Yesterday was one of those days you couldn't have scripted any better than it already was. The sun shone, the temps rose into the 60's, and Coach took the day off. I taught my two fitness classes at the Y, then headed out to the car to find a texted picture from Coach of him and Tot at the Waffle House. The message included the line: "3 sausage patties and a waffle." The smile on Tate's face was priceless, and it had nothing to do with sausage. If I could have captioned it, it would have read: "Me and my daddy ate at the Waffle House." Ahh, happy Tate, happy mom!
I like to think I count my blessings every day (you know, they're right under my nose most of the time), but yesterday was different. It was like everything good in my life was highlighted with a bright yellow Sharpie. Like the sun's rays were pointing right on the four people who make my life sweet. Perhaps subconsciously I have chosen to block out certain moments from that day, but I don't recall any fighting, no missing jerseys or socks, no last minute homework assignments, no pre-teen sass. Nothing but the memories that I've tucked away in that special place, saved up for one of those days when the clouds inside are as dark as the ones outside. Waffle House was only the beginning; my sun shone all day, even when the moon came out and the sky got dark.
With Coach at home for the day, I headed to car rider line solo and once I had Tanner picked up, I invited him to take a walk with me around the lake behind the school. He seemed a little hesitant at first, but then he happily agreed and we headed that way. Almost immediately after we started, he reached down and grabbed my hand, and yes, folks, that is how we walked. Thirty minutes of hand in hand swinging, talking about girlfriends, milkshakes, and the baseball game that night. You know, the important stuff. Never once did he flinch, pull away from my hand because of a passing car, a neighbor checking the mail, or a sweaty palm. I once ran a 5k on those very same streets we were walking, even won the women's division, but I can assure that when I remember that course, it won't be for the 23 minute PR.
Later that evening we headed out for baseball, Tanner and Coach to their 6:00 game, and me chauferring Tucker and Tate to Tucker's 7:30 game. On the way there, Tucker indulged me in a little 6th grade drama. It wasn't much, of course, but what I got was some kid criticizing Tucker about his baseball skills and his performance on the mound. As steam escaped from my ears and my top threatened to blow, I calmly (thank you, Jesus) reminded him that to respond to another person's cruel remarks would only make him look as petty as the offender. I suggested the old shoulder shrug and a subtle "whatever, dude." Then I silently prayed that his confidence would remain strong, that the advice I'd given him would prove correct, and that he'd pitch a H*** of a game.
And pitch he did! Despite cruel winds and frosty temperatures, Tucker pitched his second win of the season, garnered his second game ball, and without even trying, put to rest any ugly rumors that he doesn't deserve to be on the mound. After his 10th strike out, this icicle-laden mom mustered the energy to hobble to the dugout to hear the team's rally after that one-run win. Sure, I was proud of him for his pitching and his hit, but I was perhaps most proud when I heard him congratulate the kid who had earlier in the day criticized him behind his back. Yep, his biggest critic was a teammate, and my 11 year old had the confidence, the forgiveness, and the character to commend him on a great hit.
Oh, and I haven't forgotten person number four who makes my life sweet. As much fun as it is to watch my boys play ball, it is just as awesome to watch Coach pace behind the back stop, question the ump's bad calls, and do his own coaching from behind the plate. And when a slight smile manages to escape his mouth after an awesome catch at first base by Tanner or a strike out on a change up by Tucker, it is then that my cup runs over!
Friday, March 29, 2013
Thursday, March 14, 2013
Winner, Winner, Chicken Dinner
Several years ago, when the boys were younger and first started playing sports, there were a couple of seasons where the idea of not keeping score was suggested and encouraged. You know, teach them to love the game, not to worry about winning or losing. Well, you know that didn't fly in our house, and after every hit, basket, or run into the end zone, our boys would look over at the sidelines and ask Daddy, "Who's winning now?" Of course, the correct score would fly off Coach's tongue faster than the "non-competitive" parent could shoot us a glare. In our opinions, someone always comes out ahead-- just a fact of life. And the sooner our boys realized that sometimes they would carry home the W, sometimes they would walk away with L, the better. Having a dad whose profession and livelihood rest on the amount of wins and losses per season probably sends a stronger vibe to win, but in all fairness we try to teach that age-old lesson of how to be a good loser; and I know firsthand about losing; being the only girl in a house full of guys means I lose A LOT of battles, some I thought I was sure to win, but that was 15 years ago.
Fifteen years ago, Coach was busy finishing school, working part time, and fishing whenever he could squeeze it in. That meant the entire responsibility of decorating our then-home fell on me. Color me Happy! Every room looked the way I wanted it. Every color scheme was mine. Every Southern Living concept played out in various places throughout our 3/2 ranch. I also had some set-in-stone ideas for when we had kids--precious outfits, pastel nursery decor, long, wispy curls falling at the neck of a baby blue smocked jon jon.
Fifteen years have passed and the scoreboard clearly insists that I am not leading this race.
Who's walking away with the W? Hmmm...
Once upon a time, I had a beautiful wicker trash basket in my kitchen. It had its own liner that folded out over the top with the word trash embroidered in blue. Now? On one of his many trips to Home Depot to buy trash cans for some spring football drill, Coach found a great deal apparently and brought one home to us. For our kitchen. To replace the wicker one. I resisted, he persisted, and eventually I folded, as right now in my kitchen sits a gray industrial-sized trash bin that requires me to buy lawn and leaf bags to fit it.
Back in the day, after a long day of teaching English, Spanish, or maybe some kick butt Spin class, I liked to retire to my bed, glass of water in hand, and the remote set for anything resembling "Designing Women" reruns, Kardashian chaos, or even some trashy E! news. Now? I find myself asking questions about Tuna, King Crab, and auctioning off storage sheds. I find myself using first names of fishermen, logging truck drivers, and men who mine for gold. My questions even sound sincere.
Those precious little boy outfits I envisioned while fat and miserable at nine months preggo? Didn't happen. Coach wasn't too keen on "sissy" looking boys so nary a knee sock ever graced my T's chubby little legs. Not a single smocked Strausberg captured by Olan Mills. And those curls? The first mention at Kroger or Sunday school of how pretty our boys were brought out the clippers; thus, the buzz cut became the official hair style of the Kirk boys. No Beiber bangs being slung around here- the proof is on the photo wall.
I guess after so many years of "losing" to a crew of four who outnumber me on just about every decision from supper to movie night to where to hang the flat screens, one(me) gets used to it and losing doesn't really hurt too much. I mean, I love the Louisiana red necks we watch every Wednesday night; the buzz cut hair really does show off the incredibly beautiful blue and green eyes on the three Ts; and even I will now admit that the bigger garbage can means fewer trips to the outside bin to unload. But there's just one battle I swore I wouldn't lose-- one I was prepared to fight til the death for--one change I feared would truly define me.
At some point I must have waved the white flag, surrendered as graciously as only a Southerner could do. The walls of our home once boasted wrought iron pieces, black and white baby portraits professionally framed, and antique pieces that surprised me on anniversaries and birthdays. My special order window treatments matched the throw pillows on my sofa sectional that cozied up to to the antique table my Mama Carter passed down to me. Now? Deer. Or more specifically, deer heads hang from places on my walls that should be reserved for canvas paintings of things I saw on Pinterest. But they are there, and there they shall stay.
Why? I'd love to say it's because Coach won and I lost, and that's pretty much how it looks. But it's about more than winning and losing and competing and beating someone else and being the last one standing on the mound with stained pants and shoulder pads ripped out of jerseys.
At the end of the day, life is all about compromise; so is love. Besides, second place isn't so bad, especially if the guy you walk off the field with is the one carrying the first place trophy.
Because you can always hang that trophy on the wall:-)
Fifteen years ago, Coach was busy finishing school, working part time, and fishing whenever he could squeeze it in. That meant the entire responsibility of decorating our then-home fell on me. Color me Happy! Every room looked the way I wanted it. Every color scheme was mine. Every Southern Living concept played out in various places throughout our 3/2 ranch. I also had some set-in-stone ideas for when we had kids--precious outfits, pastel nursery decor, long, wispy curls falling at the neck of a baby blue smocked jon jon.
Fifteen years have passed and the scoreboard clearly insists that I am not leading this race.
Who's walking away with the W? Hmmm...
Once upon a time, I had a beautiful wicker trash basket in my kitchen. It had its own liner that folded out over the top with the word trash embroidered in blue. Now? On one of his many trips to Home Depot to buy trash cans for some spring football drill, Coach found a great deal apparently and brought one home to us. For our kitchen. To replace the wicker one. I resisted, he persisted, and eventually I folded, as right now in my kitchen sits a gray industrial-sized trash bin that requires me to buy lawn and leaf bags to fit it.
Back in the day, after a long day of teaching English, Spanish, or maybe some kick butt Spin class, I liked to retire to my bed, glass of water in hand, and the remote set for anything resembling "Designing Women" reruns, Kardashian chaos, or even some trashy E! news. Now? I find myself asking questions about Tuna, King Crab, and auctioning off storage sheds. I find myself using first names of fishermen, logging truck drivers, and men who mine for gold. My questions even sound sincere.
Those precious little boy outfits I envisioned while fat and miserable at nine months preggo? Didn't happen. Coach wasn't too keen on "sissy" looking boys so nary a knee sock ever graced my T's chubby little legs. Not a single smocked Strausberg captured by Olan Mills. And those curls? The first mention at Kroger or Sunday school of how pretty our boys were brought out the clippers; thus, the buzz cut became the official hair style of the Kirk boys. No Beiber bangs being slung around here- the proof is on the photo wall.
I guess after so many years of "losing" to a crew of four who outnumber me on just about every decision from supper to movie night to where to hang the flat screens, one(me) gets used to it and losing doesn't really hurt too much. I mean, I love the Louisiana red necks we watch every Wednesday night; the buzz cut hair really does show off the incredibly beautiful blue and green eyes on the three Ts; and even I will now admit that the bigger garbage can means fewer trips to the outside bin to unload. But there's just one battle I swore I wouldn't lose-- one I was prepared to fight til the death for--one change I feared would truly define me.
At some point I must have waved the white flag, surrendered as graciously as only a Southerner could do. The walls of our home once boasted wrought iron pieces, black and white baby portraits professionally framed, and antique pieces that surprised me on anniversaries and birthdays. My special order window treatments matched the throw pillows on my sofa sectional that cozied up to to the antique table my Mama Carter passed down to me. Now? Deer. Or more specifically, deer heads hang from places on my walls that should be reserved for canvas paintings of things I saw on Pinterest. But they are there, and there they shall stay.
Why? I'd love to say it's because Coach won and I lost, and that's pretty much how it looks. But it's about more than winning and losing and competing and beating someone else and being the last one standing on the mound with stained pants and shoulder pads ripped out of jerseys.
At the end of the day, life is all about compromise; so is love. Besides, second place isn't so bad, especially if the guy you walk off the field with is the one carrying the first place trophy.
Because you can always hang that trophy on the wall:-)
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