A few days ago, as I was prepping the Silver Sneakers CD and getting ready to hit the mic, one of my sweet members ambled over to me and announced with a 16 year old girl's grin, "Today is our 59th wedding anniversary!" I immediately congratulated them and asked my usual question of all the sage folks in my group: "What's the secret?" Her answer was God, and I couldn't agree more. But as I thought about my handsome groom and our upcoming 14 year anniversary, I started thinking of some of the other little secrets that help to make a marriage work. Now I realize 14 years is a far cry from 59 years of material, but Coach and I must be doing something right. So here goes . . .
Why I Still LOVE Coach Kirk, or how to have a happy marriage:
1. He makes me laugh. Seriously, even if it means watching awful, horrible, terrible episodes of The Bachelor, The Bachelorette, or even Bachelor Pad, he's right there holding the remote, fast forwarding, rewinding through the questionable parts, and calling people douche bags so I don't have to do it.
2. He works hard. Like really hard. He gets a lot of slack sometimes from people who don't understand that because he works hard for our family, I want to fix his lunch, type his papers, and wait up for him after a long game or work night. I've seen too many episodes dating all the way back to Donahue and now Dr. Phil of women who want respect from their men and men who want to be served by their women to know that too many people don't understand that love means doing for others, but we do.
3. He feeds the homeless. No I'm not talking about working at a food bank or a soup kitchen. He actually stops at intersections and gives either money or food to those down-on-their-luck folks whose situations have come to roadside begging. How can you not love someone who loves the "unlovable?"
4. It's not his money, it's not my money. It's our money. Which is perhaps scary to some people, but to me it says, "we're in this together. I sink, we sink. You swim, we swim." I wouldn't have it any other way.
5. He dreams big and encourages me to do the same. Were he not a dreamer, we would never have moved to all the great places we have lived, and never would we have met the people who are now lifelong friends. I probably would never have run a marathon, finished a triathlon, started a blog, or dared apply for a college job. In his eyes, I can do anything. In my eyes, he is my hero.
6. He forgives. Yes, I do things that require asking forgiveness, and sometimes he even forgives me without my asking. That Bible in the front seat of his car isn't just for looks. Every morning he invests a little time to continue becoming the man of God he strives to be, and I am just one of those people lucky enough to benefit from what he reads.
7. He knows how to change a diaper, warm a bottle, and run the vacuum. I know how to mow the lawn, trim the hedges, and kill any spiders, wasps,or snakes who threaten our domain. Point is, nothing is entirely his job or entirely my job. We are a TEAM.
8.He LOVES his kids. He also isn't afraid to discipline them and expect big things from them. He practices tough love, but I've seen him "go to bat" for his kids in a way that puts this Mama Bear to shame. Tag-Team Parenting, we call it.
9. I LOVE to run. He LOVES to bench press the equivalent of a defensive lineman. I LOVE to read books in bed at night; he DVR's Wicked Tuna and pushes play just as I'm removing my bookmark. He does his thing; I do my thing. We don't have to love the same things and be together all the time. It still works. We still work.
And for that I am thankful. I am thankful for the fourteen years, three houses, three (almost four) children, multiple jobs, various cars, snow days, beach days, pool time, sports time, family time we have had. I wouldn't change anything, wouldn't add anything, wouldn't take any do-overs.
And I pity the young, aerobics instructor who asks me in 45 years what the secret to a successful marriage is. Maybe I should go ahead and just print this now and save her the trouble of an old woman bragging on her still-sexy 80 year old stud. She'll probably thank me:-)
Friday, July 12, 2013
Tuesday, May 21, 2013
Week in Review
Seems like so much funny, good, awkward stuff has happened this week that I should probably write it down. I mean, a week that starts off with the following question from a SS member has to be a good one: " has anyone ever told you that you look like Brooke Shields?" Seeee, this is why I love my job!
It got better from there. I got my official job offer from Piedmont College to teach this fall: Rhetoric and Composition first term and and Literature and Composition second term. I know. I'm a nerd. Billy reminds me all the time. Love this job, too.
Today, after teaching 3 classes, playing tennis, and swimming 20 laps, I wearily walked in to teach my 4th class of the day to hear: "oh you're subbing? I love it when you sub!" I perked right up and I swear my muscles stopped aching. At least for the 45 minutes of the class, anyway:-)
Following the class, one of my members asked about the kids, then expounded on what she saw in Tucker's future: Senator. Hmmm? "Yep," she says. "With that personality and smile (not to mention those baby blues), he's a shoo-in to be a leader of people." I guess I'm not doing a half bad job, based on that assessment of one of my three kids.
On another awkward note, I got my new driver's license in the mail, and after glancing down at it, Tucker says, "no offense Mom, but your head looks kinda big here." Umm, none taken?
And for the big finale, the final she-bang, Tate and I killed a snake. Or, I killed the snake and he stood by and cheered me on as I went all psycho with my shovel. Imagine me huffing and puffing with each thrust, yelling, "Gotcha, Gotcha" until the poor thing coiled up into its severed pieces and surrendered. So far Tate has had no adverse reactions to what he witnessed. Fingers crossed. I thought running a 10K got my adrenaline pumping. That was nothing compared to chopping up an (innocent, I found out later) intimidating creature trying to slither his way into my garage and my life.
So, as summer gets under way, I can't IMAGINE what's in store for the Kirks. No doubt there will be a lot more of the good, the funny, and the just plain awkward. Stay Tuned, Y'all!
It got better from there. I got my official job offer from Piedmont College to teach this fall: Rhetoric and Composition first term and and Literature and Composition second term. I know. I'm a nerd. Billy reminds me all the time. Love this job, too.
Today, after teaching 3 classes, playing tennis, and swimming 20 laps, I wearily walked in to teach my 4th class of the day to hear: "oh you're subbing? I love it when you sub!" I perked right up and I swear my muscles stopped aching. At least for the 45 minutes of the class, anyway:-)
Following the class, one of my members asked about the kids, then expounded on what she saw in Tucker's future: Senator. Hmmm? "Yep," she says. "With that personality and smile (not to mention those baby blues), he's a shoo-in to be a leader of people." I guess I'm not doing a half bad job, based on that assessment of one of my three kids.
On another awkward note, I got my new driver's license in the mail, and after glancing down at it, Tucker says, "no offense Mom, but your head looks kinda big here." Umm, none taken?
And for the big finale, the final she-bang, Tate and I killed a snake. Or, I killed the snake and he stood by and cheered me on as I went all psycho with my shovel. Imagine me huffing and puffing with each thrust, yelling, "Gotcha, Gotcha" until the poor thing coiled up into its severed pieces and surrendered. So far Tate has had no adverse reactions to what he witnessed. Fingers crossed. I thought running a 10K got my adrenaline pumping. That was nothing compared to chopping up an (innocent, I found out later) intimidating creature trying to slither his way into my garage and my life.
So, as summer gets under way, I can't IMAGINE what's in store for the Kirks. No doubt there will be a lot more of the good, the funny, and the just plain awkward. Stay Tuned, Y'all!
Saturday, May 11, 2013
"If you bungle raising your kids, I don't think anything else you do well really matters."
I have no doubt in my mind that my mom loved every minute of being a mom, even the rough times. I never doubted that 3 kids within five years was her master accomplishment, her dream come true, her purpose and her gift. I don't know how she did it sometimes; she had no help-- no grandparents, no money for babysitters, only a husband who worked often and hard. But she never complained. I never doubted that finagling private school tuition, carpooling, cooking hot breakfasts, packing lunches, and whipping up Cracker Barrel meals each night was her forte. I once heard an intern at her office ask her what she had wanted to be when she got out of school. Without hesitation she answered, "A Mom." I'm so glad she did.
Yep, I didn't then and I don't now have any doubts that what must have been long years, long days sometimes were all that she had asked for and she wouldn't have traded it for anything. And this Mother's Day 2013, I hope three little Kirk boys will say the same thing.
I hope they know that spending every evening at the baseball field, football stadium, or basketball gym until way past bedtime is so much better than American Idol or Duck Dynasty reruns.
I hope they know that every brown bag lunch I pack is packed specifically for each boy. I take the time to make each one's sandwich just as he likes it, with snacks particular to each T. And when they tell me how good their lunch was at pick up, I feel like a million bucks.
I hope they know that report card day, test score day, awards day are days that make me giddy.
I hope they know that carpooling with elementary school jokes echoing from the backseat makes me giggle more than some of the best Facebook posts.
I hope they know that their sweet faces at night, once they've drifted off to sleep, are enough to wipe the slate clean, forget the "rough" parts of the day, and focus only on those precious little personalities.
I hope they know that every pitch in the backyard, every stray ball to the shin I take, I take with joy. I could pay someone to teach you how to pitch, shoot, or throw a football. But I'm too selfish for that.
I hope they know that folding their first Power Ranger undies to middle school boxer shorts reminds me that time is moving quickly. When I see that the youth large t-shirts have been replaced by an Adult Small, I have to catch my breath.
I hope one day when I've added grandmother to my roles in life, my tall, handsome, grown up boys can look back with confidence and say, "My mom loved being a Mother." And then launch into some great story of the four of us, doing something that at the time seemed small, but was big enough to become a memory.
Yep, I didn't then and I don't now have any doubts that what must have been long years, long days sometimes were all that she had asked for and she wouldn't have traded it for anything. And this Mother's Day 2013, I hope three little Kirk boys will say the same thing.
I hope they know that spending every evening at the baseball field, football stadium, or basketball gym until way past bedtime is so much better than American Idol or Duck Dynasty reruns.
I hope they know that every brown bag lunch I pack is packed specifically for each boy. I take the time to make each one's sandwich just as he likes it, with snacks particular to each T. And when they tell me how good their lunch was at pick up, I feel like a million bucks.
I hope they know that report card day, test score day, awards day are days that make me giddy.
I hope they know that carpooling with elementary school jokes echoing from the backseat makes me giggle more than some of the best Facebook posts.
I hope they know that their sweet faces at night, once they've drifted off to sleep, are enough to wipe the slate clean, forget the "rough" parts of the day, and focus only on those precious little personalities.
I hope they know that every pitch in the backyard, every stray ball to the shin I take, I take with joy. I could pay someone to teach you how to pitch, shoot, or throw a football. But I'm too selfish for that.
I hope they know that folding their first Power Ranger undies to middle school boxer shorts reminds me that time is moving quickly. When I see that the youth large t-shirts have been replaced by an Adult Small, I have to catch my breath.
I hope one day when I've added grandmother to my roles in life, my tall, handsome, grown up boys can look back with confidence and say, "My mom loved being a Mother." And then launch into some great story of the four of us, doing something that at the time seemed small, but was big enough to become a memory.
Wednesday, April 17, 2013
Tater Tots
Oh Tate, I haven't written about you in quite a while, which doesn't mean you haven't been doing anything blog-worthy. On the contrary, perhaps it's because you are doing SO much these days that I just can't wrap my brain around it all.
I mean, just this week while I was out running and Daddy and the boys worked in the yard, you figured out that Yes! you can pour yourself a bowl of cereal, milk and all. No adult help needed.
You recently determined that cleaning your room is "boring." Unless of course, Daddy has called and there is a prize involved. I have other words for cleaning your room, but I shall keep them to myself.
You have so many favorite songs that it's hard to provide for your musical tastes. I did manage to get a copy of "Apple Bottom Jeans" that we can play repeatedly in the car, atleast until I get my hands on "Thrift Shop."
You figured out how to order videos on my Kindle Fire and now we, ahem, you are the proud owner of 4 new cartoons. I, ahem, am paying the credit card bill. Oh, and I appreciate the impetus to learn to swtich on the Parental Controls. I had a nice long chat with the guy at Amazon.
You like girls! So much so that I'm getting tired and a little confused some days with the amount of role playing that goes on in the car, in the house, and at McDonalds. I guess it was inevitable that with two older brothers sporting girlfriends of their own, that you would choose one (or two) for yourself.
While I was busy watching Tucker pitch strikes and Tanner knock down grounders at shortstop, you managed to trek your bike all the way up the big hill at the ballpark and once at the top, careen down at topspeed, walkers beware. From the bleachers, I could only watch and pray as you hit your brakes right at the fence of the batting cages. Then? You did it again!
But I guess what stands out the most lately is your incessant desire to go to school. I explained to you the process of turning in our papers and waiting to hear if we were chosen for the Pre-K program. However, upon turning them in (the last day possible, no less) you politely asked the receptionist if you could see your classroom now. She just giggled. You, of course, were serious. We haven't heard any news yet, but that hasn't stopped you from asking every day if the school has called.
Don't you realize that if you go to school you can't wear pajamas and firehats and firejackets every day? Don't you realize that lunch at the McDonald's playground will come to a stop? Don't you realize that the teachers will send you home with work to do? Tests to study for? Letters to trace? Don't you realize that you can't nap when you want, where you want, and with the Blankie you want? Don't you realize what this means?
I won't get to help you pick which pajama shirt to wear or whether to wear the red, black, or yellow fire hat. I won't get to hear you talk about what you and Leena played on the playground. I won't have anyone to go to Kroger with me. I won't have a lunch date every day. I won't have to tell the burning building story every day on the way home from the Y. I won't have anyone to point out every Coke truck that passes. I won't have you.
I already had to send my other two best friends off to school. Do I really have to do it again?
I mean, just this week while I was out running and Daddy and the boys worked in the yard, you figured out that Yes! you can pour yourself a bowl of cereal, milk and all. No adult help needed.
You recently determined that cleaning your room is "boring." Unless of course, Daddy has called and there is a prize involved. I have other words for cleaning your room, but I shall keep them to myself.
You have so many favorite songs that it's hard to provide for your musical tastes. I did manage to get a copy of "Apple Bottom Jeans" that we can play repeatedly in the car, atleast until I get my hands on "Thrift Shop."
You figured out how to order videos on my Kindle Fire and now we, ahem, you are the proud owner of 4 new cartoons. I, ahem, am paying the credit card bill. Oh, and I appreciate the impetus to learn to swtich on the Parental Controls. I had a nice long chat with the guy at Amazon.
You like girls! So much so that I'm getting tired and a little confused some days with the amount of role playing that goes on in the car, in the house, and at McDonalds. I guess it was inevitable that with two older brothers sporting girlfriends of their own, that you would choose one (or two) for yourself.
While I was busy watching Tucker pitch strikes and Tanner knock down grounders at shortstop, you managed to trek your bike all the way up the big hill at the ballpark and once at the top, careen down at topspeed, walkers beware. From the bleachers, I could only watch and pray as you hit your brakes right at the fence of the batting cages. Then? You did it again!
But I guess what stands out the most lately is your incessant desire to go to school. I explained to you the process of turning in our papers and waiting to hear if we were chosen for the Pre-K program. However, upon turning them in (the last day possible, no less) you politely asked the receptionist if you could see your classroom now. She just giggled. You, of course, were serious. We haven't heard any news yet, but that hasn't stopped you from asking every day if the school has called.
Don't you realize that if you go to school you can't wear pajamas and firehats and firejackets every day? Don't you realize that lunch at the McDonald's playground will come to a stop? Don't you realize that the teachers will send you home with work to do? Tests to study for? Letters to trace? Don't you realize that you can't nap when you want, where you want, and with the Blankie you want? Don't you realize what this means?
I won't get to help you pick which pajama shirt to wear or whether to wear the red, black, or yellow fire hat. I won't get to hear you talk about what you and Leena played on the playground. I won't have anyone to go to Kroger with me. I won't have a lunch date every day. I won't have to tell the burning building story every day on the way home from the Y. I won't have anyone to point out every Coke truck that passes. I won't have you.
I already had to send my other two best friends off to school. Do I really have to do it again?
Wednesday, April 10, 2013
Blue Eyes Smiling
On July 31st of 1999 I married the prettiest blue eyes I'd ever seen and thought I was the luckiest girl ever. A year and half later, I gave birth to another set of pretty blue eyes and became the luckiest Mom ever. Tucker, you were 40 weeks, 8 pounds 4ounces, and 21 inches of perfection, wrapped up in a tiny hospital blanket and cap. Twelve years later, you are still the picture of perfection, only now a 90 pound 4 foot tall version of perfection clothed in Nike and Under Armor. I can't believe how fast the years have gone and also how much we've done together in those twelve years.
We went strolling EVERY DAY, cruising the streets, the neighborhoods, the sidewalks until we'd waved at every neighbor, petted every puppy, and pointed at everything we found interesting.
We read books, cuddled up in the recliner with a sippy cup in your hand, cold can of Coke in mine. Ahhh, joy.
We counted dump trucks in the afternoon, pointing as each one passed the house, enjoying the comfort of our canopy swing underneath the tree.
We navigated the waters of fall football together, each of us jumping when we heard the front door slam, a sure sign that Coach was home for the night. We traveled to every high school in Cobb County, wandered through the stadiums, trekked up the bleachers with a diaper bag and a baby on my hips, and cheered on Coach's team until you drifted off to sleep to the sounds of the cheerleaders' chants.
We welcomed a baby brother and visited the hospital EVERY day until it was time to bring that new brother home. You introduced him to everyone at Wal-Mart and Kroger as Gigi, Lord only knows why.
We played on the deck and in the back yard. From tricycles to battery-powered cars to finally your first small bike, we raced and rolled the hours away, imagining dirt bike tracks and Nascar races in your future.
Then we moved, and you found new friends and kindergarten and baseball and flag football. You rode your bike without training wheels, went to birthday parties, and became Daddy's biggest fan and first assistant coach. You drew up plays for him and placed them all together in one big notebook to help him get ready for spring football.
And we moved again and nothing fazed you, not the distance, not saying good-bye to your first best friends, nothing. You took Jackson County by storm and made it your home and tackled challenges that some adults couldn't handle, let alone a 6 year old.
You wrote stories in school that made me laugh and gasp and swell with pride; you brought home honors on Awards Day for academic success and citizenship; you were baptized at church.
We brought home ANOTHER baby brother, and you took to him like a pro. You set the Big Brother bar pretty high and continue to do so every day. You babysit so I can get in a quick 5 miler, teach Tate about technology, and I'm pretty sure you deserve a t -shirt that says, "If mom says no, ask Big Brother."
We vacationed at the beach and I was thrilled to find that I had given birth to a person who loves the sun and sand as much as I do. We make new memories every summer at the best beach house in Destin, where you've gone from playing in the sand to riding the waves to bungee jumping at The Track.
And now you are turning twelve, breezing through middle school, soaking up all things history (your favorite subject), and mowing down batters from the pitcher's mound. And you are still Daddy's biggest fan.
I hope you know that we will always be YOUR biggest fans, and that on April 11, 2001, you were officially the most perfect thing I had ever laid these green eyes on.
We went strolling EVERY DAY, cruising the streets, the neighborhoods, the sidewalks until we'd waved at every neighbor, petted every puppy, and pointed at everything we found interesting.
We read books, cuddled up in the recliner with a sippy cup in your hand, cold can of Coke in mine. Ahhh, joy.
We counted dump trucks in the afternoon, pointing as each one passed the house, enjoying the comfort of our canopy swing underneath the tree.
We navigated the waters of fall football together, each of us jumping when we heard the front door slam, a sure sign that Coach was home for the night. We traveled to every high school in Cobb County, wandered through the stadiums, trekked up the bleachers with a diaper bag and a baby on my hips, and cheered on Coach's team until you drifted off to sleep to the sounds of the cheerleaders' chants.
We welcomed a baby brother and visited the hospital EVERY day until it was time to bring that new brother home. You introduced him to everyone at Wal-Mart and Kroger as Gigi, Lord only knows why.
We played on the deck and in the back yard. From tricycles to battery-powered cars to finally your first small bike, we raced and rolled the hours away, imagining dirt bike tracks and Nascar races in your future.
Then we moved, and you found new friends and kindergarten and baseball and flag football. You rode your bike without training wheels, went to birthday parties, and became Daddy's biggest fan and first assistant coach. You drew up plays for him and placed them all together in one big notebook to help him get ready for spring football.
And we moved again and nothing fazed you, not the distance, not saying good-bye to your first best friends, nothing. You took Jackson County by storm and made it your home and tackled challenges that some adults couldn't handle, let alone a 6 year old.
You wrote stories in school that made me laugh and gasp and swell with pride; you brought home honors on Awards Day for academic success and citizenship; you were baptized at church.
We brought home ANOTHER baby brother, and you took to him like a pro. You set the Big Brother bar pretty high and continue to do so every day. You babysit so I can get in a quick 5 miler, teach Tate about technology, and I'm pretty sure you deserve a t -shirt that says, "If mom says no, ask Big Brother."
We vacationed at the beach and I was thrilled to find that I had given birth to a person who loves the sun and sand as much as I do. We make new memories every summer at the best beach house in Destin, where you've gone from playing in the sand to riding the waves to bungee jumping at The Track.
And now you are turning twelve, breezing through middle school, soaking up all things history (your favorite subject), and mowing down batters from the pitcher's mound. And you are still Daddy's biggest fan.
I hope you know that we will always be YOUR biggest fans, and that on April 11, 2001, you were officially the most perfect thing I had ever laid these green eyes on.
Friday, March 29, 2013
3 Sausage Patties and a Waffle
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!
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!
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:-)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)