There are two conversations that no parent wants to have with a child a month before Christmas. The first concerns the centuries old question of the reality of Santa. Does he exist? Is he really just parents? If I don't believe, do I still get presents? Ah, if it were only that easy.
Never did I think that we would have to sit down with our boys and have conversation number two, explain to them that sometimes, no matter how hard you work, no matter how much you love your job, no matter how much progress is made, sometimes you get fired, er, asked to resign I believe is the correct term. Of course, when I heard the news, I had a grown up reaction: bills, moving vans, resumes, and real estate agents flooded my thoughts. Our boys put it into perspective. The first question one of them asked was "Am I ever gonna see River or Xavier again?" Exactly, a 9 year old is made privy to adult information and his first thought is that the teenage boys that fill his afternoons may all of a sudden drop out of the picture. Yeah, that one made me kind of mad. That question was followed by "Can we still play on the football field," "do we still get to go to Georgia games," and "When do you have to clean out your office?" Yikes!! They didn't cover this one in Parenting for Dummies; so we ad lib. . .
I wanted them to know that Daddy chose to be a coach because he loves the job, and that every coach knows his head is on a platter at the beginning of every season. They choose it anyway. Every coach knows that his every move is open to scrutiny, the court of public opinion, and fodder for a newspaper on a slow news day. They choose it anyway. Every coach knows that you can please all the people some of the time, some of the people all of the time, but you can't please all the people all the time. They coach anyway.
I wanted the boys to know that Daddy doesn't regret anything he did as a Coach; that all the plays, drills, study hall sessions, character education lessons, rides to and from practice, summer camps, Sunday work days, and film watching weren't done in vain. Many people don't see it, but the ones who matter do.
I wanted to tell Tucker and Tanner that there will be other boys, new quarterbacks and favorite receivers. There will be other players who take the time to throw some passes, play video games, and include them in locker room antics wherever we go.
I want them to know, though, that every player Daddy coached at Jackson County will never be forgotten, will never be replaced, no matter how many new ones come and go. I want Tucker and Tanner to know that everything that happened here matters and that every player, coach, and game; every practice session in the rain or in the 100 degree heat is a memory and a moment that can never be taken from them just because we moved. Just because the job wasn't "good enough" in some people's eyes doesn't make the impact any less important.
I want Tucker and Tanner to know that on any given day, ask a teenager, ask a young man in college, ask a young adult with a wife and a new baby who changed his life, who made him a better person, who never gave up on him. The answer will be his Coach. The win-loss record may not reflect that, but records are for newspapers. Football isn't just a game; football is people who walk away from the game but carry it with them everywhere they go. And no one can take that away from any of us.
Sunday, November 20, 2011
Thursday, October 6, 2011
Dear Tate
Dear Tate,
Could you please stop squirting my shampoo into the bathtub? This is bottle number three and it's starting to get expensive, not to mention extra "bubbly" as I finally make it into MY bathtub for a nighttime relax. Of course, that's probably what you had in mind, I'm just not doing my part by inviting you in. Hmmm.
Oh yeah, and while we're at it, CD players and DVD players take ONE, count it, ONE disk at a time. Trying to listen to/watch more than one at a time does not bode well for the entertainment systems, my budget, or Daddy's blood pressure. Same goes for the WII console, but we've already paid that Nintendo bill, so really this should just be a refresher.
Moving along. When you wake up in the middle of the night and it is I you desire, scream once and then give me a minute before you scream again. I am old now and waking up and descending the stairs in the pitch black take a little time. I promise I hear you and I'm on my way. Find Pooh Bear and count to 10 (you are amazing!).You don't have to wake Daddy and the rest of the crew; just be patient and our late night cuddle and gab session will begin shortly.
One more thing and we'll close this week's agenda. As stinkin' adorable as your little bottom is, we must, I repeat MUST get into the habit of wearing underwear. I know it's your house, your sanctuary, I know you are almost, almost potty-trained, I know you're feeling alive and free and all that other good stuff, but you are also totally naked and I fear that if we don't nip it in the bud right here, we could be in some serious trouble come preschool. So just remember, when you have to go, go in the potty. And before you return make sure you're wearing pants.
Lots of love forever,
Mommy
PS-- Tucker and Tanner: you're next!
Could you please stop squirting my shampoo into the bathtub? This is bottle number three and it's starting to get expensive, not to mention extra "bubbly" as I finally make it into MY bathtub for a nighttime relax. Of course, that's probably what you had in mind, I'm just not doing my part by inviting you in. Hmmm.
Oh yeah, and while we're at it, CD players and DVD players take ONE, count it, ONE disk at a time. Trying to listen to/watch more than one at a time does not bode well for the entertainment systems, my budget, or Daddy's blood pressure. Same goes for the WII console, but we've already paid that Nintendo bill, so really this should just be a refresher.
Moving along. When you wake up in the middle of the night and it is I you desire, scream once and then give me a minute before you scream again. I am old now and waking up and descending the stairs in the pitch black take a little time. I promise I hear you and I'm on my way. Find Pooh Bear and count to 10 (you are amazing!).You don't have to wake Daddy and the rest of the crew; just be patient and our late night cuddle and gab session will begin shortly.
One more thing and we'll close this week's agenda. As stinkin' adorable as your little bottom is, we must, I repeat MUST get into the habit of wearing underwear. I know it's your house, your sanctuary, I know you are almost, almost potty-trained, I know you're feeling alive and free and all that other good stuff, but you are also totally naked and I fear that if we don't nip it in the bud right here, we could be in some serious trouble come preschool. So just remember, when you have to go, go in the potty. And before you return make sure you're wearing pants.
Lots of love forever,
Mommy
PS-- Tucker and Tanner: you're next!
Friday, September 9, 2011
Dear Coach
Dear Coach,
My heart hurts for you. That's all I can say right now. With every interception, every fumble, every incomplete pass, my heart hurts and my stomach turns. I know it's silly. I know there are people out there without jobs, without homes, people who struggle to put food on the table, and my heart hurts from watching a football game. Silly. It's only a game, they say. But it's not. It's more than a game.
It's where we live and how often we move. It's who our kids are friends with and where we put down roots. It's where we go to church and who our kids want to be when they grow up. It's more than a game.
It's more than a job. It's potty-training a toddler in the field house because that's where we spend so much time. It's riding bikes around the track while Daddy lines the field for the game. Family time, we call it. It's falling asleep at night with HUDL in my ear and arranging our summer vacation around the GHSA dead week. It's hours and hours and hours of film, white board, chalk talk, and pep talk. It's more hours than most people could possibly imagine and it hurts to lose. The stands fill up, fans cheer, and then, win or lose, they go home to enjoy their weekend. Coaches take it all home with them, into the weekend, and back to the gridiron on Monday with a whole new resolve.
I wish I knew what to say to you when I see you on Saturday morning. I wish I had magic words that made the knot in your stomach go away, but there's not much this sideline cheerleader can say and I know that all too well by now. But I know you, and I know you'll be back at it tomorrow, planning, scheming, rearranging, and hatching out new plans for Monday. I swell with pride when I watch you coach those boys who are like sons to you. I burst a little more when I see you off the field with them, talking to them about their grades in school, their attitudes with their parents, their girlfriends-- stuff you don't get paid to do. But none of that matters on Friday night and some folks will judge you by the score on the scoreboard. Hopefully one day they will see what I see.
No, it isn't just a game, and it isn't an easy job. But sometimes I think the hardest job is being the one you come home to.
My heart hurts for you. That's all I can say right now. With every interception, every fumble, every incomplete pass, my heart hurts and my stomach turns. I know it's silly. I know there are people out there without jobs, without homes, people who struggle to put food on the table, and my heart hurts from watching a football game. Silly. It's only a game, they say. But it's not. It's more than a game.
It's where we live and how often we move. It's who our kids are friends with and where we put down roots. It's where we go to church and who our kids want to be when they grow up. It's more than a game.
It's more than a job. It's potty-training a toddler in the field house because that's where we spend so much time. It's riding bikes around the track while Daddy lines the field for the game. Family time, we call it. It's falling asleep at night with HUDL in my ear and arranging our summer vacation around the GHSA dead week. It's hours and hours and hours of film, white board, chalk talk, and pep talk. It's more hours than most people could possibly imagine and it hurts to lose. The stands fill up, fans cheer, and then, win or lose, they go home to enjoy their weekend. Coaches take it all home with them, into the weekend, and back to the gridiron on Monday with a whole new resolve.
I wish I knew what to say to you when I see you on Saturday morning. I wish I had magic words that made the knot in your stomach go away, but there's not much this sideline cheerleader can say and I know that all too well by now. But I know you, and I know you'll be back at it tomorrow, planning, scheming, rearranging, and hatching out new plans for Monday. I swell with pride when I watch you coach those boys who are like sons to you. I burst a little more when I see you off the field with them, talking to them about their grades in school, their attitudes with their parents, their girlfriends-- stuff you don't get paid to do. But none of that matters on Friday night and some folks will judge you by the score on the scoreboard. Hopefully one day they will see what I see.
No, it isn't just a game, and it isn't an easy job. But sometimes I think the hardest job is being the one you come home to.
Friday, September 2, 2011
A Tale of Two Brothers
I can't help but wonder as I'm cleaning bedrooms today, how in the world did I end up with two children, 19 months apart, who are so TOTALLY different from each other? I have a third child, but his exact habits and disposition aren't quite written in stone yet, so I'll hold off on him until he starts school. When that day comes, I'll analyze him like any good mother does, but for now, he's safe.
I started in Tanner's room, because, let's be honest, his is the easier room. Upon entering I see that his bed has already been made, throw pillows placed perfectly at the top: two reds surrounding a white-- ahh, symmetry. His throw rugs, one football, another basketball shaped, are lying on the floor, not crumpled into little balls in the corner (I've seen it done before). His floor is lacking in any strewn around clothing items, because, and I swear this is the truth, he asked me for a clothes basket and that is where he deposits the dirties. In order to get to the clothes basket, I push the door shut just a little and notice that the shoe organizer I bought for him holds all of his shoes, each one with a MATCH!! No dirty cleats on this floor, no lonesome flip-flop, unwearable for lack of a mate. He has a separate drawer for underwear and socks, T-shirts and Under Armors in another, and Sunday clothes (yes, he does have them) hang in the closet. I weep a little as I exit this 8 year old's sanctuary and turn left into . . . TUCKER'S ROOM!!!!!!
Oh, where to start? First, the bed is not made, and not only is it not made it looks like wolves wrestled in it all night. Most beds require only a straightening of the sheet and comforter, fluffing of the pillows, and replacing of the throw ones. Not this bed. The comforter is wrung like a handkerchief in a nervous man's hand; one pillow is UNDERNEATH the bed, and the throw pillows didn't even fall close to the edge of the bed frame. It's as if he practiced quarterbacking at midnight using his satin accessories. As far as shoes go, there isn't even a hanging shoe compartment, and we usually begin each day with a "search for Zigs." Socks live for days underneath the bed, crumpled in corners, and yes, underneath the pillow until I go hunting for them after a 7 sock laundry load. The clothing situation is no better: football practice starts early at our house as we search for girdles, long socks, and the perfect practice shirt. This room is painfully free of any organization, no sock drawer, no folded t-shirts, no Easy Button.
Seriously, though. It isn't as if I took each one aside as toddlers and instructed them separately on how I like things done. They were with me ALL THE TIME, how did one pick up on my habits and the other follow the dad who was away coaching much of the time. (No offense, Daddy, but you DO NOT make your bed, and I have been known to pick up clothing from the floor. Just Sayin'). Does that mean that cleanliness and organization is genetic, that nothing I do will make a difference in what kind of husband each one becomes? Was all that motherly instruction for naught? Could I have just as easily taken them to the mall and dragged them from store to food court and back? Would that have been just as fruitful?
But the most important question comes now: Should I just throw caution to the wind and let Tate become whatever he is genetically determined to become? Are there more important things to teach a 2 year old than to throw away his trash? Or pick up his puzzle pieces? Of course there are. How to be kind to each other, how to say "please" and "thank you," how to respect others and especially folks older than them. They open doors, say excuse me, pray each night before bed, and never forget to tell me that they love me. Maybe their differences aren't so big after all. Maybe the ways in which they are alike are waaay more important than the ways in which they differ. Maybe they were listening to me after all. . .
I started in Tanner's room, because, let's be honest, his is the easier room. Upon entering I see that his bed has already been made, throw pillows placed perfectly at the top: two reds surrounding a white-- ahh, symmetry. His throw rugs, one football, another basketball shaped, are lying on the floor, not crumpled into little balls in the corner (I've seen it done before). His floor is lacking in any strewn around clothing items, because, and I swear this is the truth, he asked me for a clothes basket and that is where he deposits the dirties. In order to get to the clothes basket, I push the door shut just a little and notice that the shoe organizer I bought for him holds all of his shoes, each one with a MATCH!! No dirty cleats on this floor, no lonesome flip-flop, unwearable for lack of a mate. He has a separate drawer for underwear and socks, T-shirts and Under Armors in another, and Sunday clothes (yes, he does have them) hang in the closet. I weep a little as I exit this 8 year old's sanctuary and turn left into . . . TUCKER'S ROOM!!!!!!
Oh, where to start? First, the bed is not made, and not only is it not made it looks like wolves wrestled in it all night. Most beds require only a straightening of the sheet and comforter, fluffing of the pillows, and replacing of the throw ones. Not this bed. The comforter is wrung like a handkerchief in a nervous man's hand; one pillow is UNDERNEATH the bed, and the throw pillows didn't even fall close to the edge of the bed frame. It's as if he practiced quarterbacking at midnight using his satin accessories. As far as shoes go, there isn't even a hanging shoe compartment, and we usually begin each day with a "search for Zigs." Socks live for days underneath the bed, crumpled in corners, and yes, underneath the pillow until I go hunting for them after a 7 sock laundry load. The clothing situation is no better: football practice starts early at our house as we search for girdles, long socks, and the perfect practice shirt. This room is painfully free of any organization, no sock drawer, no folded t-shirts, no Easy Button.
Seriously, though. It isn't as if I took each one aside as toddlers and instructed them separately on how I like things done. They were with me ALL THE TIME, how did one pick up on my habits and the other follow the dad who was away coaching much of the time. (No offense, Daddy, but you DO NOT make your bed, and I have been known to pick up clothing from the floor. Just Sayin'). Does that mean that cleanliness and organization is genetic, that nothing I do will make a difference in what kind of husband each one becomes? Was all that motherly instruction for naught? Could I have just as easily taken them to the mall and dragged them from store to food court and back? Would that have been just as fruitful?
But the most important question comes now: Should I just throw caution to the wind and let Tate become whatever he is genetically determined to become? Are there more important things to teach a 2 year old than to throw away his trash? Or pick up his puzzle pieces? Of course there are. How to be kind to each other, how to say "please" and "thank you," how to respect others and especially folks older than them. They open doors, say excuse me, pray each night before bed, and never forget to tell me that they love me. Maybe their differences aren't so big after all. Maybe the ways in which they are alike are waaay more important than the ways in which they differ. Maybe they were listening to me after all. . .
Saturday, August 27, 2011
Oh What A Lovely Game!
As a good football wife (at least I hope I've earned that moniker), I've gotten used to the phone and its incessant ringing and permanent place in our household, at least during football season. I can do homework with the boys, tidy up the kitchen, direct children to baths and showers, all while picking up bits and pieces of football conversation as its hums through the house. I know which player runs the fastest 40, the players who took off a couple of plays last game, whose got the biggest gain in bench press so far, and whose GPA is off the charts. I'm used to the information, although I have no use for it other than to impress those fans around me as I deliver stats at just the right time in a game. For example, when player X breaks free of a tackle and races into the end zone, I can quickly mention the extra time he's been spending on speed tracks and all of a sudden I'm qualified to write for the paper. So, point being, there's a lot of football talk that goes on at my house. I guess I just didn't realize that some of that player discussion covers their off-the-field stats as well.
"Did you know Player A lives with his uncle?" I asked coach as we rehashed the game this morning. "Yeah, it works out best for him," and he goes on to regal me with the same facts and details I picked up last night in the stands that I had planned to reveal to him. Coach picked that same kid up most mornings this summer for workouts, always remarking what a great kid he is. I never guessed he might have a reason to be otherwise.
Through the grapevine that is the bleachers, I found out last spring one of our players was really struggling in a class, butting heads with the teacher and getting nowhere with his grades. I came to coach again with this "new" information, hoping to open his eyes to a need. This time, "yeah, we've got him taken care of. He comes to me during my planning period and gets his work done. He doesn't have to fuss with the teacher and he can concentrate on his work. He's doing better now."
One doesn't have to be a genius or a stadium gossip to know that there are plenty of kids these days who don't have "typical" family situations, moms and dads in the same house, or even parents who encourage them to participate in sports. Thus, many kids choose not to play sports either because they don't have the money, they don't have rides to and from practice, or they have to work to pay for their own meals, decisions no teenager should ever have to make. Again, the magic of eavesdropping: I overhear the coaches discussing the transportation schedule for the week. Coach (insert any coach's name here) takes the kids home Monday, next coach on Tuesday, next coach on Wednesday, until all players who need rides are safely deposited on a door step each evening after practice. I find out, too, that coaches are feeding their position players at their house on the night before games, and coaches are calling in favors from friends and churches to scholarship kids who can't pay player fees, but NEED to be part of a team. All this ON TOP of coaching 82 kids determined to have a winning season.
With each new season and with each new group of kids, I learn more and more that things aren't always what they seem. The kid who struggles in class and doesn't respect his teachers is the 15 year old who goes home and shoulders the burdens of an adult. The kid who won't look anyone in the eye and doesn't want a relationship with the coach is the one who needs a relationship the most. There are players who go to school, practice, wash their own clothes, hold down part time jobs, and take care of younger siblings, things some of us don't expect but also can't comprehend.
The same goes for the coaches. The coach that everyone says is heartless and only out to win is driving someone's kid to the doctor right now. He'll be sitting in on a parent teachers conference later this week, minus one parent. The defensive coordinator who yells too much and demands the unrealistic knows that Player A will only succeed if he is pushed. The coach whose head everyone wants at the end of a losing game prays for his players and his own duties and responsibilities as a coach.
Lord, help us all to remember that what we see isn't always the true picture and to try to see and love everyone, kids and adults, players and coaches, as You do. Open our hearts wider than our mouths.
Amen and GOOOOO Panthers!
"Did you know Player A lives with his uncle?" I asked coach as we rehashed the game this morning. "Yeah, it works out best for him," and he goes on to regal me with the same facts and details I picked up last night in the stands that I had planned to reveal to him. Coach picked that same kid up most mornings this summer for workouts, always remarking what a great kid he is. I never guessed he might have a reason to be otherwise.
Through the grapevine that is the bleachers, I found out last spring one of our players was really struggling in a class, butting heads with the teacher and getting nowhere with his grades. I came to coach again with this "new" information, hoping to open his eyes to a need. This time, "yeah, we've got him taken care of. He comes to me during my planning period and gets his work done. He doesn't have to fuss with the teacher and he can concentrate on his work. He's doing better now."
One doesn't have to be a genius or a stadium gossip to know that there are plenty of kids these days who don't have "typical" family situations, moms and dads in the same house, or even parents who encourage them to participate in sports. Thus, many kids choose not to play sports either because they don't have the money, they don't have rides to and from practice, or they have to work to pay for their own meals, decisions no teenager should ever have to make. Again, the magic of eavesdropping: I overhear the coaches discussing the transportation schedule for the week. Coach (insert any coach's name here) takes the kids home Monday, next coach on Tuesday, next coach on Wednesday, until all players who need rides are safely deposited on a door step each evening after practice. I find out, too, that coaches are feeding their position players at their house on the night before games, and coaches are calling in favors from friends and churches to scholarship kids who can't pay player fees, but NEED to be part of a team. All this ON TOP of coaching 82 kids determined to have a winning season.
With each new season and with each new group of kids, I learn more and more that things aren't always what they seem. The kid who struggles in class and doesn't respect his teachers is the 15 year old who goes home and shoulders the burdens of an adult. The kid who won't look anyone in the eye and doesn't want a relationship with the coach is the one who needs a relationship the most. There are players who go to school, practice, wash their own clothes, hold down part time jobs, and take care of younger siblings, things some of us don't expect but also can't comprehend.
The same goes for the coaches. The coach that everyone says is heartless and only out to win is driving someone's kid to the doctor right now. He'll be sitting in on a parent teachers conference later this week, minus one parent. The defensive coordinator who yells too much and demands the unrealistic knows that Player A will only succeed if he is pushed. The coach whose head everyone wants at the end of a losing game prays for his players and his own duties and responsibilities as a coach.
Lord, help us all to remember that what we see isn't always the true picture and to try to see and love everyone, kids and adults, players and coaches, as You do. Open our hearts wider than our mouths.
Amen and GOOOOO Panthers!
Thursday, August 25, 2011
Real Housewives of the YMCA
Like any good reality TV fan, I have tested the waters of MOST of the reality shows out there. Proud? Not at all, in fact I'm a little ashamed; but we can't change who we are so I just embrace it and roll with each new season and all it has to offer. The Bachelor/Bachelorette, Bachelor Pad, and The Apprentice all merit a late night wrestle for the remote with Coach, but there are some that just don't deserve the space on my DVR: The Hills, Swamp People (or something similar to that name), Ice Road Truckers, and I have to include with the swampers, Desperate Housewives of ANY CITY. I tried, really I did, but I just can't get into it. I mean, really, does having money and wishing for stardom make every lady crazy and mean? Because that's the picture we're getting from New Jersey, Beverly Hills, and yes, even the ATL. I know plenty of Real Housewives, heck I am one, and none of them act the way those ladies do on Bravo.
For example, real housewives actually ARE wives, not divorcees, girlfriends, or worse.
They actually have houses, not hotel suites, condominiums, or swanky pads paid for by who knows whom.
At the Y, it's less about style and more about sweat. Most of the couture we sport has a built-in sports bra. And there's not a whole lot of champagne and wine sipping going on all day. We need WATER in those water bottles!
I've never seen a real housewife flip a table; they do flip tires, though.
We don't race to brunch at chic little hot spots where the paparazzi congregate, we race to get the best treadmills for an hour long run.( Now sometimes that DOES get a little ugly, right Shelby?).
Real Housewives at the YMCA don't meet for tennis lessons with foreign tennis pros named Enrique; Real Housewives of the YMCA are stuck with me teaching cardio tennis and brandishing Coach's whistle!
Real Housewives of the Y clip coupons and drink free coffee in the Y lobby because, love it as they do, Starbucks does NOT have childcare. The Y, does!
Those same housewives drive minivans, tote diaper bags, and DON'T show up for a great spin class with a face by Merle Norman. Imagine wiping down THAT bike!
And finally, except for the realization of an expired coupon for cereal or a filled up spin class, I hardly ever hear the Y ladies swear like sailors. I can't hear a word of the TV ladies' ranting and raving and hissy fits (they only have those in Atlanta,) for all the bleeping Bravo has to do. So at the end of the episode I'm not REALLY sure whose side I'm on anyway. Oh well, until the Y starts offering a group class that teaches hair pulling, swearing, and furniture tossing, I guess I'll have to find some other reality show to fill my Housewife boycott. That shouldn't be too hard, huh? Oh, and we won't have to worry about any awkward camera shots in the locker rooms. Whew!
For example, real housewives actually ARE wives, not divorcees, girlfriends, or worse.
They actually have houses, not hotel suites, condominiums, or swanky pads paid for by who knows whom.
At the Y, it's less about style and more about sweat. Most of the couture we sport has a built-in sports bra. And there's not a whole lot of champagne and wine sipping going on all day. We need WATER in those water bottles!
I've never seen a real housewife flip a table; they do flip tires, though.
We don't race to brunch at chic little hot spots where the paparazzi congregate, we race to get the best treadmills for an hour long run.( Now sometimes that DOES get a little ugly, right Shelby?).
Real Housewives at the YMCA don't meet for tennis lessons with foreign tennis pros named Enrique; Real Housewives of the YMCA are stuck with me teaching cardio tennis and brandishing Coach's whistle!
Real Housewives of the Y clip coupons and drink free coffee in the Y lobby because, love it as they do, Starbucks does NOT have childcare. The Y, does!
Those same housewives drive minivans, tote diaper bags, and DON'T show up for a great spin class with a face by Merle Norman. Imagine wiping down THAT bike!
And finally, except for the realization of an expired coupon for cereal or a filled up spin class, I hardly ever hear the Y ladies swear like sailors. I can't hear a word of the TV ladies' ranting and raving and hissy fits (they only have those in Atlanta,) for all the bleeping Bravo has to do. So at the end of the episode I'm not REALLY sure whose side I'm on anyway. Oh well, until the Y starts offering a group class that teaches hair pulling, swearing, and furniture tossing, I guess I'll have to find some other reality show to fill my Housewife boycott. That shouldn't be too hard, huh? Oh, and we won't have to worry about any awkward camera shots in the locker rooms. Whew!
Thursday, August 11, 2011
I Do Not Like this Fifth Grade Math!
I do not like this fifth grade math, I do not like this 1/3 plus 1/2.
I do not like a decimal place-don't want him to see my confused face.
I do not like notations expanded, I cannot do this single-handed.
I do not like these tests they time; I'm better with words and how they rhyme.
I do not like parentheses, they bring me to my weakened knees.
I do not know quite what to say: "We'll wait for Daddy, go ahead and Play."
I do not like this afternoon ache, my head explodes between each break.
I do not like to have to cheat, but a calculator is hard to beat:-)!
I do not like to have to lie, but "I promise you'll get it if you try!"
I do not know what I will say, when logarithms come home one day.
I do not think my teacher friends will mind, if i facebook them a hundred times.
I do not want their teachers to say-- Did his mom not take math back in her day?
I do not want to disappoint my kid, so I'm studying the number grid.
i do not want to be so shunned, because I got stuck on problem # one.
I do think I will start the prep, for 5th grade word problems and all those steps.
If I start now there should be hope, and MAYBE soon I can conquer Slope!
I do not like a decimal place-don't want him to see my confused face.
I do not like notations expanded, I cannot do this single-handed.
I do not like these tests they time; I'm better with words and how they rhyme.
I do not like parentheses, they bring me to my weakened knees.
I do not know quite what to say: "We'll wait for Daddy, go ahead and Play."
I do not like this afternoon ache, my head explodes between each break.
I do not like to have to cheat, but a calculator is hard to beat:-)!
I do not like to have to lie, but "I promise you'll get it if you try!"
I do not know what I will say, when logarithms come home one day.
I do not think my teacher friends will mind, if i facebook them a hundred times.
I do not want their teachers to say-- Did his mom not take math back in her day?
I do not want to disappoint my kid, so I'm studying the number grid.
i do not want to be so shunned, because I got stuck on problem # one.
I do think I will start the prep, for 5th grade word problems and all those steps.
If I start now there should be hope, and MAYBE soon I can conquer Slope!
Thursday, August 4, 2011
Happily Ever After
Celebrating the first year of marriage is always a big deal: flowers, romantic dinner, the top layer of the wedding cake. Add a decade or so to that and the cards are a day late, the kids don't go to Grandma's, and supper is usually something like spaghetti. Hallmark and the people who sell and teach pole dancing would like us to believe that option 2 doesn't work, that anniversaries should be romantic, adventurous "Days of Our Lives" type material. But I for one say that a marriage that can handle two-a-days and spring and ground turkey is one that lasts. And, be patient with me, I have proof.
This year, as a treat for 12 years of wedded bliss, Coach planned a trip to Puerto Rico for the two of us: no kids, no cell phones or computers, only perfection. For a brief couple of days, I actually bought into the plan. I got excited and started dreaming of picturesque images of me and Coach on a brown sand beach, riding jet skis, maybe even some bareback horses, hanging by a kid-free pool, and walking hand in hand through the streets of San Juan. He He, who was I kidding? Here's that proof I promised you.
On our THIRD attempt at making a flight, I and the not-so-patient Coach finally boarded Delta for our long awaited trip. Upon landing in San Juan, the pilot announced the awesome temperature of 89 degrees! Woo hoo, we thought. Quickly we discovered the reason for the comfy temps: rain. In Puerto Rico. On our anniversary trip. Strike 2! We pressed on, though, swayed by nothing, this 12 year couple determined to have fun. We made it to the car rental company, with no insurance card (my fault), and after TWO hours on back roads along the coast of Puerto Rico, tracing and retracing our routes, we finally made it to our resort. Whew, as much as I would love to continue this by lamenting our awful rest of the trip, I just can't. Coach and I laughed our way through our remaining days, reminded with each snafu of the previous 12 years and all those other little snafus that make us, us.
I remembered the black labs who chewed through our air conditioning unit during what seemed then like the hottest summer on record.
The time we tried to paint the back bedroom together and after only a few hours of together-time decided we just "don't work well together."
I recalled the move to Olive Branch and Coach and his lovely bride(ahem, me) unloading the RIDING LAWNMOWER off the moving truck. (Do I look like I can lift a ton?)
We moved five times in the first 8 years of marriage. On the up side,I can seriously now pack a house in a weekend!
Or the time I lost the two black labs and we had to explain to Tucker that the police came and got them and they work for the government now.
I can't forget 17 weeks of a baby in the Intensive Care Unit and how our daily lives revolved around hospital visits, blood donations, and meeting with Neo-natologists.
We joked (once we got him home) that we wouldn't let him do ANYTHING until he was 18 years old and paid off:-)
Yes, folks, proof that life is not always bouquets and beaches; and sometimes the love that lasts is the one that laughs!
Happy Anniversary, Coach!
This year, as a treat for 12 years of wedded bliss, Coach planned a trip to Puerto Rico for the two of us: no kids, no cell phones or computers, only perfection. For a brief couple of days, I actually bought into the plan. I got excited and started dreaming of picturesque images of me and Coach on a brown sand beach, riding jet skis, maybe even some bareback horses, hanging by a kid-free pool, and walking hand in hand through the streets of San Juan. He He, who was I kidding? Here's that proof I promised you.
On our THIRD attempt at making a flight, I and the not-so-patient Coach finally boarded Delta for our long awaited trip. Upon landing in San Juan, the pilot announced the awesome temperature of 89 degrees! Woo hoo, we thought. Quickly we discovered the reason for the comfy temps: rain. In Puerto Rico. On our anniversary trip. Strike 2! We pressed on, though, swayed by nothing, this 12 year couple determined to have fun. We made it to the car rental company, with no insurance card (my fault), and after TWO hours on back roads along the coast of Puerto Rico, tracing and retracing our routes, we finally made it to our resort. Whew, as much as I would love to continue this by lamenting our awful rest of the trip, I just can't. Coach and I laughed our way through our remaining days, reminded with each snafu of the previous 12 years and all those other little snafus that make us, us.
I remembered the black labs who chewed through our air conditioning unit during what seemed then like the hottest summer on record.
The time we tried to paint the back bedroom together and after only a few hours of together-time decided we just "don't work well together."
I recalled the move to Olive Branch and Coach and his lovely bride(ahem, me) unloading the RIDING LAWNMOWER off the moving truck. (Do I look like I can lift a ton?)
We moved five times in the first 8 years of marriage. On the up side,I can seriously now pack a house in a weekend!
Or the time I lost the two black labs and we had to explain to Tucker that the police came and got them and they work for the government now.
I can't forget 17 weeks of a baby in the Intensive Care Unit and how our daily lives revolved around hospital visits, blood donations, and meeting with Neo-natologists.
We joked (once we got him home) that we wouldn't let him do ANYTHING until he was 18 years old and paid off:-)
Yes, folks, proof that life is not always bouquets and beaches; and sometimes the love that lasts is the one that laughs!
Happy Anniversary, Coach!
Monday, July 25, 2011
Y'all, I just CAN'T!!!
A new wave of craziness in the form of health is sweeping through America and I just have to step up and stand up for what I think is right (and sane). Although I applaud the folks out there who are detoxing their bodies by eliminating sugar (gasp!) from their diets, I'm only being honest when I say I SERIOUSLY can't imagine a day without ANY sugar in it. Perhaps there's a little bone of jealousy when I witness those perfect bodies sipping their 6th (!) bottle of water that day, abs so cleanly sculpted I wonder how babies ever came from that body. Okay, yes, I would love to be the kind of person who never has a coke, a cookie, or a Cherry Lifesaver, but I know myself too well, and that's just NOT gonna happen, y'all!
So for today, just for fun, I'm going to play devil's advocate and ponder just what might happen when one (specifically me) completely eliminates sugar from her daily activities. Here goes:
1. Baby Tate decided not to sleep much last night and Mom (me) has several classes to teach this morning. A Coke would really get her going, but no, she's given up sugar and must survive on Water???? to get motivated to run 6 girls 8 miles on a treadmill. Not much hope in that one and my runner girls leave the Y with hardly a drop of sweat on their Nike t's.
2. I've regrouped and later in the day I head out for a run in the Georgia heat. I make it, feeling great, and round the corner to my house. This time the sweat IS dripping and nothing would be better than to cool off with a popsicle on the back porch with my boys. But, no, this mom gave up sugar, so that popsicle has to be replaced with um, um, I still don't know, while I watch Popsicle juice drip from their sticky little fingers.
3. Homemade Ice cream-- how in the world am I going to teach my boys how to truly be Southern if I can't share with them in the timeless tradition of peaches drowning in sugar and cream, dipped from an aged to perfection ice cream maker. I can't stand the thought of my handsome boys headed to a fraternity party at the Ole Miss KA house and tasting their first-ever porch-churned ice cream. Fraternity brothers would gasp, little sisters would whisper, and they might get black-balled. And why? Because years ago their mom gave up sugar! Not on my watch. And while I'm on the subject of food, let me just throw out two more uber-important words: banana pudding.
4. I've already mentioned how much I love weddings (as long as I'm not a member of the party), but really WHY on earth would I get all dolled up on a hot Southern Saturday and not plan on ending it with a big sugary slice of wedding cake? What am i trying to prove? Along those same lines, can I add tail-gating, baby showers, retirement receptions, and church picnics where the dessert table literally calls my name? I might as well stay home in sweat pants and do laundry if I'm going to forgo the goods on the table.
5. Finally, I have to end where I stared, because really, I think numbers 2,3, and 4 could (with some help from Dr. Phil) be erased from my day, but I absolutely COULD NOT give up my Coca-Cola. At the end of a marathon, my awesome husband waits for me with a cold coke; same with child birth-- I had an iced down Coke in my hand within minutes of delivering my Tate. And if I won the Superbowl, I WOULD NOT be going to Disney world; I'd be going to the World of Coke.
So there, just a sample of why this world (and my little family) is a high functioning, happy, and all-around better place because of sugar.
So for today, just for fun, I'm going to play devil's advocate and ponder just what might happen when one (specifically me) completely eliminates sugar from her daily activities. Here goes:
1. Baby Tate decided not to sleep much last night and Mom (me) has several classes to teach this morning. A Coke would really get her going, but no, she's given up sugar and must survive on Water???? to get motivated to run 6 girls 8 miles on a treadmill. Not much hope in that one and my runner girls leave the Y with hardly a drop of sweat on their Nike t's.
2. I've regrouped and later in the day I head out for a run in the Georgia heat. I make it, feeling great, and round the corner to my house. This time the sweat IS dripping and nothing would be better than to cool off with a popsicle on the back porch with my boys. But, no, this mom gave up sugar, so that popsicle has to be replaced with um, um, I still don't know, while I watch Popsicle juice drip from their sticky little fingers.
3. Homemade Ice cream-- how in the world am I going to teach my boys how to truly be Southern if I can't share with them in the timeless tradition of peaches drowning in sugar and cream, dipped from an aged to perfection ice cream maker. I can't stand the thought of my handsome boys headed to a fraternity party at the Ole Miss KA house and tasting their first-ever porch-churned ice cream. Fraternity brothers would gasp, little sisters would whisper, and they might get black-balled. And why? Because years ago their mom gave up sugar! Not on my watch. And while I'm on the subject of food, let me just throw out two more uber-important words: banana pudding.
4. I've already mentioned how much I love weddings (as long as I'm not a member of the party), but really WHY on earth would I get all dolled up on a hot Southern Saturday and not plan on ending it with a big sugary slice of wedding cake? What am i trying to prove? Along those same lines, can I add tail-gating, baby showers, retirement receptions, and church picnics where the dessert table literally calls my name? I might as well stay home in sweat pants and do laundry if I'm going to forgo the goods on the table.
5. Finally, I have to end where I stared, because really, I think numbers 2,3, and 4 could (with some help from Dr. Phil) be erased from my day, but I absolutely COULD NOT give up my Coca-Cola. At the end of a marathon, my awesome husband waits for me with a cold coke; same with child birth-- I had an iced down Coke in my hand within minutes of delivering my Tate. And if I won the Superbowl, I WOULD NOT be going to Disney world; I'd be going to the World of Coke.
So there, just a sample of why this world (and my little family) is a high functioning, happy, and all-around better place because of sugar.
Saturday, July 23, 2011
Back to Reality (TV, that is)
First of all, I want to say thank you to ABC for bringing back a second season of "Bachelor Pad." The old me would never have admitted to poisoning my brain with the kind of television trash that would make my father roll over in his grave; but I'm a big girl now- I'm married, have a mortgage, three kids, and if I want to watch seemingly normal people behave in ways that make ME blush, by golly I will. The Bachelorette hasn't even picked a husband yet, and already the network is teasing me with little bits of the show full of rejects from seasons past who want ONE MORE CHANCE at love. And by love I mean, of course, fame and notoriety.
Secondly, an even bigger thank you goes out to Jake and Vienna who can't get enough of each other, yet can't stand each other. Logic would tell most folks that if you make a fool of yourself once on TV in the name of love, then going back on TV in the name of hate isn't going to fare much better. Alas, TV is good to us and the "most Talked about Bachelor break up" couple will entertain us once again as Bachelor Pad contestants. Based on the teasers they previewed during Monday night's "hometown" episode of The Bachelorette, Jake hates Vienna, Vienna hates Jake, his pilot days are waaaay over, and Vienna just can't stop crying about how mean Jake is. Talk about good TV!! I can't wait.
All I have to say to Tucker and Tanner is, homework BETTER be done, and you kiddos best be in bed by the time my "stories" come on, 'cause this is DEFINITELY not PG material. In fact, if word gets out that I watch (read: love) trash TV, my very livelihood as a Sunday school teacher may be in jeopardy. Heck, I may even be moved to the back row in the choir loft. Well, it's a risk I'm willing to take. Till then, reality TV friends. The countdown begins . . .
Secondly, an even bigger thank you goes out to Jake and Vienna who can't get enough of each other, yet can't stand each other. Logic would tell most folks that if you make a fool of yourself once on TV in the name of love, then going back on TV in the name of hate isn't going to fare much better. Alas, TV is good to us and the "most Talked about Bachelor break up" couple will entertain us once again as Bachelor Pad contestants. Based on the teasers they previewed during Monday night's "hometown" episode of The Bachelorette, Jake hates Vienna, Vienna hates Jake, his pilot days are waaaay over, and Vienna just can't stop crying about how mean Jake is. Talk about good TV!! I can't wait.
All I have to say to Tucker and Tanner is, homework BETTER be done, and you kiddos best be in bed by the time my "stories" come on, 'cause this is DEFINITELY not PG material. In fact, if word gets out that I watch (read: love) trash TV, my very livelihood as a Sunday school teacher may be in jeopardy. Heck, I may even be moved to the back row in the choir loft. Well, it's a risk I'm willing to take. Till then, reality TV friends. The countdown begins . . .
Saturday, July 16, 2011
A Race in the Life
I was placing Tate in his car seat on an early, early (way earlier than school day) Monday morning, and he looks at me with his sleepy-eyed self and says, "Mommy running?" Well, yes, I just about died at his ability to be precious at 5:30 in the morning, AND this was July 4th and Mommy's favorite race was just hours away. Apparently, Tucker had taught Tate how to say running and race the night before, and to say I was delighted would be like saying I kind of like a Coke now and then. I was over the moon!
I've been running for years, at the track, through the city streets, on the treadmill. I have my favorites, but when one won't do the others are just as good and I leave each place with that awesome sense of accomplishment that keeps me coming back for more. I can't really describe the feeling I get when I'm running, or why, despite the aches and pains that develop after too many long runs, I wrap, ice, elevate, take Tylenol, change shoes, whatever it takes to get back at it the next day. I can't explain why I set the alarm for the crack of dawn just so I can log a few miles before the craziness of the day sets in. I can't pinpoint what it is that makes me leave a warm bed and bundle EVERY body part before the sun even starts rising to huff and puff with the other "addicts" who understand me so well.
I do know that despite the lack of running camaraderie at my house (Coach said he did his running in college), this whole house, right down to the littlest supporter, lets me do my thing. Coach is more than willing to take the boys out on a Saturday morning and piddle around town (aka breakfast at Waffle House) while I train for whatever is next on the calendar. Shoot, he'll even watch film with the little man running around the office while I plead for just 12 laps around the track and 30 minutes of Mommy time (not sure what the other coaches think of that but we'll worry about that later). Tucker (during football season when Daddy is catching much-needed z's) plays the role of big brother at its best, trucks, Disney channel, monster under the blanket. Even Tate became one of the best stroller babies I could ask for, challenging me to run, push, and TALK all while picking up errant matchbox cars as we were logging our afternoon miles. And Tanner, well, Tanner is patient enough to wait on his cinnamon toasts until Mommy makes it back from the track.
Truth be told, I feel so good every day once I've gotten my run in that I know I'm a better wife, friend, mom, homework helper, organizer, kitchen cleaner, player chauffeur because of it, and I think they know it too! Blood-free brawls don't bother me, kool-aid spills don't affect me, lost shoes not a problem, 4th grade math a breeze. It all works itself out when the sweat has been spilled. Maybe I CAN pinpoint why I do it; maybe the feeling I get is confidence; maybe it's so self-explanatory that it requires no words, just the smile on my face when I finish a 6.2 or a 13.1 and I see all my guys cheering for me at the finish line. And maybe that's why when every day feels like a race (and some days an uphill race), I lie down at night, feeling like a winner in my age group who just clocked a personal best!
I've been running for years, at the track, through the city streets, on the treadmill. I have my favorites, but when one won't do the others are just as good and I leave each place with that awesome sense of accomplishment that keeps me coming back for more. I can't really describe the feeling I get when I'm running, or why, despite the aches and pains that develop after too many long runs, I wrap, ice, elevate, take Tylenol, change shoes, whatever it takes to get back at it the next day. I can't explain why I set the alarm for the crack of dawn just so I can log a few miles before the craziness of the day sets in. I can't pinpoint what it is that makes me leave a warm bed and bundle EVERY body part before the sun even starts rising to huff and puff with the other "addicts" who understand me so well.
I do know that despite the lack of running camaraderie at my house (Coach said he did his running in college), this whole house, right down to the littlest supporter, lets me do my thing. Coach is more than willing to take the boys out on a Saturday morning and piddle around town (aka breakfast at Waffle House) while I train for whatever is next on the calendar. Shoot, he'll even watch film with the little man running around the office while I plead for just 12 laps around the track and 30 minutes of Mommy time (not sure what the other coaches think of that but we'll worry about that later). Tucker (during football season when Daddy is catching much-needed z's) plays the role of big brother at its best, trucks, Disney channel, monster under the blanket. Even Tate became one of the best stroller babies I could ask for, challenging me to run, push, and TALK all while picking up errant matchbox cars as we were logging our afternoon miles. And Tanner, well, Tanner is patient enough to wait on his cinnamon toasts until Mommy makes it back from the track.
Truth be told, I feel so good every day once I've gotten my run in that I know I'm a better wife, friend, mom, homework helper, organizer, kitchen cleaner, player chauffeur because of it, and I think they know it too! Blood-free brawls don't bother me, kool-aid spills don't affect me, lost shoes not a problem, 4th grade math a breeze. It all works itself out when the sweat has been spilled. Maybe I CAN pinpoint why I do it; maybe the feeling I get is confidence; maybe it's so self-explanatory that it requires no words, just the smile on my face when I finish a 6.2 or a 13.1 and I see all my guys cheering for me at the finish line. And maybe that's why when every day feels like a race (and some days an uphill race), I lie down at night, feeling like a winner in my age group who just clocked a personal best!
Wednesday, June 15, 2011
Dear God, About that Owner's Manual
I know, I know. This is baby number 3, how many questions could I possibly have. And to make things even smoother, baby number 3 is another boy. How hard could it be, you ask. Well, I have to say I pretty much had the infant stage down, the actual mothering of a child who couldn't speak, gesture, or even facially communicate with me. A crying baby means a few thing: hungry, wet diaper, maybe gas. Eliminate the others, conquer what remains. I got that. Baby number three was well fed, clean, and Mylicon-ed up, baby, thanks to the husband.
Fast forward a year or so and that instruction manual ranks at the top of my Christmas, birthday, anniversary, and any other gift-giving holiday list. I have questions, people, er, God, and only You it seems have the answers. First and foremost I have an adorable (have ya seen him?) toddler who delivers "tant toos" (thank you's), kisses, and boo-boo kisses to all in need. This "angel baby" as I like to call him (while he's sleeping) has also been called "aggressive." Seriously, isn't that a term doctors use for some types of cancers? My sweet Tot likes to hit, push, and maintain rough play with other little ones and it's getting a little, ummm, awkward at the gym. When members would point at me in the hallways it used to be about my teaching: "yeah, she's the one-- great class." Now I'm afraid the finger points are heavier and mean "yeah, she's the one with the hellion in the romper.Keep your crawler away from him." Help?
Next, I know I successfully potty trained two older boys. The proof is on the couch, lying there in Old Navy boxers, engrossed in a Disney sitcom. But good Lord, that was years ago! I can't remember what worked: did we go to McDonald's with each success? Is that the reason I had mounds of MatchBox cars? Did I read parenting magazines and follow others' advice or did I just trust myself? Good gracious, what to do.
But by and far, I feel I'm totally incompetent when I find myself straddling my toddler at his waist (seriously, try to picture this), one of my hands holding both of his hands above his head while I wield a baby blue toothbrush in the other and try to make entry into his tiny little mouth. Surely this is not how God envisioned a nightly ritual.Some nights I think he's just playing hard-to-get, that he knows it's important to me to clean those pearly whites, so he giggles with each resist. Other times, I really think he hates that toothbrush and my hell-bent-on-cleaning attitude and the look in my eyes scares the poor Tot.
But I press on. One day I will find that manual for precious, sent-from-God baby boys, and in this particular daydream, I will find that everything I did so many years ago was exactly how it was supposed to be done. And my doctor, lawyer, professional athlete sons will be all the proof I need.
Fast forward a year or so and that instruction manual ranks at the top of my Christmas, birthday, anniversary, and any other gift-giving holiday list. I have questions, people, er, God, and only You it seems have the answers. First and foremost I have an adorable (have ya seen him?) toddler who delivers "tant toos" (thank you's), kisses, and boo-boo kisses to all in need. This "angel baby" as I like to call him (while he's sleeping) has also been called "aggressive." Seriously, isn't that a term doctors use for some types of cancers? My sweet Tot likes to hit, push, and maintain rough play with other little ones and it's getting a little, ummm, awkward at the gym. When members would point at me in the hallways it used to be about my teaching: "yeah, she's the one-- great class." Now I'm afraid the finger points are heavier and mean "yeah, she's the one with the hellion in the romper.Keep your crawler away from him." Help?
Next, I know I successfully potty trained two older boys. The proof is on the couch, lying there in Old Navy boxers, engrossed in a Disney sitcom. But good Lord, that was years ago! I can't remember what worked: did we go to McDonald's with each success? Is that the reason I had mounds of MatchBox cars? Did I read parenting magazines and follow others' advice or did I just trust myself? Good gracious, what to do.
But by and far, I feel I'm totally incompetent when I find myself straddling my toddler at his waist (seriously, try to picture this), one of my hands holding both of his hands above his head while I wield a baby blue toothbrush in the other and try to make entry into his tiny little mouth. Surely this is not how God envisioned a nightly ritual.Some nights I think he's just playing hard-to-get, that he knows it's important to me to clean those pearly whites, so he giggles with each resist. Other times, I really think he hates that toothbrush and my hell-bent-on-cleaning attitude and the look in my eyes scares the poor Tot.
But I press on. One day I will find that manual for precious, sent-from-God baby boys, and in this particular daydream, I will find that everything I did so many years ago was exactly how it was supposed to be done. And my doctor, lawyer, professional athlete sons will be all the proof I need.
Sunday, June 12, 2011
Father's Day 2011
It's that time of year again- gift giving (and Hallmark) never takes a rest, and so I'm racking my brain for a "Wow! I can't believe it" kind of gift for the man who gives GREAT gifts. I know it's hard to believe, but the man who dreams in play-by-play and delivers kick a** halftime speeches ALWAYS comes up with the most thoughtful, relevant, surprising gifts for me. The man who believes all aches and pains can be fixed with athletic tape and a 5 gallon bucket of ice buys monogrammed totes and sterling silver charm bracelets with our children's names and birth dates engraved. I know, I know, I should just sit back and bask in the holidays that center around me, but after 12 years of this, the pressure is ENORMOUS!!! It's time to hit hard or go home!
Two years ago I gave him a child and somehow that didn't go over too well, so I'm playing some serious catch up in 2011. No more offspring who look just like him, no more "coupons" for solo fishing or golfing trips that never end up solo. No more expensive Craftsman tools that end up in the sand pits in the woods.
So what do you give a man who has the job of his dreams, three (yes, three) adorable boys, and a wife who knows he likes his tea sweet and his breakfast eggs runny? Like this author who wishes for marathon entries at Christmas (don't I ever take a break?), Coach not surprisingly has been wishing for some fancy schmancy high-powered, high-falutin' lawnmower that will cut his game field with the same precision as a surgeon performing a face-lift(doesn't he ever take a break?). That's about the only wish he has ever vocalized, but unfortunately,I haven't the funds of a Hollywood plastic surgeon, so that Mower from Heaven will have to wait.
Let's see, Coach loves Waffle House (like all good Atlantans), so maybe a huge handmade coupon for anytime AYCE would be good. Of course, the boys will want to go too, so that means a high chair, spilled drinks, and a sticky toddler. Hmmm, maybe not. Oooh, Coach also LOVES golf, maybe a little too much, but a weekend at an exclusive PGA course would be a great pre-season getaway before the papers (and some of the fans) start taking jabs. Of course, the boys would be disappointed to watch Daddy load up the Explorer with all things golf and NOT add a car seat to that mix. I can see (and hear) the tears now.
Good grief, why must it be so hard to show a man that he's the best Daddy in the world? That watching his 250 pound body cradle Tanner's 2 pound body in the NICU made me weep with joy? That every football toss in the backyard makes me feel like I'm in a Norman Rockwell painting? That every hard-earned paycheck he hands over to me makes me feel like a million bucks? Every phone call in the afternoon to "Just see what y'all are doing" warms my heart.Seeing Daddy circle the game field on his mower with a baby in his lap or speeding from football practice to catch Tucker's first big hit just hint at the kind of Daddy my boys have; and watching our kids in their Panther black on Friday nights cheer on their Dad is like a big Jumbo Tron message from God that says, "Son, you're doing it right."
Happy Father's Day, Coach! You're doing it right!
Two years ago I gave him a child and somehow that didn't go over too well, so I'm playing some serious catch up in 2011. No more offspring who look just like him, no more "coupons" for solo fishing or golfing trips that never end up solo. No more expensive Craftsman tools that end up in the sand pits in the woods.
So what do you give a man who has the job of his dreams, three (yes, three) adorable boys, and a wife who knows he likes his tea sweet and his breakfast eggs runny? Like this author who wishes for marathon entries at Christmas (don't I ever take a break?), Coach not surprisingly has been wishing for some fancy schmancy high-powered, high-falutin' lawnmower that will cut his game field with the same precision as a surgeon performing a face-lift(doesn't he ever take a break?). That's about the only wish he has ever vocalized, but unfortunately,I haven't the funds of a Hollywood plastic surgeon, so that Mower from Heaven will have to wait.
Let's see, Coach loves Waffle House (like all good Atlantans), so maybe a huge handmade coupon for anytime AYCE would be good. Of course, the boys will want to go too, so that means a high chair, spilled drinks, and a sticky toddler. Hmmm, maybe not. Oooh, Coach also LOVES golf, maybe a little too much, but a weekend at an exclusive PGA course would be a great pre-season getaway before the papers (and some of the fans) start taking jabs. Of course, the boys would be disappointed to watch Daddy load up the Explorer with all things golf and NOT add a car seat to that mix. I can see (and hear) the tears now.
Good grief, why must it be so hard to show a man that he's the best Daddy in the world? That watching his 250 pound body cradle Tanner's 2 pound body in the NICU made me weep with joy? That every football toss in the backyard makes me feel like I'm in a Norman Rockwell painting? That every hard-earned paycheck he hands over to me makes me feel like a million bucks? Every phone call in the afternoon to "Just see what y'all are doing" warms my heart.Seeing Daddy circle the game field on his mower with a baby in his lap or speeding from football practice to catch Tucker's first big hit just hint at the kind of Daddy my boys have; and watching our kids in their Panther black on Friday nights cheer on their Dad is like a big Jumbo Tron message from God that says, "Son, you're doing it right."
Happy Father's Day, Coach! You're doing it right!
Monday, May 2, 2011
Field Paint and other Little Joys
Daddy came home yesterday, achy, tired, and grinning from ear to ear. People kept texting, Coach kept responding, and the smiles kept coming. I said nothing, watching surreptitiously, waiting to be let in on the fun. "Who are you texting with?" I finally pleaded, wondering if there were some good news to which I wasn't yet privy. I love his answer: "my boys-- they're ready!"
Spring football starts today, and like the field paint that stains his hands, those high school boys fill his waking moments. All the anticipation, the new coaches, new material from the winter clinics, and the love come back full force and the boys who send texts at all hours of the day make for one very happy coach. Nothing is better than the opportunity to start over, try new things, improve the old-- the grind, he calls it, but he loves the grind.
I've never seen a coach so happy to mow his own field, change the sprinklers, line up screwdrivers and yarn and mark off yards down the field. There's nothing prettier than a freshly painted field, waiting for the trample of cleats and the slide of the pants on a perfect tackle. A stadium waiting for the echo of a chant from a hundred young boys who just gave their all. The handing out of equipment, methodical placing of pants, girdles, shoulder pads, and helmets, a masterpiece of pulling a team together. Check out the equipment room, the washers and dryers the coaches use to personally clean the uniforms late into the night, replacing each item into its appropriate bin, ready to start again on Monday. Watching film, not just once, but over and over, replay after replay. Pause, play, pause, replay, until the wives start calling and film-watching is postponed until tomorrow. The grind, he calls it.
He's been waiting almost six months for it, the work, the worry, the weary mornings after a tough game. He's been waiting and so have the boys; and when the texts come in at 10:00 and 11:00 at night-- "Can't wait, Coach", "Ready 2 hit!", "4 mo dayz!"-- I understand the grind a little bit better. The smile on his face makes it crystal clear.
Spring football starts today, and like the field paint that stains his hands, those high school boys fill his waking moments. All the anticipation, the new coaches, new material from the winter clinics, and the love come back full force and the boys who send texts at all hours of the day make for one very happy coach. Nothing is better than the opportunity to start over, try new things, improve the old-- the grind, he calls it, but he loves the grind.
I've never seen a coach so happy to mow his own field, change the sprinklers, line up screwdrivers and yarn and mark off yards down the field. There's nothing prettier than a freshly painted field, waiting for the trample of cleats and the slide of the pants on a perfect tackle. A stadium waiting for the echo of a chant from a hundred young boys who just gave their all. The handing out of equipment, methodical placing of pants, girdles, shoulder pads, and helmets, a masterpiece of pulling a team together. Check out the equipment room, the washers and dryers the coaches use to personally clean the uniforms late into the night, replacing each item into its appropriate bin, ready to start again on Monday. Watching film, not just once, but over and over, replay after replay. Pause, play, pause, replay, until the wives start calling and film-watching is postponed until tomorrow. The grind, he calls it.
He's been waiting almost six months for it, the work, the worry, the weary mornings after a tough game. He's been waiting and so have the boys; and when the texts come in at 10:00 and 11:00 at night-- "Can't wait, Coach", "Ready 2 hit!", "4 mo dayz!"-- I understand the grind a little bit better. The smile on his face makes it crystal clear.
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
Here's Your Sign!
I have always hated the country comedian who does the stand up act, "Here's your sign!" Ugh, blatant stupidity, I thought. Who really needs to be reminded of the redneck folks one runs into at convenience stores or chances a mishap with by shopping too late at night at Wal-Mart. As soon as his face crossed my TV, my fingers hit the remote. Unfortunately, and it's taking alot for me to admit this, I had my own "Here's your sign" moment just last week. It's not the redneck edition, it's the mother's edition, but I felt the same when I got my sign.
One of my favorite Y members had taken my whole family out to lunch and we were chatting away with him and his lady friend as the dishes were cleared from our table. The boys were making laps around the dessert bar, eyeing whatever it was they hadn't already tasted and indulging Tate in one more round of red jello. All was well, or so I thought, until the three of them rounded the corner and the blood disappeared from my face. Standing in front of our table with a Cheshire cat grin was Tanner, only to be upstaged by Tate sitting in the WHEELCHAIR (!!!!) Tanner was pushing. Tate was ecstatic and Tanner the proud brother, earning his babysitting badge. Oh, Lord, help me disappear into nothing amid this lunchtime crowd!
And there it was: Here's your sign! You know it's time to leave, lunch is definitely over, when your children highjack a wheelchair and make laps around a restaurant. Billy's eyes met mine, horror being passed back and forth. Dine and dash crossed my mind. Politeness and good manners were quickly replaced with humility and bowed heads as we grabbed bags and sippy cups and made our way to the door, stopping only to return the wheelchair from where it had been "borrowed."
Every parent knows that obtaining that title means that life is always unpredictable, that the picnic you packed all night for can be cut short by a chipped tooth on the monkey bars. That the trip to the county fair ends abruptly because someone forgot to restock the diaper bag. That the REALLY good Mexican meal you have been craving ALL DAY may never get past chips and salsa because SOMEONE didn't nap well that day. Kids change everything and now, much to my chagrin, give us our very own "signs."
Here, just a few of the "Here's Your Sign" mommy moments I've been dealt:
When the player with the jersey sporting your last name has a seat and begins playing in the dirt, here's your sign: soccer season is over!
When the recently potty-trained fan drops his drawers just minutes before the spring game and shows the booster club president what he's learned, here's your sign: Daddy will give you the play by play when he gets home.
When an otherwise well-behaved toddler can't keep his hands off a little girl's sparkly ponytail holder, here's your sign: put down that dumbbell, your workout at the gym is over.
When the circular clothes rack at your favorite boutique suddenly tips to its side, showering the floor with expensive blouses, here's your sign: You REALLY thought you could shop with little boys in tow?????
Funny, all my signs seem to pretty much point to the same thing: run, get out as fast as you can. And don't come back until you're driving a sports car that is child-seat free, and there's not a package of wet wipes in your purse.
One of my favorite Y members had taken my whole family out to lunch and we were chatting away with him and his lady friend as the dishes were cleared from our table. The boys were making laps around the dessert bar, eyeing whatever it was they hadn't already tasted and indulging Tate in one more round of red jello. All was well, or so I thought, until the three of them rounded the corner and the blood disappeared from my face. Standing in front of our table with a Cheshire cat grin was Tanner, only to be upstaged by Tate sitting in the WHEELCHAIR (!!!!) Tanner was pushing. Tate was ecstatic and Tanner the proud brother, earning his babysitting badge. Oh, Lord, help me disappear into nothing amid this lunchtime crowd!
And there it was: Here's your sign! You know it's time to leave, lunch is definitely over, when your children highjack a wheelchair and make laps around a restaurant. Billy's eyes met mine, horror being passed back and forth. Dine and dash crossed my mind. Politeness and good manners were quickly replaced with humility and bowed heads as we grabbed bags and sippy cups and made our way to the door, stopping only to return the wheelchair from where it had been "borrowed."
Every parent knows that obtaining that title means that life is always unpredictable, that the picnic you packed all night for can be cut short by a chipped tooth on the monkey bars. That the trip to the county fair ends abruptly because someone forgot to restock the diaper bag. That the REALLY good Mexican meal you have been craving ALL DAY may never get past chips and salsa because SOMEONE didn't nap well that day. Kids change everything and now, much to my chagrin, give us our very own "signs."
Here, just a few of the "Here's Your Sign" mommy moments I've been dealt:
When the player with the jersey sporting your last name has a seat and begins playing in the dirt, here's your sign: soccer season is over!
When the recently potty-trained fan drops his drawers just minutes before the spring game and shows the booster club president what he's learned, here's your sign: Daddy will give you the play by play when he gets home.
When an otherwise well-behaved toddler can't keep his hands off a little girl's sparkly ponytail holder, here's your sign: put down that dumbbell, your workout at the gym is over.
When the circular clothes rack at your favorite boutique suddenly tips to its side, showering the floor with expensive blouses, here's your sign: You REALLY thought you could shop with little boys in tow?????
Funny, all my signs seem to pretty much point to the same thing: run, get out as fast as you can. And don't come back until you're driving a sports car that is child-seat free, and there's not a package of wet wipes in your purse.
Thursday, February 24, 2011
Television Today
Wow! Long time, no blog. Nothing really sparking my interest lately, or maybe it's just that I've had too much laundry, too much homework, and too much other stuff to do so the blog gets the back seat. Well, I'm back and (hopefully) better than ever. I should probably be ashamed to say that it's taken a television show to get me writing again, but these days trashy TV shows ARE news, so I'm right there with the mainstream media, and i guess I'm in good company.
Surprise, surprise, loyal readers; The Bachelor holds the top spot for the "are you kidding me" in TV watching. I love a good Bachelor episode, really I do. I'm still tuning in every Monday to see how far the girls will go to prove their love for this man they've just met, but who proved already on national TV that he's what my husband would call a DB. And really, what's not to love about a bunch of back-stabbing girls in bikinis, drinking cocktails by the pool every afternoon, and skydiving their way to a love that lasts a lifetime? What I ABSOLUTELY cannot tolerate anymore, though, is these supposedly educated girls and their HORRIBLE use of grammar. No, Michelle there isn't something "between Brad and I" because "I" is not an objective pronoun. Perhaps you meant to tell the camera that there is something special "between Brad and me" (see, me IS an objective case pronoun) so even if there isn't anything special, at least you can prove to all us viewers at home that you passed 7th grade English.
OK-- this might be THE worst, most hideous misuse of pronoun for the sake of sounding intelligent and in love. "The other girls have no idea how serious Brad and I's relationship is." OMG-- did she really use an apostrophe s with I? Brad and I's? In what state is that acceptable? I is NOT, I repeat, NOT a possessive pronoun-- never has been, never will be. How about Brad's and my relationship? Can we at least try that for the sake of all the youngsters out there watching who will swear after their next English exam that "I's" is correct because they said it on the Bachelor. After delighting in all the drama of first loves, extravagant date nights, and challenges from the hubby and me to trade in that helicopter ride over the Grand Canyon with a Friday night hour-long wait at Applebee's, the English teacher in me still finishes each episode with Brad with a huge headache (and a blog). Sorry all you bubbly, bright ad execs, public relations directors, and yes, even the dentist, I lost all confidence in your work skills when you made I possessive.
The Bachelor isn't my only beef with TV shows, cable and/or network. Perusing Dr. Phil's latest trainwreck, how desperate are these people for his "opinion" that they sit on the stage and take verbal beatings from the man whose catch phrases aren't catchy anymore? And seriously Dr. Phil, the series on the Real Housewives of Dr. Phil? Do you really expect us to believe you have the best interest of these women at heart and not some serious ratings akin to the Real Housewives of New Jersey? We may not all use proper grammar, but we are smart enough to figure that one out.
And finally, when did the "kids" channels go all crazy on me? Why, when I'm allowing my children to watch a TV show on ABC Family, family mind you, do I see an advertisement for a movie called The Roommate? This movie looks anything like "family" material; and then a show premieres for "Pretty Little Liars" that they don't HAVE to go to the movies to see. They can tune in RIGHT THERE on their very own bunk beds and be exposed to what looks like a lot of "adult" material. Heck, they could just stay up and watch The Bachelor with me and see too much affection, lies, backstabbing, and tons of crying. And that's on the free channel! I've said it before and I'll say it again: if it weren't for college football, I think there would be no TV's in our house.
Surprise, surprise, loyal readers; The Bachelor holds the top spot for the "are you kidding me" in TV watching. I love a good Bachelor episode, really I do. I'm still tuning in every Monday to see how far the girls will go to prove their love for this man they've just met, but who proved already on national TV that he's what my husband would call a DB. And really, what's not to love about a bunch of back-stabbing girls in bikinis, drinking cocktails by the pool every afternoon, and skydiving their way to a love that lasts a lifetime? What I ABSOLUTELY cannot tolerate anymore, though, is these supposedly educated girls and their HORRIBLE use of grammar. No, Michelle there isn't something "between Brad and I" because "I" is not an objective pronoun. Perhaps you meant to tell the camera that there is something special "between Brad and me" (see, me IS an objective case pronoun) so even if there isn't anything special, at least you can prove to all us viewers at home that you passed 7th grade English.
OK-- this might be THE worst, most hideous misuse of pronoun for the sake of sounding intelligent and in love. "The other girls have no idea how serious Brad and I's relationship is." OMG-- did she really use an apostrophe s with I? Brad and I's? In what state is that acceptable? I is NOT, I repeat, NOT a possessive pronoun-- never has been, never will be. How about Brad's and my relationship? Can we at least try that for the sake of all the youngsters out there watching who will swear after their next English exam that "I's" is correct because they said it on the Bachelor. After delighting in all the drama of first loves, extravagant date nights, and challenges from the hubby and me to trade in that helicopter ride over the Grand Canyon with a Friday night hour-long wait at Applebee's, the English teacher in me still finishes each episode with Brad with a huge headache (and a blog). Sorry all you bubbly, bright ad execs, public relations directors, and yes, even the dentist, I lost all confidence in your work skills when you made I possessive.
The Bachelor isn't my only beef with TV shows, cable and/or network. Perusing Dr. Phil's latest trainwreck, how desperate are these people for his "opinion" that they sit on the stage and take verbal beatings from the man whose catch phrases aren't catchy anymore? And seriously Dr. Phil, the series on the Real Housewives of Dr. Phil? Do you really expect us to believe you have the best interest of these women at heart and not some serious ratings akin to the Real Housewives of New Jersey? We may not all use proper grammar, but we are smart enough to figure that one out.
And finally, when did the "kids" channels go all crazy on me? Why, when I'm allowing my children to watch a TV show on ABC Family, family mind you, do I see an advertisement for a movie called The Roommate? This movie looks anything like "family" material; and then a show premieres for "Pretty Little Liars" that they don't HAVE to go to the movies to see. They can tune in RIGHT THERE on their very own bunk beds and be exposed to what looks like a lot of "adult" material. Heck, they could just stay up and watch The Bachelor with me and see too much affection, lies, backstabbing, and tons of crying. And that's on the free channel! I've said it before and I'll say it again: if it weren't for college football, I think there would be no TV's in our house.
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
SnowStorm 2011: One Week Later
Wow! The snowstorm of 2011 really shook our little world, considering that, as many folks have pointed out, we have insufficient preparations for anything of this magnitude in our wonderful South. Not enough salt, not enough plow trucks, not enough sand, not enough common sense apparently. However, most people i talked to chose to make the best of the situation and engaged in daily sledding, movie watching, indulgent cooking and eating (since most of us were spared the loss of electricity), and family bonding.
Uh, about that. I am the first to say that I LOVE my family, but this last week or so of no school and limited travel really has me thinking that NO family should spend that amount of time together in one isolated location. Looking back at it now, one week later, i have proof that too much snow can wreak havoc on a family home and the relationships of the people who occupy it.
First of all, anyone heard the saying, "Happy wife, Happy Life"? During Snowstorm 2011 my pantry was rearranged and purged, my spice cabinet reorganized, and I'm missing a very large Ficus tree in my entry way. WTH? oh,and an entire bag of pink and red m&m's!!!!! Coach is a GREAT guy, one of my favorites, but his place is definitely not the house, unless it has the word field in front of it.
I've done approximately 1 million loads of laundry and yes i'm sure of that number. My washing machine and dryer began to conspire against me on day two, but i managed to outwit them. Also, I'm missing several sets of winter mittens and gloves and one very cute cheerleading ear warmer.
Tanner is now an expert in EVERY one of our Wii sports games, and i can only watch so much "fake" bowling and tennis until i can muster no more "Wow, good Job"s.
I have run the dishwasher more times than i can imagine, and i know that sounds whiny because atleast i'm not hand washing, but i think everyone will agree, unloading the dishwasher is THE WORST CHORE EVER!!!!! And of course, i'm the only one who thinks it's a must. The rest of my crew would happily pick and choose utensils from the dishwasher based on sight/smell.
Sadly, i must wrap this up with Tate, who, when Daddy got a chance to escape the house, got his first haircut. i was not privy to this little plan, and why Daddy thought that snowstorm 2011 was the right time to make a life-changing move like that, i have no idea. Not only has Daddy left his mark on my little man, but somewhere in the madness that was cabin fever, the big boys taught Tate to dance, specifically, my innocent little angel will now drop his hands to his knees and bounce to the lyrics, "Bottoms up, bottoms up!"
I could go on, but the most dramatic relationship change happened between Tate and the Coach. Apparently, Tate is quite keen on this man who has been around EVERY MINUTE of EVERY DAY since it snowed. The man who has basically been mostly a nighttime fixture since his birth is now Tate's favorite person. Dadd-ee, Dadd-ee, he repeats, and really, what man can turn a deaf ear to that cry? So maybe a little bit of good did come from 10 days trapped together.
Now if I could just find those gloves; with all this global warming, snowstorm 2011 part 2 could be right around the corner.
Uh, about that. I am the first to say that I LOVE my family, but this last week or so of no school and limited travel really has me thinking that NO family should spend that amount of time together in one isolated location. Looking back at it now, one week later, i have proof that too much snow can wreak havoc on a family home and the relationships of the people who occupy it.
First of all, anyone heard the saying, "Happy wife, Happy Life"? During Snowstorm 2011 my pantry was rearranged and purged, my spice cabinet reorganized, and I'm missing a very large Ficus tree in my entry way. WTH? oh,and an entire bag of pink and red m&m's!!!!! Coach is a GREAT guy, one of my favorites, but his place is definitely not the house, unless it has the word field in front of it.
I've done approximately 1 million loads of laundry and yes i'm sure of that number. My washing machine and dryer began to conspire against me on day two, but i managed to outwit them. Also, I'm missing several sets of winter mittens and gloves and one very cute cheerleading ear warmer.
Tanner is now an expert in EVERY one of our Wii sports games, and i can only watch so much "fake" bowling and tennis until i can muster no more "Wow, good Job"s.
I have run the dishwasher more times than i can imagine, and i know that sounds whiny because atleast i'm not hand washing, but i think everyone will agree, unloading the dishwasher is THE WORST CHORE EVER!!!!! And of course, i'm the only one who thinks it's a must. The rest of my crew would happily pick and choose utensils from the dishwasher based on sight/smell.
Sadly, i must wrap this up with Tate, who, when Daddy got a chance to escape the house, got his first haircut. i was not privy to this little plan, and why Daddy thought that snowstorm 2011 was the right time to make a life-changing move like that, i have no idea. Not only has Daddy left his mark on my little man, but somewhere in the madness that was cabin fever, the big boys taught Tate to dance, specifically, my innocent little angel will now drop his hands to his knees and bounce to the lyrics, "Bottoms up, bottoms up!"
I could go on, but the most dramatic relationship change happened between Tate and the Coach. Apparently, Tate is quite keen on this man who has been around EVERY MINUTE of EVERY DAY since it snowed. The man who has basically been mostly a nighttime fixture since his birth is now Tate's favorite person. Dadd-ee, Dadd-ee, he repeats, and really, what man can turn a deaf ear to that cry? So maybe a little bit of good did come from 10 days trapped together.
Now if I could just find those gloves; with all this global warming, snowstorm 2011 part 2 could be right around the corner.
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
If I were the Bachelorette. . .
I'm going to blame this one on the cabin fever after being snowed in for 2 days and expecting another one tomorrow.
OK. My name is Jennifer and I watch the Bachelor. Like admitting that i occasionally watch Dr.Phil, it took alot to say that,but i'm ready to let the world know. I started off as a Bachelor/Bachelorette watcher for the first few years, then with the studpidity that followed i dropped off. I can't really explain why, but I'm a watcher again and i'm going to be proud of it(atleast for this blog anyway).
Because of the BCS game on Monday, I had to DVR the lastest episode of the show and i watched it today while the baby napped and the big boys played in the snow. You have to do it that way these days, considering that this particular series features a vampire (vampiress??), a manscaper (who proudly showed off her trade), and more plastic chests than i could keep track of. Of course, some sweet Southern Belles also completed the picture (thank God for Belles), and your general list of crazies and girls i WOULD NOT approach in a dark alley.
But seriously, my heart breaks for these girls, some so desperate that their pity shows in every little side speech they give.(That boy is mine! they've got a fight on their hands if they think i'm letting him go, etc). I can't even imagine what their Visa bills look like, maxed out at boutiques and jewelry stores, hoping their purchases will appeal to the handsome bachelor.It can't be easy to compete with 24 other girls for one (always) rich, (always) handsome man; even high school had better odds than that, and we didn't have cocktail parties at the end of each day.
The group dates are pretty painful to watch, what with one girl stealing kisses while the others look on, followed by catty remarks about how tacky it was to watch; meanwhile all of us watching know that she's just pi**ed because she didn't think to do it first. Then there's the awful moment when he picks ONE girl to give out the date rose to and then (GASP), he does it in front of the others while they sit watching in their string bikinis. Talk about feeling exposed!
But by far, the moment we all wait for and pop the popcorn for is the the . . . rose ceremony, or as Chris Harrsion says, "The most dramatic rose ceremony yet."
After i watched and my stomach churned for even the girls who were picked, i've come up with some advice for those who didn't make the final cut.
1. While standing and waiting, don't look mad, especially if there are still like 12 roses left. It WON'T get his attention to look evil. The camera sees it, but probably not the bachelor.
2. When he does call your name, don't say somthing stupid, like "Just almost gave me a heart attack," or "this is better than a Christmas gift." it's not cute and you're just being mean to the others not yet called.
3. Wear a dress that fits. If you don't get called, it just looks even more awkward walking off adjusting your dress and holding it up with one hand and wiping your tears with the other. And if you do get called, it's hard to toast your champagne while again holding your strapless dress at the top.
4. And pleeeeeaaaaassseeee, if you are NOT one of the lucky ones, when you leave the mansion, don't have a pity party in the beautiful garden. "Guess i'm just meant to be alone," or "I'm the worst dater ever" or "why don't they like me?" It's already sooo sad, and your chances to be the next Bachelorette just went out the window.
5. Finally, no matter how hard it hurts, no matter how ridiculous you acted to get his attention at a cocktail party, no matter how mad you are that that credit card bill is going to be waiting for you when you get home, DON'T CRY!!!!! Bite your cheek, pull your hair, think about puppies and Hawaiian vacations, but please don't cry. YOu'll only regret it when the show airs and you've already forgotten Brad What's-his-name. Just DON"T CRY.
We'll still have Bachelor-watching parties, water cooler talks, and great entertainment without all this and the girls who don't become Mrs. BAchelor will leave the mansion in that black limousine with atleast some of their dignity.
OK. My name is Jennifer and I watch the Bachelor. Like admitting that i occasionally watch Dr.Phil, it took alot to say that,but i'm ready to let the world know. I started off as a Bachelor/Bachelorette watcher for the first few years, then with the studpidity that followed i dropped off. I can't really explain why, but I'm a watcher again and i'm going to be proud of it(atleast for this blog anyway).
Because of the BCS game on Monday, I had to DVR the lastest episode of the show and i watched it today while the baby napped and the big boys played in the snow. You have to do it that way these days, considering that this particular series features a vampire (vampiress??), a manscaper (who proudly showed off her trade), and more plastic chests than i could keep track of. Of course, some sweet Southern Belles also completed the picture (thank God for Belles), and your general list of crazies and girls i WOULD NOT approach in a dark alley.
But seriously, my heart breaks for these girls, some so desperate that their pity shows in every little side speech they give.(That boy is mine! they've got a fight on their hands if they think i'm letting him go, etc). I can't even imagine what their Visa bills look like, maxed out at boutiques and jewelry stores, hoping their purchases will appeal to the handsome bachelor.It can't be easy to compete with 24 other girls for one (always) rich, (always) handsome man; even high school had better odds than that, and we didn't have cocktail parties at the end of each day.
The group dates are pretty painful to watch, what with one girl stealing kisses while the others look on, followed by catty remarks about how tacky it was to watch; meanwhile all of us watching know that she's just pi**ed because she didn't think to do it first. Then there's the awful moment when he picks ONE girl to give out the date rose to and then (GASP), he does it in front of the others while they sit watching in their string bikinis. Talk about feeling exposed!
But by far, the moment we all wait for and pop the popcorn for is the the . . . rose ceremony, or as Chris Harrsion says, "The most dramatic rose ceremony yet."
After i watched and my stomach churned for even the girls who were picked, i've come up with some advice for those who didn't make the final cut.
1. While standing and waiting, don't look mad, especially if there are still like 12 roses left. It WON'T get his attention to look evil. The camera sees it, but probably not the bachelor.
2. When he does call your name, don't say somthing stupid, like "Just almost gave me a heart attack," or "this is better than a Christmas gift." it's not cute and you're just being mean to the others not yet called.
3. Wear a dress that fits. If you don't get called, it just looks even more awkward walking off adjusting your dress and holding it up with one hand and wiping your tears with the other. And if you do get called, it's hard to toast your champagne while again holding your strapless dress at the top.
4. And pleeeeeaaaaassseeee, if you are NOT one of the lucky ones, when you leave the mansion, don't have a pity party in the beautiful garden. "Guess i'm just meant to be alone," or "I'm the worst dater ever" or "why don't they like me?" It's already sooo sad, and your chances to be the next Bachelorette just went out the window.
5. Finally, no matter how hard it hurts, no matter how ridiculous you acted to get his attention at a cocktail party, no matter how mad you are that that credit card bill is going to be waiting for you when you get home, DON'T CRY!!!!! Bite your cheek, pull your hair, think about puppies and Hawaiian vacations, but please don't cry. YOu'll only regret it when the show airs and you've already forgotten Brad What's-his-name. Just DON"T CRY.
We'll still have Bachelor-watching parties, water cooler talks, and great entertainment without all this and the girls who don't become Mrs. BAchelor will leave the mansion in that black limousine with atleast some of their dignity.
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