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.

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.

it's the coaches' wife's life

Welcome to my world, it's a heckuva life,
dreaming of verticals and fast forty times.
Sweating in the stands and chasing babies on the track
Waiting for the players, giving pats on the back.

Falling to sleep with Tony Franklin in my ear,
We're dropping the Wing T and using his gear.
Running the spread and it's changing our game,
If i start screaming "Trips", please, i'm not to blame.

It's the coaches' wife life, rah! rah!
It's the coaches' wife life. ree! ree!

Rolling into the fieldhouse at six thir tay,
Bringing supper to the coaches cause they work on Sun-Day.
Watching film and drawing plays, and watching film again,
Maybe they'll be home tonight by nine, maybe ten.

Feed the kids at 6 and reheat the stuff at eight
Doing phone interviews on our dinner date.
Kids keep calling us and No, they're not ours--
"Can you move me to receiver, Coach, I'm gonna be a star!"

It's the coaches' wife's life, 4th and 10,
It's the coaches' wife's life, let's do it again.

The kids get special prizes every time that Daddy's late
T'shirts, athletic tape, leftover food is great.
Riding the tractor, rolling dummies down the hill,
Coaches kids are used to the cheapest of thrills.

It's the coaches' wife's life, punt and pray
It's the coaches' wife's life, day to day.

Praying every Friday,and wishing for a win
the pressure's always there and i'm only a fan.
Reading the papers, hope the sports guy was cool.
Help us out, dude, we're an up-and-coming school.

My fridge is a shrine to the teens in red and black,
My cupboards are stacked in case the players attack.
The closets are stocked with every shirt you can imagine,
My favorite one reminds us to "Eat, Pray, Win!"

Heading to the banquet, it's the end of the year.
Walk in 15 minutes late, and what do I hear?
A bouquet of roses and a shout out to me,
10 weeks of heaven's worth it, cause they're so pretty!

the coaches' wife's life, playoff hopes,
the coaches' wife's life, there's always next year!

Senior Night

"No scores are known?
Then look down field,
There in the twilight sky the numbers run and blink
And total up the years;
Our Sons this day are grown."
Ray Bradbury

Senior Night. Hard to believe another season has come and now is almost gone. Certainly things aren't ending the way we hoped they would. If most of us (even the wives;)had our way, we'd be playing next Friday, and the next, and on into December, and Christmas shopping would take a back seat to playoffs; and Senior Night would be just a small step in closing things down. But things don't always play out the way we wish, and tonight ends what for some parents and players began 10 or 12 years ago: 40 pound linebackers swallowed by shoulder pads intended to protect them; awkward quarterbacks with tiny arms looking for open receivers who aren't quite sure what route to run; and little boys on the sidelines who have more interest in mud puddles than pile-ons. Things have certainly changed. Forty pounds linebackers are now vicious assassins with 5 o'clock shadows, and the little boys who played in the mud watch the game eagerly for their sign to run in.

I watch these boys, who were freshmen when we got here, taller, stronger, and so much different in just four years. The high school freshmen are now soon-to-be college freshmen and their priorities and goals will change and they will leave all of this behind and take with them what they need to know to be as successful after high school as they were in high school. When I see them, that's exactly what I see, success. Good grades, talented musicians, skilled athletes, responsible teenagers who are role-models to the kids who wear their jerseys on Friday nights.

No one promised them a 10-0 season, no one promised them a play-off appearance or a scholarship with their name in the paper. Unlike rec league, there's no trophy at the end of the season for every kid on the team. But they played the game anyway, practicing in the scorching heat, lining up in the coldest of rains, and limping through a play to get the first down. Sometimes they get what they deserve and sometimes they don't. When they don't it's easy to point fingers, assign blame, and dig up excuses. It's easier, though, to look at what they are promised and what they leave with once the scoreboard turns off and the stadium lights go dark.

They leave with friends, teammates who can only understand what it's like to win a game no one thought you would win. Teammates who know what it's like to stop a ranked team on 4th and 5 when everyone thought they'd score. Teammates who feel the pain of a loss no one was prepared for. Teammates who share the same locker room stories, road trip stories, and inside jokes that no one else would appreciate.

They leave with a work ethic that says you don't quit when things get tough or don't turn out the way you want. They leave with the discipline of pressing on when things aren't going your way and people aren't on your side. It's tough to play a game when the crowd isn't cheering for you. It's the same in life. That's what they leave with.

What's really important, though, is what they leave behind. Tonight is senior night, the time to celebrate what these players have accomplished and part of what they accomplish will be what they have taught the underclassmen. If next year's team can say that their determination, their pride for their team, their hard work came from watching their senior leaders, then that's a legacy.

"What was less is now, incredibly, more!
Man, then, is the thing
That teaches zeros how to cling together and add up!
The cup stood empty?
WEll, now, look!
A brimming cup."

Coach Enters Chili Cook-Off, or that man is in my kitchen!!

Fall is one of my favorite times of the year, next to summer of course. Nothing, not even Christmas, beats sun, sand, beach, pool, etc. Fall brings football, Halloween, the half-marathon, and plenty of other fun things, so I get excited at the first sign of school buses and falling leaves. This year our church held a fall festival the day of Halloween and one of the events of the day was a Chili Cook-Off. Well, coach wouldn't be working that day, so he decided he would enter a chili of his own to be judged. Now, let me just preface the remainder of the blog with this: the man doesn't cook. Occasionally, he will throw steaks on the grill, or fry an egg sandwich out of desperation; but really that's the extent of it. It's no flaw in his character, he is simply a busy man with a stay-at-home wife to do such things.

So let's set the stage. The day before the festival, Coach presents to me a grocery list of all the things he will need to buy for his never-before-made chili. In all seriousness, he is prepared to buy approximately 20 items, 15 of which I tell him we already have in the pantry, you know, the things we women folk call "staples." I whittle his list down to a mere $10, and once he returns he is ready to cook. One would think that this being "his idea" and "his chili" would mean that i just sit back and watch the Ole Miss game while he stands over a hot stove, stirring and chopping. One would be wrong.

His first mistake is to open the cabinet doors looking for the necessary pots and pans. Did I mention that this is "my kitchen?" With a toddler in the house, there is a definite method to the madness that is my kitchen. One cabinet holds only things that are safe for Tate to pull out, rearrange, or sit in. Other cabinet doors, the ones with child safety locks on them, are a bit more tricky. His first choice of cabinet was one of the locked ones. Things get a little hectic sometimes, what with trying to unload a dishwasher with a baby sitting on the door, and then pulling out the things i have just put in a cabinet. So most unloading moments go something like this: Baby sitting on dishwasher door, steak knife in hand, me grabbing pots and pans and throwing them, thrusting them, stacking them, and shoving them into whatever opened door is available. Then securing baby latch lock just seconds before baby reaches cabinet doors to undo all that hard work. Occasionally there is an errant handle sticking out but somehow i've managed to afix the baby lock and all is well in the world for the moment. (Knife has been wrestled from toddler and placed in its official place).

So when Coach opens, rather roughly, the baby-locked cabinet and pots, pans, and skillets come flying out to his feet, he is not a happy cook. This is my cue to return to the kitchen and aid in whatever way as to keep him from using language that would make Ozzy Osbourne proud. Need I remind everyone that frustration does not make for a happy cook, can I get a witness ladies? So once Coach has his things in place and I have been assigned my duties (it's a no-go on the Ole Miss game by this point) of cutting onions, bell peppers, garlic, and the other mystery ingredients that will make this a shoo-in to win, it's time to clean all of these things: knives, cutting boards, separate bowls for each ingredient until it's time to combine them. He did it just like Rachel Ray and all those other "professional" chefs who cook for a living, and have SOMEONE ELSE clean up for them. He was enjoying this a little too much.

Fast forward a couple of hours and I'm back in the kitchen, my kitchen remember, and I'm taste-testing, oohing and aahing over this chili he's created. Now I don't mean to sound bitter, because it was pretty good. But just for fun I'd like to see him create Chili (or anything for that matter) with a baby in a high chair, begging for something in baby talk, a 9 year old at the table doing 4th grade math, and another who wants to read to me while I'm cooking so he can get outside and play. NOW, make me some chili, Coach. And while you're at it, throw some cornbread in the oven to go with it.

Whew! All I can say is that the Chili was really good, but unfortunately, "our" chili as he agreed to call it, did not win the cook-off, and he took it a little hard; losing is never fun, no matter what the competition. But I think we both learned a lot from this weekend. For him, church cook-offs are not region games; they're meant to be fun. For me, come hell or highwater, do whatever it takes to keep that man out of my kitchen unless he is unloading take-out bags.

I Love You, Coach!

Road Rules: Yes, I'm RUnning--Got a problem with that?

Dear Cars and Drivers,

It's Jennifer, the girl you passed on the road this morning. I was the one running, ponytail swinging in the wind, visible breaths coming from my mouth in the cool crisp air. You know, the one, you almost hit but got lucky and looked up from your cell phone just quickly enough to swerve and miss me. You don't scare me, though; you're not the first SUV to send me jumping to the edge of the road, but you got me thinking. Maybe we need a little bit of an introduction and maybe a few ground rules, just to make the roads safer for me and less liable for you.

First of all, yes I am running. By choice. I set my alarm, rolled out of bed and into my tennis shoes for the enjoyment of a workout, not to be taunted by 2 ton machines driven by distracted drivers.

Secondly, I am on the road because if you'll notice, there are no sidewalks. Our town did not earn the honor of "Best Places to Live and Workout" in Runner's World magazine, and so I'm expecting you to share the roads. If there were a sidewalk i would certainly use it, but i'm not going to stay home because there isn't one.

And yes, i may be pushing a stroller and Yes, there is a real baby in there. No need to slow down and rubber neck as you pass us. ANy idea how much a babysitter goes for these days?

One word for you-- Texting. Need i say more? There are laws against it because we already have statistics. I don't want to be one more statistic and I'm sure you also don't want to make headlines for striking a woman pushing a jog stroller b/c you were reminding your spouse to TIVO your favorite show via ILLEGAL text.

McDonalds. It's called fast food because you can get it quickly, not because you are supposed to drive fast while you eat it. Let's leave it at this. If you have to steer with your knee in order to consume your Value Meal, you are literally one knee jerk away from making my husband a widower. And he's a big guy.

A little consideration, please. I'm not asking that you go out of your way to give me the whole lane to run in, but really, if it's 6 am and you are the only car on the road would it really kill you to move into the center lane so that my obituary doesn't read "Died while running," or "fought a Buick and lost."

And just a little warning. You may not be able to see it, but I do have my cell phone with me and I wouldn't even hesitate to call the police and share with them your tag number, your estimated speed, or your extracurricular activities I spot as you careen past me.

Now, isn't that easy. We can all agree that a little courtesy on both sides of the road will go along way in encouraging others to take up running, walking, or cycling as a pasttime. If we can do this, maybe then we WILL be chosen as one of those cities that magazines praise for their safe roads, considerate drivers, and low obesity rates. And when you pass me and I wave, I'm just being friendly. Wave back, or better yet, just smile. Keep both of those hands on the wheel:)

Lots of Love,

The Girl in the Nikes

A Coach and His Player

I think i'm like everyone when it comes to Friday night football. Nothing beats an evening with like-minded people, pulling for the same outcome, encompassed by the sights and sounds of high school football. Few people, when asked, could accurately describe the atmosphere that surrounds a friday night on the field, in the stands, or tailgating in the parking lot before the game, though most would give a valiant try. Much as we like, words just don't do it justice. Despite that, years later men recount their days on the gridiron with as much detail, passion, and pride as the boys who actually played in the game the night before. To them, the picture in their heads is as clear as it was twenty years ago. Often, their stories sound very similar. And that's a good thing. It's nice to know that no one can take away our moments and our memories, even if they're only in our heads.

The next best thing to our actual memories are the photographs that capture a moment that may never come again. When our memories fail us, when words just aren't enough, we can flip to the photos and all of a sudden we're back to a season, a game, a place we thought we'd left behind. We remember a friend, a coach, a teammate, and a moment that defined us. And sometimes a picture pops up and answers an often-asked question and explains something that some people have never understood, until then.

I'll admit, when i first became a coach's widow, er wife, I really had no idea what i was getting myself into. Sure, i expected practices every afternoon, and of course the big game on Friday. I was ready for that, and excited to be a part of it. But the rough stuff? Let's just say it's a live and learn kind of thing. The first time you hear your husband's name shouted from the stands with an epithet and not a cheer, it hurts; and the second and the third . . .? nah, it doesn't get any easier. Fortunately, skin gets thicker as the games add up. And as the games add up, so too does the real picture of football. How many times do our coaches give rides home to kids who wouldn't play football if they didn't? How many times do coaches hand out lunch money to kids who may not eat that day? How many times do coaches open their homes to boys who, at that particular moment, have nowhere else to go? I'll say it again--that's the stuff I was totally unprepared for. Yet, THAT'S the stuff that I love the most.

A couple of years ago, I attempted to answer an oft-asked question about the coaching profession. Why would anyone put in the hours, put up with the criticism, the uncertainty of a career determined by teenagers, for what equals out to less than minimum wage? Sure, it sounds great going into it. Teach a couple of classes, math or social studies maybe, then spend the afternoon calling plays, leading drills, and blowing the whistle. Sit back at the end of the day and watch the film, making notes while sipping a glass of sweet tea from the comfort of the recliner.
Ha! If only the job were that simple, yet the game really is. Take a group of young men, share with them your knowledge, inspire them with your passion, and teach them to respect the game. In between that, teach them to catch a pass, throw a ball, read a defense, run a route, and handle wins and losses with equal grace.

When I first saw the picture on the left, it hit me. There's the answer: Why do coaches spend more time with each other than their own families? Why do they stay up late writing reference letters for kids they haven't seen in two years? Why do they take a fall sport and turn it into a year round job? Because some day one of those boys will call and ask you to be the best man at his wedding. Because one day the kid you put your arm around will show up at the field to watch you coach the state championship game. One day the kid you were toughest on will come back and thank you for not letting him quit. One day the kid you thought hated you will tell you he hopes one day that HIS kid will play for you.

Thanks, Abbey, for the great picture from Friday night. We have no idea what is being said between those two, and that's the point. Some things are better left between a coach and his player.