Just what is he making? Recipe over at Work It, Mom!
Dressing up is not required, though highly recommended. Just look how unhappy you will be without costume.
So a couple weeks ago I decided that I needed some new bras. I ordered the size I thought I was, instead of the size that I wish I was, because I have discovered that just ordering the bra in a larger size does not make my boobs grow. Go figure.
Last week they came in the mail. I opened the box and looked at the bras. I was excited to wear one, even though it had teeny tiny hearts on it which I do not recall from the website. But whatever, as long as my nipples are properly harnessed.
I tried one on and it was too small. This was a new experience for me. I have never found a bra that was too small. Ever. In fact, I wore this too tight bra anyway because I kept thinking that it would stretch or something. But it did not.
I mentioned this phenomenon to one of my well endowed friends who told me that it happens to her all the time and how much she hates it. Then she started mentioning something about her boobs spilling over the top of the bra cups and dents on her shoulders, but she lost me there. I usually have the problem of hollow cups sitting on my chest, the sort that dent if you banged into them. On the plus side, I can store things in there — my chapstick, my wallet, spare sweater, a toddler…whatever.
That night after I took the bra off I gathered up the other ones to mail back (Why can’t I return them to the store, Victoria’s Secret? Why?) and I noticed the tag had a photo of a girl wearing the bra. A young girl. A girl who was under 12 years old. Suddenly the cutesy little hearts on the straps made sense.
Hello, my name is Chris and I am 39 years old and I bought myself a training bra.
This morning I got up before 6am to work before the “day” really begins. A day which will be bookended by work, like every other day.
It is one of those all too typical mornings where I get out of bed and don’t feel like I really slept at all. One of those mornings that just making coffee causes me to sigh loudly to myself, that is how great the effort it feels like it requires.
The tree on top of the van is still funny, though now all of the extra work that is going to be required of me is daunting. And the idea that HOLY SHIT THERE IS A HUGE TREE LAYING ACROSS MY FRONT LAWN AND MUST BE DEALT WITH is beginning to sink in. What does one *do* with a huge tree laying across their lawn. My initial thought is “Bonfire!” but I’m not sure that would go over well with the fire department.
It is a day that has had me on the verge of tears. None of it bloggable, not because it isn’t worthy, but because the very idea of typing it all out makes me weary. It’s been a day of being disappointed by people. In people. A day of feeling sorry for myself. A day of dealing with other people’s crazy, which thanks, but I have enough of my own.
I sit here wallowing in the what ifs, the should haves, the need to’s, the never will be’s. Angry at myself for the things I have said and saddened by those left unsaid.
My daughter sits down next to me wearing her headphones. Her pink ipod clipped onto the front of her shirt. She has out her art supplies, as usual. She is drawing flowers with faces in the center of a halo of petal hair. They are holding pocketbooks on their petal arms, very much like the drawings I remember making over and over again at her age. She begins to sing, in a Jamacian accent no less, ” Don’t worry about a thing. Cause every little thing is gonna be alright…”
Hearing it in her sweet little voice, I am almost inclined to believe she is right.
Honestly, I think they should have the parents out there slapping hands. Congratulating each other for having made it through the season.
Instead of “great game,” we could say things to each other like:
“Great job keeping those white practice pants white!”
“No more hotdogs for dinner!”
“No more pads stinking up the trunk!”
“Our weekends are ours now!”
Except truth be told, deep down inside, we are all going to miss it a tiny bit.
*****
Yesterday morning my son went to a team breakfast before the play-off game. A breakfast he couldn’t eat because he had to make weight. Each week has become increasingly difficult for him. Last week he was a pound over and couldn’t play. Yesterday, he was so close to the weight cut off that we weren’t even sure he would make it. Some dust clinging to his shoes might send him over. We were literally dealing with ounces.
He ran laps before the game in a different pair of cleats because the puddles on the field would soak his game cleats and make them heavier. He took his t-shirt off from under his pads. I cut the bottom six inches off of his game jersey. A game jersey we now own for the bargain basement price of $35.
Everyone wanted him to make weight. His commitment and work ethic have been admirable. I don’t know many adults who could have done what he did for an entire season. He is, after all, still a kid.
He went to weigh in and everyone held their breathe. When he walked out of the locker room a cheer went up. All his team mates jumped up and down, clapping him on the back. The parents cheered. The coach handed him a take-out container of scrambled eggs, bacon, and fried potatoes. I handed him two power bars and a sports drink. He inhaled his food and ran off to warm up with his team.
Moments later controversy would erupt when a kid from the other team who was also right at the weight limit was caught changing his uniform. The rules state that you must weigh in exactly the clothes you will play in. No adding extra pads. No adding t-shirts under your uniform after the fact. No changing cleats, which for my son has meant playing the season in soccer cleats that he hates. This particular kid was warned before about this and had already tried yesterday morning to weigh in without wearing any pads. While I think the whole thing is stupid and that you should be able to weigh in with no pads if you want since that technically is your weight, rules are rules.
They brought the kid back in to reweigh him and he was now 1.5 pounds over the limit. They insisted that he was just eating in the back of his car. Which would be a plausible explanation if he hadn’t already been caught cheating…twice.
So the coaches from the other team insisted my son be brought back and reweighed too. Even though my son had been on the field in plain sight for the entire time.
It went round and round whether or not he should step on the scale. His weight had already been certified by the official. There was no reason at all for him to step back on that scale. I marched myself right into the locker room and confronted the coach on the other team. “This is bullshit,” I said. “You can’t do that to this kid. It is completely unfair.” I was furious.
I told my son to to go back to the field.
A few minutes later they called him back off of the field again.
My son stood in front of the scale protesting, “But I just ate all that food.”
When they made him get on the scale anyway he held his head up and stared straight ahead while the scale measured him a pound heavier than it had just a a few moments before. He stepped off the scale, grabbed his helmet and said, “I’m going to warm up with my team.” He put it on his head and ran off fastening it under his chin.
In the end, after much drama, a call to the president of the league, and the two coaches shoving the rest of us out of the locker room to talk, it was decided that both boys could play.
But I was still angry. I searched for that kid’s number on the field with my dagger eyes. The kid was tackled and slid into our sideline, one of the father’s of a kid on our team called him a cheater. It made me uncomfortable, mostly because I pride myself on being above calling kids names. At least out loud.
Later, after the game, I asked my son what he had thought about it all. “Mom, he just wanted to play. Just like me.”
Too bad all the adults involved couldn’t remember that. Myself included.
and my exasperated husband who is away.
“So, can we just push the tree off and drive the van to the shop?”
“Ah hahahahahahahahaha.”
“Was it a big tree?”
“Ah hahahahahahahahaha. Hahahahaha”
“Can’t you get out the chainsaw and cut it up?”
“Hahahahahaha Hahahahahaha.”
“What?”
“Do you mean the tree or the van?”
While I was spending a couple hours at the football field in the pouring rain and gusting wind, without an umbrella. Or appropriate footwear. Or really anything that would be considered water repellant or resistant. I got a phone call from my oldest son.
“Mom, remember our big van?”
“Um, yes I think I remember it. Why?”
“Well, a tree fell on it and crushed it.”
“Crushed it?”
“Yeah, like I don’t think you are going to be driving it ever again.”
And then I laughed. And he laughed. Because that is what we do in our family when sucky things happen. We laugh.
All except for my husband. He doesn’t understand the laughing one bit. Because clearly this is not funny.
Except, you know, it is.
I almost bought it.
Because how often do I come across something in the grocery store that:
1) makes me laugh,
2) makes the people standing around me look at what I am laughing at and laugh too, and
3) makes me wonder what the hell it actually is. Because it can’t be the obvious. I hope.
::shudder::
“Mom, can you turn the kettle on for me?”
“Can I turn the kettle on for you…. what?” I ask, fishing for a “please.”
Son looks at me confused.
“Can you turn the kettle on for me… now?”
*****
I related this story to a friend because I thought that it was funny. They said that I do too much for my kids. That I am not their slave. I bristled at this observation, and even though I didn’t think that it was true, I started thinking about it.
As parents we want our kids to be independent. We want them to be able to do things for themselves. But don’t we also want to model the sort of behavior we want them to exhibit? Sure, my son could have put the kettle on for himself. We were both in the kitchen together. But he was heading upstairs to take a shower and get out of his footballl gear. Why shouldn’t I do him this favor?
Yes, I do a lot for my kids. But I expect a lot from them also.
*****
One day last week I was running around like a crazed person. I said out loud, “I wish I had a cup of coffee. I could really use one.” But I literally had no time to make it.
The same son I mentioned above said,”I’ll make you some coffee, Mom.” And he did. Complete with pouring it into my travel mug and adding creamer.
I made sure that when he handed it to me I looked him right in the eye and said, “Thank you. I really appreciate it.”
For me, that is what it is all about. Teaching my children to think of other people. Making thoughfulness second nature. Treating them as respectfully as I want them to treat me. This last one is tougher for me than I would like to admit.
As I drove away, drinking the weakest coffee I have ever tasted, I couldn’t help but think that it was also the best coffee I have ever tasted.
(Cross posted at Mommypoints)
Wanna know why I am in Chicago?
I have arrived home. Just barely making my flight after waiting in the longest airport security line I have ever seen.
My kids are all still alive and the house has not been burned down. For those reasons alone I am thankful to my sister in law and mother in law.
I could write more about that, but in the interest of family harmony and my own damn sanity I will refrain. And take some of those deep cleansing breathes that they tell you all about in Lamaze class that do absolutely nothing for you during labor.
I never realize how much I miss my kids until I see them again. When their words come tumbling out of their mouths so fast as they try to catch me up on every single minute detail that happened over the past few days. Even when every single minute detail entails recounting all the ways a sibling misbehaved.
I am looking forward to getting into bed where my two babies have already fallen asleep waiting for me. I am going to snuggle them up and kiss them until they almost wake up. Almost being the key word.
Another day in Chicago.
Another bathroom photo.
In the photo with me are Susan (I’m sure you have heard me mention her…),Miquelina (who looks like a supermodeland is so nice you like her anyway), and Clare (who isn’t a blogger and just gets dragged into the bathroom with us for the photos.)
Quite a few people have emailed me and asked, “What the hell are you doing?” “Why do you have a fake turkey?” Per my ad netwrok agreement I can’t write about it here, even though I’m not actually getting anything for free but working. Though how funny would it be to be paid in turkeys. Okay, maybe not so funny.
But I’ll have a link later on today where you can read about it.
Notes from the Trenches
fighting the war on tantrums since 1994