He Out-punted his Coverage, and I got GREAT field position!

I was leaving the gym this morning after a great run and an even better swim, when I heard a member of the body-building set inquiring at the front desk as to whether our dear Y might have any athletic tape. Hmmm . . . "Sir, I have some right here. Take as much as you need." Well his eyes just about glazed over and he laughed, saying, "I guess you never know when you might need to wrap an ankle," because in case y'all haven't seen me in a while, I don't exactly scream "Weightlifter" or "serious athlete" when one gets a glance at me in my tennis duds. There are some things that all moms need to carry on them at all times: wipes, juice boxes, epi pens. I just happen to carry a few "different" accessories in order to make sure my days go smoothly. I can't count the number of times I've pulled out my roll to quell a squealing toddler as he motions to some obscure boo-boo that can ONLY be fixed with the same tape daddy uses. Tape works for so much more than curing wounds and tears, too. I've gift wrapped last minute packages with my leftover rolls, created numbers on the backs of blank t-shirts, and re-gripped my tennis racket in a pinch. So the fact that I ALWAYS carry a roll of athletic tape and pre-wrap in my Gucci bag really shouldn't come as too much of a surprise when one finds out I am married to a football coach, as I explained to the gentleman at the Y desk today. I also have a shiny, silver coaches' whistle-- and I'm not afraid to use it. Coach always jokes to people that he "out-punted his coverage" when he married me, and I'll be honest, it took me about 4-5 seasons before I really understood what that meant. I knew it was a compliment, but I hadn't quite deciphered the difference between a kicker and a punter at that point, so I just stood there smiling, proud of my husband/coach and all the information and fancy words in that bald head of his. Thirteen years into this marriage/career, I've got this bull by the horns. *When Coach says he's gonna be late tonight because he's lining the field, I quickly ask, "you got plenty of yarn and a screwdriver?" *I realized that sometimes coaches need to mow the field more than the field needs to be mowed. *I FINALLY figured out what trips means, and now I can scream it with the rest of the staff when I see a blitz coming(?). *I know spring football (or two a days, or 7-on-7) is coming soon when the text messages coming in from players keep me awake at night. *During the season (when he's home) when I make a dinner that he kind of turns his nose up at, I know right then and there that he's probably had it for pre-game meal one too many times already. *When he tells me that practice will be over at 6:00, y'all, I know he's not going to be home at 6:30. And that's OK. *I know the difference between running the spread and the quarterback option. I know how to defend it too. (Sort of). Most of all I know now, especially, that football is a year round sport that takes tons of time, energy, talent, smarts, and backbone, not to mention thick skin. I know that sometimes teams win and sometimes they don't. Some parents are nice; others are not. Some coaches work hard; others work hardly at all. I know that winning is more fun than losing; that playing (and watching) in the rain and cold is way better when the concession stand sells hot chocolate. I know that road games are fun, but nothing beats a win in front of a home crowd. And because of all this I know for a fact that nothing beats the life of a football coach and his wife.

parting is such sweet sorrow!

Well, it had to come to an end. Three weeks of jumping, swimming, running, pumping, and doing Pilates every day flew by, and tomorrow I head back to the halls of high school, this time in a subject I'm a Master at (or so says the diploma). I'm certainly not complaining-- I mean tons of people wake up every day hoping for a job and I have one, albeit for only six weeks-- but I sure do LOVE my part time job, which makes it a little bittersweet. Every day at the YMCA, I am greeted by folks who SMILE at me as I walk through the halls chasing my Tot! They think he's precious, dirty face, barefoot, and all. He's told every one of my senior (citizens) about his train table that Santa Claus brought him and they never seem to get tired of his blabbering baby talk, smiling and cooing at him, despite the fact they have no idea what he's saying most of the time. They never fail to thank me after class for a "great workout" and tell me how much fun they had. Eh, not so much with the American Lit students.

Pretty often at the YMCA, I receive souvenirs from the retirees who are enjoying their retirement and stop midway through their travels to buy something for me and/or my kids. Just this week, I left with two chocolate bars from Austria and a handcrafted Easter egg, not to mention a sweet thank you card from a lady recovering from surgery, simply thanking me for the motivation I give her every day in the pool. I'm no stranger to homemade jelly, breads, and cookies either, because what could be better than burning tons of calories and following it with a softball sized snickerdoodle. All this makes the paycheck seem even bigger come payday.

I also have a younger crew I see most days and when we're not laughing, gossiping, and catching up on the latest episodes of trash TV or debating what to do with a mouthy 3rd grader, we're huffing and puffing at a 7.5 on the treadmill or hitting the sprints on the Spin bikes. I've marveled at first time 5kers, ladies shedding baby weight, and newbies who've never lifted a weight before and see the first hint of muscle tone. Talk about "Meeting the Standards," we do that every day. One can see why my trade off is a little tough.

When I show up tomorrow I'm not guaranteed smiles at the door, but if I'm lucky I'll get a few. I'm not certain of compliance. I may have to ask twice for a project to be done, whereas I never have to ask a water member to REBOUND! There will be bathroom requests, too many cellphones, and questionable dress code violations. Of course, that last one does come up sometimes at the Y, but it's not my place to judge an octogenarian's choice of Speedo.

But it isn't all bad. How many people get to work with their spouse? I can see Coach every day at lunch and sometimes that's the only child free conversation we'll have that day. How many people are made privy to the relationship woes, best friend drama, and SAT stress that doesn't personally affect me (not yet, anyway)? And speaking of cellphones, the teens can teach me waaay more about technology than the water members, and I'm all ears. I learned everything I need to know about the kids I-pod touches from last semesters 4th period. And I may not get a smile first thing in the morning from a sleep-deprived, heart-broken, English-hating teen, but when I DO manage a slight grin or tiny chuckle from the coolest of kids, it's soooo worth it! Makes the paycheck seem a little bigger at the end of the day.

My name is Jennifer and I'm a Bachelorholic

Oh Lawd, y'all, I did it again. Last night, despite season after season of disappointment, embarrassment, and questionable cocktail gowns, I tuned in to the newest installment of The Bachelor. I didn't so much tune at 8:00 with popcorn in buckets and cold coke in hand, sitting restlessly on the edge of my couch; rather I DVRed it and made the Coach watch it with me once the little monkeys were in bed. And, I have to say, it didn't disappoint-- if, of course, you were looking to watch a train wreck.

I have to start by saying that in all fairness, I am not a huge fan of Ben F. as the bachelor. Sure, I felt bad for the guy considering that Ashley made a FOOL out of him on national television as he asked her to make him the happiest man on Earth and she dissed him (I hope he atleast got some sort of ratings bonus for that sucker punch). But still, the winemaker, his hair, his. . . oh, i don't know what it is, but it just doesn't do much for me, so following him on his quest for TV true love isn't going to be easy. However, ABC must have known this and thus brought in a whole new group of CRAZIES who are destined to go down in the reality TV hall of fame. Someone needs to pass it on to these lovely bachelorettes that being documented on an E! special 6 months from now about reality show mishaps IS NOT THE GOAL! Sharing the limelight with a Kardashian kid is NOT an accolade to be proud of. WInning the heart of the bachelor is-- I guess.

Anyhoo,the show started with a grandma in tow, an equestrian demonstrating her skills, and an epidemiologist sharing her knowledge on germ prevention and how to win a guy with a rap about infectious disease. (I'm totally skipping the girl who shoots deer and eats, well, you know). Gone are the days where lovely young college grads would demurely approach the bachelor upon exiting the limo and PROPERLY try to win his attention. You know, do and say things that would make a Southern mother proud. Nope, now it's a quest for the most outrageous pick up line, presentation, or first kiss-- unless you come in on a horse or with your Nana, then that soliloquy you practiced for weeks in front of the mirror is for naught. You just got trumped by an octogenarian.

I have to be honest here and admit that I fast forwarded through much of the cocktail party, as two hours of watching the unappealing bachelor appease women who have given up their JOBS to be there, despite the fact that me, Coach, Chris Harrison, and the rest of America all know that he has no interest in her WHATSOEVER, just doesn't merit my ENTIRE two hours. I did get lucky and stop the FF in time to catch the NYC love blogger lock herself in the bathroom and talk to herself for what seemed like hours, thanks to the editing of some pretty clever ABC producers. And how Ben was not made privy to this semi- mental breakdown is beyond me, and all of America guffawed together as the poor guy STILL gave that girl a rose. (BTW, Jenna, you're giving the rest of us bloggers a really bad name; so shape up girl or stop calling yourself a writer!).

So as the show came to a close and the producers regaled us with clips from future dates, disasters, and drama,I wept a little for all the girls, good and bad, who just exposed themselves and their sometimes poor decisions to national scrutiny, public embarrassment, and a possible engagement in two weeks; because I'm convinced that no one leaves The Bachelor/ Bachelorette unscathed. And if you don't believe me, just hit You Tube or check out the tabloids on your next visit to Kroger.

Meanwhile, I kissed MY former bachelor good night and said a little prayer of thanksgiving for the lack of roses, wine, and cocktail dresses in my life.

No, honey, there isn't a Santa Claus; oh, and Daddy got fired today!

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.

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!

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.

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. . .