Tuesday, March 29, 2011

The Things We Do For Love, or Why Toe-Punching a Soccer Ball is NOT a Good Idea...

Played in a scrimmage against my son's U10 soccer team last night, Parents versus Kids, and had loads of fun. The score was even, and I think the kids learned a lot. It's one thing to tell the kids, "Spread out!" and "Move up!" and "Watch your man!" And it's another thing to SHOW them.


Did pretty well, until nearly the end of the game when my knees decided to close shop. "We're done!" they said, and promptly vamoosed, and Auntie went all in a heap to the ground. Fortunately, muscle memory does not fail, and I rolled right up to a sitting position. If my knees had not left the building earlier, I would have come back up to a standing position! Gave the Impossible Son heart failure, though. "Mom! Mom!! Are you okay? Do we need to call 911? Are you dead? Mom?? Mom? MOM!!!"

Because I was laughing so hard, I couldn't talk!

There were a lot of funny moments. Like when The Husbandly One scored a goal and whipped off his shirt to come running down the field, arms in the air with his shirt streaming behind like a flag. One of the kids turned and looked at me and said, "Coach THO is a pretty hairy guy, Auntie!"

I laughed and said, "He's my own personal shag carpet!" and then laughed even harder because... hee... SHAG!!

*is inappropriately amused*

One of the other dads had a handicap. His three year old son wanted to play, too, but he's too small, both in age and in size. So, he scooped his son up and at first tried to play with Wee-Man on his hip. Nope. So he tried a princess carry. Nope, that didn't work, either. He finally just lifted him up to his shoulders, and Wee-Man just hung on for dear life, giggling madly while his dad went galumphing up the field after the ball.

Yes, "galumphing" is a word. I say so.

The Impossible Son threw himself dramatically to the ground at one point, saying, "I'm so TIRED!" and I pulled him up and said, "Hey, how do you think I feel! I'm old!"

One of his team mates danced by and said, "You're not old! Now my mom is nearly 28... that's OLD!! You're not even close to her age!"

I didn't have the heart to tell her I'm 47, and struggled to keep a straight face. One of the other moms on the team, who is five years younger than me, was laughing hysterically, and said, "It must be the lighting out here!"

Well, you know, to a ten year old, anyone over the age of 20 is positively ancient.

And I toe-punched the ball on a goal kick, instead of hitting it with the inside of my foot, as I had intended. The Impertinent Daughter rushed up to me and said, "Mom!! No toe-punching! You're going to hurt yourself!!"

She was right...

Why Toe-Punching a Soccer Ball is Not a Good Idea...

Not pretty, is it. It split the side of my toe, too, and yeah, still hurts.

The things we do for love, right?

*goes off to look for more ice*

Friday, March 11, 2011

Go Kick Something.m4v

Spring soccer is starting up for us. Well, technically, it started last Saturday, but things are really starting to roll now! So, I thought I'd share a video I made in the fall of 2009, at the height of the extreme drought Central Texas was going through. Our fields were so very, very dry that the kids were playing in a veritable cloud of dust. Didn't diminish their fun one single bit! The fields are in much better condition now that we have irrigation on most of them, and the grass is getting thick. They still need a lot of work, but they are light years from where they were!

This is a practice scrimmage between my son's U10 team, and another. Enjoy!

Thursday, March 10, 2011

Because she liked the sound of the scissors...

What is it about the number four??

Ten years ago, when the Impertinent Daughter was four, she waited until I was busy washing dishes and grabbed the pair of scissors we'd been using for some project or other, and... cut her hair. She chose a chunk on the left side of her face and cut her long, beautiful, waist length hair to her chin. Right there in front. No way of hiding it.

My wild fey little fairy had a large chunk of hair missing.

I don't know who cried harder, me or the Husbandly One. Because... it was a big enough chunk that it couldn't be hidden, or "fixed." She had to have a haircut, and oh, she didn't like it, not one bit, because she enjoyed having her hair braided, and being able to do all kinds of fun things with her hair. We took her to a salon, and she had a cute little chin length pageboy cut that made her look absolutely adorable... but we missed our wild fairy, oh, so much!

Okay, so... cut to last night. The Impossible Son is over his bout with strep and went back to school yesterday, but now I'm fighting it off, and by the time I picked the kids up from school, I was shivering and had a very nasty headache and just wanted to lie down. So I did. Miss Impertinence came in to tell me she was bored, and I remember feeling a little anxious about this because truthfully? A bored Impertinence is NEVER a good thing.

I told her to find something to read, because seriously, we have a house crammed with books that she's barely cracked one fourth of, and she wandered out, shouting something vague over her shoulder, and I sort of dozed off. She came in my room sometime later, but since she didn't say anything to me, I didn't bother opening my eyes. Then THO came home, and I heard some loud talking, and a rather... dumbfounded silence, and then the ominous words, "Does your mother know about this?"

Okay, when my husband, when talking to the kids about me, addresses me as your mother... it's never a good thing.

So, she comes ditty-bopping in and says, "Look, Mum, I cut my own hair!" and turns around so I can see the back of it.

I can quite truthfully say that I completely and intimately understand the term, "shock and awe," now.

Before I lost my battle with the Wall of Fatigue, the back of her short haircut had come down just below the base of her neck. When she turned around to show me her handiwork, it was mostly right at or just above the bottom of her hairline. Where it wasn't skewing madly off at the diagonal. Because she had used a small hand mirror to see the back of her head when she cut it.

Y'all should be proud of me. I'm pretty sure I managed to keep "aghast" out of my expression, though I'm sure the "polite interest" I was aiming for probably looked more like "crazed serial killer." Or "my eyes are about to spontaneously pop out of my head while my eyebrows ascend into my hairline."

"Do you like it?" she asked with that big grin that really means, "please don't kill me or make fun of me."

"Oh, it's... um... um..." I floundered, then finally gave up and said, "Okay, that's gonna have to be fixed." Because there was just no way I was going to be able to adequately describe just how awful it looked.

And when she finally understood what I was saying, she said, "Well, what kind of cut do you think I'll have to get to fix it?"

I said, "Um... okay, think... Emma Watson..."

And I could see panic in her eyes because... she gets mistaken for a boy now with the feminine haircut she had before she'd mangled it, and I knew she was thinking it would only get worse if her hair was that short.

THO drove her into San Marcos after ordering me back to bed (because I'm trying not to come down with strep) to get her hair fixed because... there are no salons open after 5 in our small town. No, seriously, a lot of the businesses here roll up the sidewalks and lock the doors at 5 p.m.

They managed to salvage what she did to her hair and make it cute and girly without going the Emma Watson route. And she's actually taken my advice and today wore a shirt that leaves no doubt in anyone's mind that she is, indeed, a girl. However, I told her that should she continue this trend and decide to cut her own hair when she's 24, she's on her own as I will be officially not responsible for bad haircuts, dubious fashion choices, or shoe fails. They will all be on her ticket!

Now if I could just convince the Impossible Son to get his hair cut...