detour off the highway to pick up the Ambassador at school, and then finish the drive, supposedly arriving before 5:30.  We’re generally there by 5:40, though, really.

So the coach registered us for this tournament for last weekend.  No big deal, except that he failed to get all of the information, and didn’t find out til the week before that it was for a division higher than ours.  Therefore, we were excluded.  The players were pretty pissed off, but life goes on.  However, this cancellation will be relevant in a second, so bear with me.

We had a team meeting a few weeks back, and as a team decided to continue practicing through May, and play in one tournament.   I did mention out loud, at the time, that the Artist plays softball, and because soccer is normally done by May, our family priority switches to her schedule.  That means that if there is a conflict between his game and hers, hers wins, no exceptions.   I made it clear that I could not guarantee his presence at all practices, for example, because of this.  For tournaments, there were three options: one that was about 2.5hrs away in Gastonia, and was discounted right off the bat.  Then it was down to Wilmington, which is a fun tournament because it’s at the beach, but it does mean overnight expenses/meals, etc., and one in Greensboro, which is fine, but it kills any plans you might have for Memorial Day weekend.  There was some brief discussion, and the team voted to forego Wilmington because of the cost, and do Greensboro.  Eh.  I wasn’t ecstatic, but it’s all good.  I didn’t have any solid plans to go away or anything, so no problem.  Schedules were arranged, cleared as necessary, and all is well.

Or, so we thought.  [*cue dramatic music here*]

After the other tournament got cancelled, the Scientist emailed the coach asking if the extra fees we’d all agreed to pay for the extended season/extra month, which covered the 2nd tournament, would still be the same.  The coach was very snippy with him, almost condescending, and made some mention of replacing the cancelled weekend the Gastonia tournament.  I didn’t think much of it, because duh, it isn’t like he’s going to register us and submit money for a tournament without confirmation that enough of the boys can actually attend and the parents are ok with shelling out for meals, hotel, gas, whatever.

[OK, did you all catch that blatantly huge use of foreshadowing?  I knew you would!]

We got an email last night telling us that we have been officially registered/confirmed for the Gastonia Tournament.  WHAT?!  First off, I am out of town that weekend, so not only will I miss my kid playing, but the Scientist has to handle everything alone.  (I am NOT implying that he cannot handle the single parent thing, as he does it on a regular basis, but for stuff like tournament weekends, we tend to try to work together, ya know?)  Second, the Gastonia tournament was summarily dismissed for a reason, wasn’t it?  Distance, cost, lack of interest?  Remember that whole team meeting thing?   Third, this weekend was not a scheduled one, so families could well have other plans.  What is he going to do if only 8 boys can go?  Last I checked, tournaments do NOT give refunds for registration fees.  If we have to “eat” this one, count me among the parents who will be royally pissed.

Soooooo, I committed a big No-No.  I questioned the coach.  In an email.  One that I typed after hitting “Reply All” to his email informing us that we -will- be going to Gastonia in 2 weeks.  I tried to be as polite as possible, but I said flat out that while the Scientist and I have not conferred about our schedules, I am away that weekend, so he has custody of the kids, and I think he may have plans already.  If he does, Josh will not be there.  I will not ask him to alter his weekend plans to accomodate this coach’s whims.  And really, I just don’t feel that we are the only family who will not be happy about this.  However, soccer parents can be wussy when it comes to questioning coaches, because the coach is seen as a god, and you don’t ever want to piss him off and have him backlash it onto your kid.  (And yes, this happens a LOT.)  So it was a risk I took, but I feel that not only was it justified, but that the Ambassador can handle whatever happens.

Should be interesting to see what email replies I get over the next day or two.  =D

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