A River Runs through It

Teachers these days have it hard: pay cuts, furlough days, state testing stress, lack of funds for supplies. It's a wonder college grads even take the certification test, let alone actually accept a position as a teacher, with all the negative press the world's oldest profession gets these days. But every teacher knows that if you do the job long enough, the rewards will come. Struggling readers will master their first books, math-a-phobes will conquer algebra, and if we are lucky, those state testing gods will smile down on us fondly. The same is true for coaches, who essentially teach the same principles, skills, and fundamentals; who exhibit leadership, love, and hope on a field or court instead of in a classroom.

Last Friday, Coach got a call from a former player, and we had a fist-pump moment. One of his former student-athletes received an offer from a Division I school to play football after graduation, the final piece to a three summer puzzle. With that piece in place, this student-athlete has fulfilled a promise he made to himself to work as hard as he had to in order to reach his goal: college football. I was pretty proud (did I mention the fist-pump was mine?) when I got the text from Coach who had just gotten the text from River, and I had one of those flash-before-my-eyes moments: off-season workouts, texts with questions at night, film watching and discussion. It all paid off, and it's been fun to watch.

Of course I'm proud of River and excited to see what his future holds, but I have a little more invested in this whole thing. Tuesday morning all of Atlanta was made privy to the unfortunate decision to drink and drive by none other than one of our most gloried Falcons. Well, I have little eyes watching all around me, absorbing anything and everything football related, and I find a whole lot of comfort in the fact that for this one massive error made by Michael Turner, an even better story is unfolding right in front of my three boys' eyes.

When your dad is a football coach, your heroes don't have to be elusive and high paid; for my boys, their hero is a phone call and a Saturday ticket away; they are the boys putting in extra hours in the weight room and hitting the bleachers when they finish. Their heroes play past the hurt, cram for honor roll, and know when to say thanks. And for all those first year teachers and coaches hoping to make a difference in some student's life, know that sometimes it's the students who make a difference in us.

My Tanner!

Y'all know those times when your kids do things that just totally blow you away? I'm not talking about leaving the milk out all morning or hitting a home run on the first at bat. I'm talking about those times when your kids say or do things that absolutely stop you in your tracks: when you overhear them pray at night or witness one of them stop and help someone who dropped her books or you stumble upon one of them reading to the other without being bribed. Y'all probably, like me, feel like those moments are sometimes few and far between. Well, not tonight.


Tonight was just an ordinary night-- until it wasn't. Tanner and I were headed to baseball practice, just the two of us, and without brothers in the car, he had me all to himself. "Hey Mom, what do you think would be the worst way to die?" Huh? Where did this come from, I wondered, but I pressed on, determined to give him a grown up answer. I pondered it all: car wreck, fire, drowning, sickness. "Well, I guess they would all be pretty bad ways to die. I don't know if one would be worse than the other." I wasn't sure if he didn't like my answer or if it satisfied him enough, but that was it-- end of that conversation, and we moved on to whether I thought he would get to pitch or not.


After a very long, almost excruciating, 90 minute practice that included fundamentals, drills, pop flies, and incessant "whoop, whoop's" from Tanner to his friends, we were back in the car. My middle child had gone from philosophy major to pre-teen goof ball in a two hour span, and he wasn't done yet. The question Tanner had originally posed to me about dying came back in the form of an answer. "Hey, Mom. You want me to tell you what the worst way to die would be?"

"You think you figured it out?"

"Yep. The worst way to die would be to die alone." Pause. Silence. I couldn't answer; and this mostly eloquent, English teacher mom managed to utter something quite un-eloquent like, "Uh-huh."

Nine and a half years ago, a very, very sick baby boy spent 17 weeks in the NICU, much of that time alone. And I wonder. . . does he remember? Is that where he got his answer? And if it is, what other answers does he have????

Oh, Tanner! You keep me on my toes.

Fathers, Roosters, and a Rocker

Father's Day 2012 came and went yesterday without much fanfare at this house. Not to worry, though, Coach had a fun-filled afternoon with Tucker (the boy who first made him a father) and a swell father figure whom this Kirk family has all come to know and love over the years. After devouring his traditional Father's Day breakfast of French toast, maple bacon, and grits (prepared with loving hands by muah and Tate)and opening up a few goodies from the boys, Coach K loaded up with clubs, tees, shoes, and Tucker for a drive over to the annual Rooster Classic pre-tournament tournament to spend a sun shiney day with some old friends ( that we now just call family). I wasn't sure at first about this golf excursion on a day set aside for father's and their fams, but after hearing the details from a worn out but enthusiastic Tucker, yesterday's outing was just the ticket for a dad who deserves the best. The Rooster Classic is an annual fundraiser whose goal is to raise money to send kids to FCA camp, kids who otherwise might not have the funds, or the Christian-driven parents, to experience a place where fun is centered around learning about God. Big Jay and the rest of the Bodes have made it their goal to fill that camp every summer with kids who benefit from golfers who want to give back. They (the golfers) also have a pretty good time raising money, golfing, eating bar-b-q, and hanging with former Brave John Rocker. The Rooster Classic also serves as a kind of memorial to Big Jay and Mrs. Margie's son Brent, or Rooster, who died in a plane crash several years ago. Not only do his memories live on with all the folks who gather every year, but so does his name. This year the tournament just happened to fall on the weekend of Father's Day and what better tribute to both Jay and Brent than to bring together dads and their sons for an afternoon of priceless and picturesque memories. We are always told to appreciate every day what we have and more importantly, WHO we have, because we never know when things or people will be taken away from us. Sometimes, as with Brent, that lesson hits close to home. So yesterday, while Billy strolled the links with a great dad, Tucker experienced his first brag-worthy father-son golf tournament, and he learned that family comes in all forms.

Things You do When You're Dating

Thirteen years ago today, I was running around like a chicken with her head cut off, weeks before the biggest day of my life (up to that point), checking off my to-do list to become Mrs. James William Kirk III. I'm sure Mimi (back then just Mom) and I were wrapping gifts, stuffing boxes, and licking envelopes on the floor of her much-used living room. Coach (still just Billy back then) was probably at the gym, wedding details the LAST thing on his mind. We would have still been in that cute stage, before cell phones hung on belt loops, and I would have been waiting for Mom's house phone to ring so I could hear his sweet voice checking in with me for the night. Coach was a good courter, always taking me to dinner, movies, heck he used to even walk with me back in the day, round and round the lake, acting as if walking was the next best thing to a 420 pound bench press. Ahh, the good old days, when we went to midnight movies, shared a dessert, and held hands ALL. THE. TIME: the things you do when you're dating:-) And just so the young neighbor couples in the cul-de-sac don't despair when they see their future flashing before their eyes in the form of the Kirk family, I'd like to share the details of my evening, thirteen years after the invitations were stamped and sent out. Once the boys were securely dropped off at the local FBC VBS, I envisioned a quiet evening, or at least a quiet two hours until the noise returned, screechy voices echoing the events of the night. Fold a little laundry, channel surf, wipe down some kitchen counters, maybe. I envisioned wrong. Coach disrupted my bath towel fold to tell me to get in the car, tennis rackets in his hand and athletic clothes adorning his body. Great, right? Well, it was raining, had been raining all day, and is still raining as I write this. "Are you an athlete or not?" he taunted, and y'all know I can't back down from a challenge. So as we loaded up and the rain pounded a little harder on our windshield as we drove to the courts, we laughed, knowing that after thirteen years of wedded bliss (bliss being moving vans, surgeries, preemie clothes, pediatric endocrinologists, mean principals and all the other good stuff), a little rain was NOTHING we couldn't handle. So we served it up, Wimbledon style, only we didn't stop when the balls splashed and died, didn't give second chances because of a slick spot (because life surely doesn't), but finished strong as we always do and walked off the court hand in hand, just like we did almost thirteen years ago.

Musings on Motherhood, or Happy Mother's Day To Me!

I couldn't decide at first how to title this one, considering that I came at it from the angle of "Things that make me happy" and most of them had to do with my kids, so I made it into my Mother's Day blog and I think it really hits the spot. This coming Sunday, moms will wake up to breakfast in bed (that they will eventually have to clean up), bottles of perfume (that have a very good chance of being spilled on the carpet), beautiful earrings (that will inadvertently be yanked out as she wrestles an unwilling toddler into his car seat), and an entire day that is "all about Mom." Who wouldn't want that? Apparently, a lot of folks.

A recent study looked at whether people WITH children or people WITHOUT children were happier. Sorry, I didn't get the results--my mind was stuck on the statement people without children; are there really grown adults out there with diplomas, mortgages, and spouses who don't have children? Interesting. . .
No high chairs clogging up the kitchen?
No potty chairs in the bathroom to trip over?
No sippy cups with days (weeks?) old milk hiding in the sofa cushions?
No PTO meetings to attend?
No lost sunglasses, remote controls, or cell phones that doubled as baby rattles in a pinch?
No science fair projects at the last minute? No parent-teacher conferences every quarter? agendas to sign daily?
No Legos to step on in bare feet?
No taking baths with mini sailboats and tiny dinosaurs tickling my nether regions? No baseball practices to sit through on rainy summer afternoons?
No football games on icy cold, windy Saturday mornings?
No jerseys, cleats, hats, gloves, mouthpieces to find as we are in the car, engine running?

Really?

No one to help you crack the eggs on Sunday mornings or stir the pancake batter, chair pulled up close to the counter?
No one to say, "I love you, Princess" as I leave his room for the night?
No one to exceed on all areas of the CRCT state test?
No one to cheer for as he hits a doozy of a line drive right past the shortstop's head?
No one to ask me how old I was when Kennedy was shot?
No kindergartner to read signs and billboards and cardboard books for the first time, giddier than me even in his own progress?
No constant reminder of how handsome his daddy's blue eyes are?
No treasure chest full of premature onesies, favorite blankies, and "coming home" outfits?

I'll have to check on the results of that survey, but I'm confident in my answer. I am a happier gal with messy bathrooms, a disaster of a mini-van, a backyard full of all things Tonka, and a full heart (and home) every night.

Parting is Such Sweet Sorrow, Part Two

Well, it had to come to an end--12 weeks of quizzes, tests, computer lab, fire drills, literature, and more flew by and yesterday was my last day as a high schooler. Which means that today was my first day back to my old life, and sweet as it was to have lunch in a room free of copy machines and coffee makers(every teacher has her own), I felt a little mischievous cruising the streets before 3:45, kind of like a truant senior on skip day. Hard to believe just months ago I was lamenting the return to the world of academia and counting the days until I could return to my "normal" life. Twelve weeks later, I'm not sure I know what normal is.

I know people who look at me as if I have three heads when I mention I teach high school, either that or I get the look of pity that screams, "thank you for your service," as if high school were somehow equivalent to daily ambush on a battle field in a high security war zone. Those folks don't know what they are missing.

I love reading vocabulary sentences where I am the main topic, consistently referred to as Miss Kirk, despite the fact that Mr. Kirk could be found two halls over.

I love hearing how awesome and pretty I am, never mind the fact the compliments always came on the day of a major test.

I love being confidant to a junior girl on the brink of her first major crush, sharing in all the innocence of first love.

Cheerleading drama. Enough said. I have no daughters, so I fulfill all my high school girl drama with other people's kids.

Challenges: "Hey, Mrs. Kirk, you think you could outrun me?" Sorry, hun. I realize Georgia Tech is recruiting you, but if it's me and you and a 12 miler, I WILL WIN! Alas, all good things must come to an end, which means now I seek my compliments from my Senior Citizens instead of the senior class of 2012; instead of making surreptitious laps around the lunchroom to keep up with the latest styles in clothing, music, and gadgets, I'm forced to do real research so my own kids think I'm naturally "cool." The only running challenge I have is the guy with the artificial leg, and even I couldn't be that cocky; and my own elementary boys are beginning to be creeped out by my incessant questions on cheerleader tryouts, gossip, and fifth grade relationships. All I can say (and i say it with a smile) is "You can take the girl out of the high school, but you can't take the high school out of the girl." Now don't forget to vote for me for Prom Queen, er, Teacher of the Year!

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.