“Seven days. Seven black and white photos of your life. No people. No explanation. Challenge someone new each day.”
Thanks, Sandra, for the challenge 🙂.
Today, I’d like to nominate Michelle of The Complete Savorist.
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I had to wait a day to get my favorite birthday present. That was 20 years ago.
Camdyn’s two goals Saturday come in a close second. What kid can score on her dad’s birthday? It’s just Camdyn doing Camdyn things. Hayden’s done it, too. It’s kind of Babe Ruthian to go out and deliver on a day and on a dime.
Sunday, Madison turned 20.
She nearly shared my birthday, did you know that? If her mama’s contractions hadn’t stopped around the time M*A*S*H* comes on TV, this would be a different post. That was 20 years ago now. The girls are rolling through all the milestones, 12, 13, 16, 17, 20 …
It’s 12:17 a.m. and this day has gone so long it’s wrapping around into the next.
I have cobwebs on my blog or at least on my comments and if your blogs were my goldfish, you’d all be belly up in algae-riddled muck. I’m the blogging equivalent of the boyfriend who texts you at 2 a.m.
It’s 12:19 now and I should be doing a million other things.
Looking for a job, for instance. Not eating this quarter pounder on a plate, stage right. Boiling water for the sleepytime tea I’ve had every night. Answering comments or brushing my teeth or, maybe even sleeping before my 2.5-hour trip to Raleigh at 7 a.m.
It’s time this girl got a name.
Here, finally, is a photo of my new Hyundai. It’s strange, but Gabi still inhabits our street, an empty vessel full of fond memories and great escapes. The item put Pontiac on Craigslist has burned a hole in my to-do list.
My preliminary pick for the new car’s name: Yuliana.
(I know no Yulianas. Gabi got her name from my friend, Stacey. Gabi’s touch-and-go status in the auto shop necessitated a few prayers and vexes. Stacey felt if a car had a name, maybe she’d be more apt to capture the well wishes.)
I couldn’t wait to get my permit.
I was just a dumb kid in Colorado with the delusion that acquiring my permit would automatically result in:
1) Getting a brand-new Pontiac Fiero;
2) Driving my butt from Greeley, Colo., to Seattle
3) Actually making it back home.
How could I forget? I was also going to pick up my cousin, Raquel, in San Francisco. All this, before I’d even learned to parallel park. But I was ready. Kids these days? They’re not so ready. Why be ready to drive, when you parental Uber toting you around?
I’m okay with this.
Hayden and I talked fantasy football while I fixed her scrambled eggs Sunday morning.
I know, you’re not supposed to talk fantasy football. Maybe it’s okay with the people you play with? Anyway, Marcus Mariota, you see. He’s projected for mad points this week, but is questionable for the game Monday. Should I stick with him?
I prayed about it last night I told Hayden.
I actually hadn’t. On two other occasions, I’ve prayed for trivial things (that didn’t feel trivial in the moment) only to see them granted. I tried to remember the last time I did actually pray. It might have been in acid-washed jeans.
There’s a rock rolling around in my dashboard.
I plan to do nothing about it. I log tons of miles in my new (yet unnamed) Hyundai Elantra. Some days, more than five hours worth. Phone chargers, makeup, snack wrappers and slides get left in my car every day.
One child picked up a rock recently.
I won’t say which one. It took me back to days when I had young children (and better hair.) Rocks and toilet-paper rolls with stickers and construction paper adorning it made for the best gifts a dad could get.
One surprising element of my time on the sideline is that I (mostly) stop thinking about food for the short term.
Who am I kidding? I’m thinking about it then, too. Noon kickoffs are the worst, because that’s when I should be having lunch. And a big late breakfast and a big late lunch are the only remedy for a situation like that.
The girls’ first question got me thinking about snack food and even meal food on the playing field.
Although I don’t recommend the Cobb salad while playing catcher or the macaroni tuna casserole while playing midfield (ew – or any time), here are some ideas I dreamed up for food that ought to be kosher for a coach.
I keep a drawer of beat-up books that I like to open a lot.
One’s a book of coaches’ quotes. I gain perspective from my sideline squad. Another’s a book of lists for parents. I’ve scribbled in that a lot. Another is a pocket-sized, tattered book called “Father to Daughter.” It’s a collection of advice fathers have given.
Occasionally, I’ll grab one of the sentences in it and expound upon it.
My conversation with a T-mobile customer service rep that turned to fatherhood inspired this. I’d love to hear your take on the topic, from the perspective of a parent or having been that daughter with your father.