We Are The Champions

Cora scored the first goal of her first game. And then she scored another. And soon, when the score was 10-1, they stopped counting (Rough calculations from the soccer mom on my left had the final score at 15-3). For being a bunch of scrawny 5-year-olds, they aren't half bad. But when it is 27 degrees out and you have no meat on your bones, this is where you huddle during time-outs:

And when it's 27 degrees outside and moms bring gallons of hot cocoa to help thaw out frostbitten little fingers,  hyper 3-year-old sprites by the name of Claire will spill said hot cocoa all over your camera. Because you are a single soccer mom with only 2 hands. This could get interesting.

Needless to say, I was only able to snap one more picture. My poor camera is covered in a crusty chocolaty substance. It takes pictures like this now:

See that blurry little birdish looking thing in the upper left hand corner? It's hot chocolate (To be fair, my action shots before the hot beverage incident would have looked exactly like this, minus the chocolate smudge. Yep, I'm that good!).

Now when Cora sees someone we know, the first thing out of her mouth is how she killed it at her soccer game on Saturday. So I'm off to teach my daughter about humility (in her defense, when the other team scored, she walked over to the little girl that made the shot and said, "Nice job on that goal. Maybe I'll get the next one." Brought a little tear to my eye!).

html code makes me crazy

Over on that coupon blog that I now want to use as a curse word, we just got done with a major blog redesign (it's pretty-go take a looksie) and switched over from blogger to wordpress. We've been told that's where blogs go when they grow up. Note to self: never grow up. Wordpress is mean. If it was a tangible thing, I would have kicked it by now. Or pulled its hair. Because that's what adults do after they have been fighting html codes and wordpress widgets and RSS feed problems. We pull hair (most recently my own).

Meanwhile back at the ranch, I have officially become a soccer mom. While the initial plan was to just sign Claire up and watch a bunch of 3 year olds scramble the wrong way down the field purely for parental entertainment purposes, we decided to introduce Cora to the sport as well. The hope is that she opts for soccer (inexpensive sport) over gymnastics (retirement drainer). Only time will tell. After her first practice though, one thing is for certain. The child is naturally athletic (which at the ripe old age of five translates into fearless).

I now have two kids with soccer games on the same days at the same times. With Mark's work schedule, he will be unable to attend games. So now not only do I  have to go out and purchase a minivan to make the soccer mom transition complete, I also have to figure out a way to be in two places at once. Hmm? I'm calling in grandparent and auntie reinforcements (although my childless sister whose hubby will be working during games as well is complaining that it is unfair to make her a single soccer parent without first experiencing parenthood herself. I say she gets to give them back at the end of the night, so her complaints will be rightfully ignored).

I'm sure after the first game on Saturday I will have some pictures to post, but for now please say a little prayer that my daughter wins her first game. She's fiercely competitive that one (no idea where she gets that?) and she doesn't take well to losing. And while I would normally be all, "There are no losers if you try your best," and blah blah blah, my bank account needs her to fall in love with soccer and break up with gymnastics. So let's hear it for the Red Falcons!! (Seriously? The Red Falcons? They are 5 year old girls playing against The Get Along Gangs, The Pinkalicious Powers and the Powder Puff Girls and that's all you've got coach? I guess Claire is on Team Elephant, so it could be worse).

PK Photography Giveaway

Okay local gals (or non-locals too if you want to take a little vaca to Idaho-I have a spare bedroom with your name on it!), I posted an awesome giveaway over there on my couponing blog. Go HERE for all the details.  Now I know many of you do not share my love of the coupon (which seriously, you might want to consider getting on board with. 175 boxes of cereal for less than $14-why are you not doing this??), but I think most of you would share my love of Pam and her amazing photos. So if you win, she'll take a ton of those amazing pics of YOUR family.

Obviously I can't win this giveaway, but I would LOVE if someone I love does! Pam will do you proud. Promise! Oh and if you're not ready to commit to couponing and don't want to follow Fabulessly Frugal, you can still score a few chances to win that require no commitment on your part. Go read all about it and email me with questions.

ps. I'm not even kidding about providing lodging if any of you have the desire to head up this way to visit. My casa es su casa (I don't speak Spanish so I have absolutely no idea if that is correct), unless you are a crazy ax murderer in your spare time. Then I WAS kidding (unless you start reciting something along the lines of "Harriet. Harry-ette. Hard-hearted harbinger of haggis." Then all of said ax-wielding shenanigans will be forgiven and you can steal my heart AND my cat).

Men are From Mars

I went to a birthday party last week. It was quite entertaining. It was for the daughter of a single father my husband works with. Now let me first start off by saying I know he ADORES his children. He is a great dad, and has done a remarkable job shielding his daughters from a very ugly divorce (while I am adamantly against divorce, this is one of those instances where I was extremely supportive of his decision. I'll leave it at that). But he is a dad. A male. As in, the opposite of the female; the mother.

I was the only female adult in attendance. So I sat back and watched the party unfold. It. Was. Awesome.

I found out about the party 2 days before it was scheduled; not because he forgot to send out invitations, but because he planned it 2 days before. He told half of the invited guests to bring a pizza to feed their family, but neglected to tell the other half. So half of the invitees showed up with dinner, while the other half were left to look like they never got the memo. There were no decorations. No table cloths. No forks to eat the cake, which was fine because there was no knife to cut the cake anyway. No lighter to light the candles that were blown out before anyone broke into the familiar chorus. No games.  No goodie bags.

Just a cake, some friends and a few presents.

The birthday girl loved it. The party guests loved it. I loved it.

I enjoy watching men play mother. They just roll with the punches. No worries about silly trivial details. If the kids are fed and happy, they have succeeded. They pay no attention to the dirty little faces, the fly-a-way hair. They will dress their children in a blue plaid shirt and neon green striped shorts (in the dead of winter) because why not? The kids are fed and happy. They have succeeded.

I would like to take a page from their mothering handbook. But I can't. Because I AM a mother. I'm wired differently. I AM a woman. I don't function the same way.

It's all in the details and the planning and the execution. "I's" are dotted and "T's" are crossed. Because it keeps me sane. Now don't get me wrong,  I'm not obsessive compulsive (occasionally obsessive and occasionally compulsive, but usually not at the same time). I'm scatterbrained and messy and unorganized most days. But when it comes to a birthday party, I'll take THIS (or THIS) party any day over the one I attended this week (she's so fantastic it's kinda ridiculous, no?). While both could be considered successful parties and I'm sure both children felt equally loved, only my husband, the man, would have attended both and not noticed a difference. If he is fed and happy, then someone has succeeded.

Sometimes I wonder if they have even heard of Venus?

My memories

I was at the gym this morning setting up for class when two guys walked in. I had never seen them before. They had completed their workout and asked if they could use the room to stretch before my class started. While they stretched, we made small talk. How long had I been teaching? Why had I never seen them around the gym before? Were they not hardcore enough to take my class? Would I like to have an arm wrestling contest with them?

The good natured banter went back and forth for a few minutes. Then they gathered their things and as they were walking out the door one of the guys turned to me and said, "Have a nice life!" And then the following conversation took place:

Me: See I told you you were too afraid to come back and take my class.

Him: Well if you taught your class in Poway, California I would certainly give it a try.

Me: Oh you're from Poway. My father used to work for a newspaper down there.

Him: I work for a newspaper in Poway. What is his name?

Me: Steve Heide.

Him: I remember Steve. Worked there back in the 90's didn't he?

Me: You knew my father?

Him: Well we worked in different departments, so I didn't know him well. But that's not a name you easily forget. What's he doing now?

Me: Sadly, he died in a motorcycle accident a few years ago.

Him: Oh I'm sorry to hear that. He seemed like such a good man.

Me: He was.

And then my class began filing in and he excused himself so I could start on time. But my heart was racing. That brief encounter had rattled me. He knew my father. And maybe not well, but he knew him. And I wanted to chase after him and ask him a million more questions. Was my father well liked? Was he a hard worker? What was he like? Who did he hang around?

Lucky for him, I had a class waiting on me. Because even though he made it clear he did not know my father well,  I would have bounced question after question off of him. I would have wanted to get his contact info and email him more questions. Questions he could not answer. Questions I could not answer. Questions that are best left unanswered.

I know my father loved me. I don't doubt that. But he was absent. And he did not know what being a father meant. You have to be present. You have to show love, not just buy it. You have to be a lot of things he was incapable of being. Yes I know he loved me, but not much more.

I never really knew him. I think few people actually did. He will always be somewhat of a mystery to me. Which is fine. Because I have chosen to fill in the blanks with good memories. The best ones are the only ones I think of. The perfect ones are the ones I share with my daughters.

And so for a few minutes this morning, when my thoughts turned to my father, all these emotions came crashing to the surface. All these cherished memories began battling with what was real. And I know my memories of him aren't always accurate. I know they are a bit flawed, too sugarcoated. But his death allowed me that. I get to choose how I remember him. I don't get to make new memories, so the ones I replay, the ones that matter, are exactly as they should be.

Sometimes you're the windshield...

This week I was the bug. One of those weeks when everything feels like it is spinning out of control and bearing down on you, but nothing is actually wrong. The kids are as crazy as ever, but for some reason they seem wilder. The weekly responsibilities are the same, yet they seem much harder to handle. The laundry is still avoided as usual, but the pile seems to have morphed from a mole hill into a mountain.

A good friend of mine had a birthday yesterday. I went out and bought a bunch of candy (she adores candy as much as I do-that may or may not be a prerequisite for being my friend) and penned a nice card. And then my day fell apart for absolutely no reason. And so I ended up hiding in my closet eating all of her candy. All of it.

So today when Cora tugged on my shoulder wearing my running shoes and my sweatshirt, I had to laugh. And although adorable, it was not because of her over-sized choice of apparel. It was because sometimes my kids are more mature than I am. More put together. More emotionally stable. That pint-sized little thing is often more suited to wear the pants in the family than I am.

But we're a team right? When the adult adopts the antics of the 3-year-old, it is then the responsibility of said 3-year-old to step up to the plate and run the household. And that is why, when I found that mini head-of-household hiding in her closet downing a box of Girls Scout cookies, I almost shed a tear. Like mother, like daughter. I've taught her so well.