In the midst of a work post, the utter stubbiness of my attention span – and ability to comprehend anything not about food, soccer or Star Wars – couldn’t be ignored. “They didn’t have as much stuff for you to learn back then,” Grace piped up.
“And they didn’t have all the ways we could learn stuff back then.”
Immediately I saw myself in my sabre-toothed tiger jumper, all Paleolithic-like in a schoolhouse like the ones on Little House on the Prairie. Oh, these kids.
Even if you just hear about them. I recently wrote 11 questions for a youth soccer coach. Quietly, I don’t officially have a team for this fall. It’s the first time since Swedish tennis player Anna Holmstrom finished fourth in the 1912 Stockholm Olympics.
So, it’s been a while.
I wrote the questions for the next generation of youth soccer coaches. Dudes with accents and pointy hair and fantastic calves tend to infiltrate the sidelines of those of us out of Generation X, we of graying roofs and middle-age spread.
So, this A to Z Challenge really kicked my butt. It happened in the home stretch of soccer season. It fell during a time we stressed over Elise’s college status (she got in!) and lots of work workload. Spring’s a time of renewal, too. Although it’s mostly pollen.
If my guest post list were a troubling of goldfish, they’d mostly be belly up.
As readers might remember, when I have a guest-post Wednesday without any guest posts, I turn to my phone. I pick 11 random pics, and share them here. Let me know what you think. I promise to have something from an awesome guest next week.
One visit to her blog and you’ll know why. Lisa writes that her blog is about “motherhood, candy, pregnancy, TV, photography and birth, but not that in order nor in equal parts.” Her blog has morphed to one about IVF and infertility to one about breastfeeding and parenthood.
Gina got into the first 6 words post, then declared, and I quote, “Imma share the shit out of this.”
Gina’s guest post today is about tests of endurance she’s faced as a mom. Gina’s also a wife, former pro modern dancer and blogger. She’s a self-proclaimed butt-wiper, paper-airplane maker, house D.J. and more.
So, when the kids are grown, you’re done being a parent.
I sure hope not. Kelly McKenzie sure isn’t. Some of you know of her adventures on Just Typikel, Grown kids still give you plenty of blog fodder. That, plus Kelly’s mom, 91 and going strong, plays her part, too.
Kelly is a fantastic writer, and goes for broke when it comes to telling tales about her now-grown kids. And why not? What do you have to lose?
Not just in cheeseburgers and historical fiction. A lot happens in parenting, and some of it … some of it, even dads can comprehend. There are little things, like the 9-year-old who struts onto the soccer pitch in goalkeeper gear just as she sees her sister do.
There are big things, too. Like when you type in your eighth-grader’s English paper for her at 10:30 p.m. and you recognize her writing voice.
With the big and little, are beginnings and ends. We often lament the ends. We lose things with the ends. No more bedtime stories. No more rear-facing car seats. No more piggyback rides or Garanimals pants or daddy/daughter dances.
But sometimes, life needs a little boost. You know, a few extra degrees to the bitter cold in this soccer story. A few theatrical moments there to round out the story better. You might consider her tactics untrustworthy, and she acknowledges that in her FAQ page.
It’s the ultimate disclaimer.
Because if we’re going to tell a story, well, it ought to have a little extra hot sauce. Be served up on the good plates (those are the ones without Spongebob’s likeness). Have some of those fancy spices only Betty Crocker uses.
And the world? She kept spinning. I knew she would. I fell asleep 17 times Thursday night as I tried to write it. Seventeen is the limit. Seventeen is when I say, ‘no mas.’ If I wake up at 3:37, I’ll do it then. If not … maybe I’ll take Friday off.
Some of them came into play during that couple of days I didn’t check in for comments*.
The doe and me
On our way to the lake, I stepped into the woods because, well, nature called. I chose a lucky tree, unzipped, and felt one with the forest. I also felt eyes on me.
I looked up to see a kind and gorgeous doe looking me straight in the face. Mostly. She twitched her ears and looked me up and down again. What did she see in me? A new buck, marking his territory? An old stag, overstepping his bounds?
I zipped up, and at that, she bobbed her head, made three snorting sounds, and ran away.
Time will pass and years will fly by, mating seasons will come and go. But, that doe and me … we’ll always have McDowell Nature Preserve on Independence Day.
Meredith Spidel’s blog, The Mom of the Year, is a beautiful account of the imperfect mom. Or, is it an account of a beautifully imperfect mom? See, it doesn’t matter. When you’re engaged and accountable and can write about it all like Meredith, you’ve eared the title.