First the shout outs:
On June 7, 2008, my friend Kimberly, my sister-in-law Rachel, and myself, completed a walking half marathon, which is 13 miles long. The first three miles were great fun. The next three miles were okay fun. Miles seven, eight, nine, and ten involved alot of questions about sanity and "Whose idea was this anyway?" The last three miles involved jokes that weren't funny unless you walked the first ten miles (and probably still aren't funny unless you are Kimberly or Rachel), lots of swearing, and sheer determination to finish. But finish we did. So we get a shout out.
My mom gets a shout out because she drove to Stevens Point, like she does every June, to make sure Noah received his birthday present on his birthday. Then she took Brandon and Lauren home with her overnight so I could get more packing done in this house. It is amazing what you can get done when the things you put in the box stay in the box. Double shout out to my Mom.
Jonathon's soccer coach, October, watched all four kids for Rich and I while we did the final walk through on the house. As if that wasn't enough, she then calls my cell phone and says, "I'll keep the kids and order pizza, you and Rich go out to dinner and celebrate." I don't know if there is a big enough microphone in world, but a shout out definitely goes out to October.
Jill, Don, and Kathryn, all watched the kids during different processes of Rich and I meeting with the realtor and the banker, and listened to me ummm....vent...because that is a better word than whine or complain...so they get a shout out too. Which means Sara gets one because she always listens to me ummm...vent...
So, now that I've thanked the academy, this past week has been so dang crazy that I was three steps away from taking the down payment for the house and buying a one way ticket to the Bahamas. Tuesday is a perfect example of why I felt so strongly about doing it. Rich was out of town (of course he was), so I dropped Jon off at soccer, drove across town to drop Noah off at baseball, drove back to pick up Jonathon, and on the way to watch Noah's game, ended up missing most it, much to Noah's great disappointment. To make matters worse, on final trip to watch Noah become an all star hitter, Brandon started screaming at the top of his lungs that he was hungry.
Granted, I had promised I would run through McDonald's drive-thru, but I had to get back to Noah's game because Jon's practice ran late and Lauren had a potty emergency that I had to take care of while at the soccer field. The whole time Brandon was screaming and crying, I was trying to reason with him that I would take care of it just not immediately, so he needed to "STOP IT!"
but I understood, he was tired and hungry NOW, just like I was, just like his brothers and sister, and it was late, and after I said, "That's enough Brandon!!" 47 times to no avail, I said, "I know Buddy, but I can't fix it until I get Noah, I can't leave Noah alone. I am trying and it has to be enough. I just can't make it better right now. I'm sorry you're just going to have to be upset." And I felt awful because I know what hungry and overtired and stressed out feel like; it has to be worse when you are five.
Truthfully, I would have given anything to be the one to trade places with Brandon, to be the one melting down in the back seat while someone drove me safely to where ever I needed to be, instead of the one silently screaming on the inside, in charge of getting dinner and a reasonably sane bedtime routine together, three nights before I was getting ready to close on my first house while packing everything in the other house. As strange as it sounds, in that moment, I was jealous of Brandon's ability to let it all go at the seams, since I knew that night as a mom was a bust, and the it would have been a welcome release of pent up emotion.
I had too many things to do, too many places to be at one time, and not enough "me" to be doing all of them at them once. However, like all the moms before me, the ones with me in the trenches, and the ones yet to be moms, I drove through it (literally): I drove through McDonald's (like I wouldn't after a night like that), fed everyone at home so we didn't risk a public scene, skipped baths (dirt was not a concern by this point), kissed everyone goodnight, and breathed a sigh of relief when my head hit the pillow.
The next day Noah asked me about missing most of his game. I was honest with him and told him what happened. He said I didn't seem upset, but when I explained that I really felt like I blew it as a mom and sometimes moms don't show their tears to their kids, he gave me a big hug and said he understood.
So my final shout out goes to Noah for understanding his mom isn't perfect, but she tries to do her best and she loves him.
Sunday, June 15, 2008
Thursday, June 5, 2008
Brandon Update
Yes. I know. I have four children. I have blogged about three of them and it is my job, my responsibility, my-must-do-it-so-my-mommy-guilt-does-not-kick-in-responsibility to report on child number three, Brandon. Do not misunderstand me; there is plenty to report and I love him. The real deal is Brandon can have me tied in knots faster than the other three kids put together. For one, he is the most like his father. Also, under his tough shell he is the easiest to have his feeling hurt and feel excluded from the group. However, he is extremely smart and extremely lovable. The extremely lovable part makes everything else easier to accept.
School went well: The child is five, just finishing 4K, can count to 100, and is already adding and subtracting math facts under 10.
So besides tying me knots, Brandon has been wiping the floor with me in Monopoly, Jr. Four games in 48 hours, and I have not been able to catch a break from this kid. I wish I could say I have been letting him win, but we start out on completely equal playing ground. Brandon ends up victorious and I end up humiliated. I only take comfort in the fact that I am teaching him math skills and good sportsmanship (although maybe I should be teaching him how to trash talk...nah...he can learn it from his brother like he does all his other practical life skills).
One thing that has been amazing to watch develop in Brandon is his sense of pride and leadership. He really wants to help Rich and I. He is the first one out the door, without being asked, to help me unload the groceries when I get home from the store. He also helps me put them away. Lately, he has been helping Lauren get out of her car seat when the van is stopped too. If I need someone to help complete something around the house, he wants to be first one that I ask. That is a joyous thing that I am going to exploit for as long as he lets me.
At church, he LOVES helping set up the Wednesday night meal when it is our turn to cook it. He still hates sitting still during church; some days I give up and put him and Lauren in the nursery when they are so antsy I think I am about to lose my mind, but paying attention is a learning process for everyone. I told our pastor that Brandon will probably be the child that goes into seminary. If that would happen I am passing out Pixie sticks and markers to all the little children under five years old, six minutes before his first sermon. I swear I am. And when members of the congregation ask who I am, I will reply, "his mother, of course."
On a not so fun note: Brandon needs to have outpatient dental surgery on June 19. His first visit to have dental work done a few years ago was unbelievably traumatic for he and I, as the sedation medication they gave him did not take full effect, so Brandon was just old enough and just awake enough to remember all the discomfort, all the noise, and the general yuck of the dentist office. I have since found a dentist that he loves. However, due to his anxiety in the chair, no one has been able to get into his mouth to do anything besides clean his teeth. There is so much dental work that needs to be done, he is going to be admitted into the hospital, be put under anaesthetic for an hour, wake up with completed dental work, and not remember a thing. I am sure I will remember the pain and discomfort of it when I receive the bill.
Just a random note because I don't know where else to put this: I have started calling Brandon and Lauren Pea & Pod. Those two love to find trouble if they cannot invent some of their own. I have a feeling that I might have reason to refer to that name during the summer.
Otherwise, Brandon is growing and growing physically and mentally. He has a healthy sense of mischief just like the rest of his siblings. He is so much more likely to beg forgiveness than ask permission, but my life would be less without him.
School went well: The child is five, just finishing 4K, can count to 100, and is already adding and subtracting math facts under 10.
So besides tying me knots, Brandon has been wiping the floor with me in Monopoly, Jr. Four games in 48 hours, and I have not been able to catch a break from this kid. I wish I could say I have been letting him win, but we start out on completely equal playing ground. Brandon ends up victorious and I end up humiliated. I only take comfort in the fact that I am teaching him math skills and good sportsmanship (although maybe I should be teaching him how to trash talk...nah...he can learn it from his brother like he does all his other practical life skills).
One thing that has been amazing to watch develop in Brandon is his sense of pride and leadership. He really wants to help Rich and I. He is the first one out the door, without being asked, to help me unload the groceries when I get home from the store. He also helps me put them away. Lately, he has been helping Lauren get out of her car seat when the van is stopped too. If I need someone to help complete something around the house, he wants to be first one that I ask. That is a joyous thing that I am going to exploit for as long as he lets me.
At church, he LOVES helping set up the Wednesday night meal when it is our turn to cook it. He still hates sitting still during church; some days I give up and put him and Lauren in the nursery when they are so antsy I think I am about to lose my mind, but paying attention is a learning process for everyone. I told our pastor that Brandon will probably be the child that goes into seminary. If that would happen I am passing out Pixie sticks and markers to all the little children under five years old, six minutes before his first sermon. I swear I am. And when members of the congregation ask who I am, I will reply, "his mother, of course."
On a not so fun note: Brandon needs to have outpatient dental surgery on June 19. His first visit to have dental work done a few years ago was unbelievably traumatic for he and I, as the sedation medication they gave him did not take full effect, so Brandon was just old enough and just awake enough to remember all the discomfort, all the noise, and the general yuck of the dentist office. I have since found a dentist that he loves. However, due to his anxiety in the chair, no one has been able to get into his mouth to do anything besides clean his teeth. There is so much dental work that needs to be done, he is going to be admitted into the hospital, be put under anaesthetic for an hour, wake up with completed dental work, and not remember a thing. I am sure I will remember the pain and discomfort of it when I receive the bill.
Just a random note because I don't know where else to put this: I have started calling Brandon and Lauren Pea & Pod. Those two love to find trouble if they cannot invent some of their own. I have a feeling that I might have reason to refer to that name during the summer.
Otherwise, Brandon is growing and growing physically and mentally. He has a healthy sense of mischief just like the rest of his siblings. He is so much more likely to beg forgiveness than ask permission, but my life would be less without him.
Wednesday, June 4, 2008
Lauren Tidbits
I know how dare I come out of hiatus and not even mention the Princess Supreme Lauren? Well, her updated nickname is Gracity Goo, which is a new development since starting the blog. One day I was exasperated with her and yelled, "GRACITY!" The name took off from there. Now she thinks I should have named her Gracity Goo instead of Lauren Grace.
Last night Lauren was rooting for the Pittsburgh Penguins, and told her dad and brother if they were the red Penguins (Detroit) they would be the winners (of the Stanley cup). I love three year old logic. It's brutally painful.
She also told Brandon she was not his sister anymore. I am not quite sure how that all came about, but one minute they were playing together reasonably well and the next she was yelling, "Fine, Brandon, I am not your sister anymore." Brandon asked Rich and I if she could really stop being his sister as she was stomping off to her room. Once we answered him that she was stuck for life, as many of us with brothers come to find out, he laughed, shrugged, and went back to what he was doing. She decided to be his sister again before bedtime; I guess it all works out in the end.
Lauren is very excited about the move to our new house. She is very excited for me decorate a "Princess Room" for her. I keep telling her if she is in it, it is already a Princess room, no decorations, paint, or frills needed, but she fails to understand my humor/wit/sarcasm.
She is still a girly girl that loves dresses and nail polish but can hold her own on a playground or with her brothers.
In mid-February, Rich was reading Lauren a new story, which happened to be a Halloween story (of course it did because it was the middle of winter and we were starting to prepare for Easter). He was doing a fantastic job of telling this story to her...reading with inflections in his voice, making spooky sounds....with Lauren sitting on his lap, her properly afraid, but not too afraid...when they came to a part in the story where the text read: "And do you know who was at the door?"
Ms. Lauren looked up at her daddy, all big, matter-of-fact, blue eyes, and before he could turn the page, she popped out: "PIZZA!" just as unfrightened as you please.
Well, that threw Rich off his pace of the story. He put the book down and looked at her and replied, "What, get the door, it's Domino's?"
All in all, like her brothers, she is growing way to fast and becoming way to independent. She will be attending 4K, five days a week, only mornings, this fall.
As happy as I will be for her to make her own friends and start her academic career, I will be lost without my Gracity Goo.
Last night Lauren was rooting for the Pittsburgh Penguins, and told her dad and brother if they were the red Penguins (Detroit) they would be the winners (of the Stanley cup). I love three year old logic. It's brutally painful.
She also told Brandon she was not his sister anymore. I am not quite sure how that all came about, but one minute they were playing together reasonably well and the next she was yelling, "Fine, Brandon, I am not your sister anymore." Brandon asked Rich and I if she could really stop being his sister as she was stomping off to her room. Once we answered him that she was stuck for life, as many of us with brothers come to find out, he laughed, shrugged, and went back to what he was doing. She decided to be his sister again before bedtime; I guess it all works out in the end.
Lauren is very excited about the move to our new house. She is very excited for me decorate a "Princess Room" for her. I keep telling her if she is in it, it is already a Princess room, no decorations, paint, or frills needed, but she fails to understand my humor/wit/sarcasm.
She is still a girly girl that loves dresses and nail polish but can hold her own on a playground or with her brothers.
In mid-February, Rich was reading Lauren a new story, which happened to be a Halloween story (of course it did because it was the middle of winter and we were starting to prepare for Easter). He was doing a fantastic job of telling this story to her...reading with inflections in his voice, making spooky sounds....with Lauren sitting on his lap, her properly afraid, but not too afraid...when they came to a part in the story where the text read: "And do you know who was at the door?"
Ms. Lauren looked up at her daddy, all big, matter-of-fact, blue eyes, and before he could turn the page, she popped out: "PIZZA!" just as unfrightened as you please.
Well, that threw Rich off his pace of the story. He put the book down and looked at her and replied, "What, get the door, it's Domino's?"
All in all, like her brothers, she is growing way to fast and becoming way to independent. She will be attending 4K, five days a week, only mornings, this fall.
As happy as I will be for her to make her own friends and start her academic career, I will be lost without my Gracity Goo.
God Doesn't Care What You Wear
So most of you have received the pictures of Jonathon and Noah standing by the altar after making their First Communion. Attached to that email was my explanation that Noah did not wear the shorts that I had picked out for him. I am catching some major flack from the Catholic faction that my kids weren't in suits for their First Communion. First, a note to one of my major flack givers: GO TO CHURCH and then call me...we'll discuss what Brandon wears for his First Communion. Second, and as I will explain in the blog: "God doesn't care what you wear...God doesn't care what you wear..."
At our church the parents make the decision when their children are ready to make their First Communion and then let the pastor know they feel their child is ready to receive communion. So, there is no preset age, grade, or year of preparing for First Communion; therefore no formal dress code. Our pastor (Pastor Kurt), our children, and myself, along with another family, had a meeting at which our pastor decided the kids understood the concept of coming to the Lord's Table so we set a date for them to receive communion.
Now, considering Jon and Noah were screaming that: "You can't make me learn about God!" at the end of August, and when I plopped my butt down in church at the beginning of September, I was so spiritually drained I could hardly stand up to say the 'Our Father', it was AMAZING and POWERFUL to sit next to my husband, in our church, with our friends and family as witnesses, to watch our two eldest children make their First Holy Communion. However, arriving at that point between the middle of May and the first of June was a little nerve racking.
After looking at all those dates on the June calendar and realizing that one of them was the closing date on our house, two of them are soccer tournament weekends, one is Noah's birthday, one is moving day, and one is the day I am walking in a half-marathon, I was ready to reschedule the communion until July. After all, we would be in our new house and then the boys could have a really great party in a really great house. Not only would I get to show off the house, we would have more room to accommodate people, and it would considerably ease the scheduling stress.
Just then a little voice whispered to me: "God doesn't care where the boys live when they make their First Communion." And my first thought was, 'Great, now on top of being insane, I am insane and hearing voices.' I closed my eyes, rubbed my hands over my face, and tried again, so I could reach for the phone and reschedule everything for July, but when I opened my eyes to look at the calendar the voice was still there, louder: "God doesn't care what your house looks like, He cares that the boys understand WHY they are doing this."
CRAP. June 1, 2008, the day was set, cause hey, even as crazy as I am, I am not one to argue with voices unless they are coming from my children, husband, or siblings. (I am open-minded like that.) The good thing about having some of your life in boxes is it means less stuff to hide or clean when you have people coming over to house. The downside to having people coming over when you are trying to pack up your house is you need to make a war zone look like a reasonably safe place to raise children. So, this past Thursday, Friday, Saturday, and Sunday, at 6:00 a.m., found myself, and later Rich, cleaning the house and preparing food. I just kept repeating to myself, "God doesn't care, God doesn't care..."
However, come Sunday morning, we finally get four children into church. We are sitting in the front row, Rich and I are proud, somewhat exhausted, the adrenaline is starting to die down, and I can actually hear some of the words Pastor Kurt is saying from the lectern. I let out a sigh of relief and glance at my children, only to notice Noah's shorts. His Wal-mart shorts. His non-matching his shirt, non-perfectly, non-what-we-told-him-to-wear-uncoordinated shorts.
I start trying to get Rich's attention by staring at him. Okay, by shooting him evil, poisonous daggers with my eyes, which is completely inappropriate in church, I admit, but I did it. Then I started pointing to Noah's shorts. Rich looked at me, shocked, irritated, but like, 'What can I do about it?' Honestly, my first thought was, 'Well, go home and get the right pair, you were on clothes duty!' So, I quietly asked Noah, "Why didn't you put on your other shorts like Dad told you too?" and Noah's reply was: "Because these make me look more handsome and are more comfortable and you know I don't like button shorts!"
And that's the point where I turned forward in my chair, gritted my teeth, smiled and started repeating, over and over and over, in my head:
"God doesn't care what Noah is wearing....God doesn't care what Noah is wearing.....God doesn't care what Noah is wearing...."
and then proceeded to focus on church and watch my two young men make their First Communion with a joyful heart. Because in my heart of hearts I know God didn't care one bit what Noah was wearing....but I will tell you....Noah's mom sure did.
At our church the parents make the decision when their children are ready to make their First Communion and then let the pastor know they feel their child is ready to receive communion. So, there is no preset age, grade, or year of preparing for First Communion; therefore no formal dress code. Our pastor (Pastor Kurt), our children, and myself, along with another family, had a meeting at which our pastor decided the kids understood the concept of coming to the Lord's Table so we set a date for them to receive communion.
Now, considering Jon and Noah were screaming that: "You can't make me learn about God!" at the end of August, and when I plopped my butt down in church at the beginning of September, I was so spiritually drained I could hardly stand up to say the 'Our Father', it was AMAZING and POWERFUL to sit next to my husband, in our church, with our friends and family as witnesses, to watch our two eldest children make their First Holy Communion. However, arriving at that point between the middle of May and the first of June was a little nerve racking.
After looking at all those dates on the June calendar and realizing that one of them was the closing date on our house, two of them are soccer tournament weekends, one is Noah's birthday, one is moving day, and one is the day I am walking in a half-marathon, I was ready to reschedule the communion until July. After all, we would be in our new house and then the boys could have a really great party in a really great house. Not only would I get to show off the house, we would have more room to accommodate people, and it would considerably ease the scheduling stress.
Just then a little voice whispered to me: "God doesn't care where the boys live when they make their First Communion." And my first thought was, 'Great, now on top of being insane, I am insane and hearing voices.' I closed my eyes, rubbed my hands over my face, and tried again, so I could reach for the phone and reschedule everything for July, but when I opened my eyes to look at the calendar the voice was still there, louder: "God doesn't care what your house looks like, He cares that the boys understand WHY they are doing this."
CRAP. June 1, 2008, the day was set, cause hey, even as crazy as I am, I am not one to argue with voices unless they are coming from my children, husband, or siblings. (I am open-minded like that.) The good thing about having some of your life in boxes is it means less stuff to hide or clean when you have people coming over to house. The downside to having people coming over when you are trying to pack up your house is you need to make a war zone look like a reasonably safe place to raise children. So, this past Thursday, Friday, Saturday, and Sunday, at 6:00 a.m., found myself, and later Rich, cleaning the house and preparing food. I just kept repeating to myself, "God doesn't care, God doesn't care..."
However, come Sunday morning, we finally get four children into church. We are sitting in the front row, Rich and I are proud, somewhat exhausted, the adrenaline is starting to die down, and I can actually hear some of the words Pastor Kurt is saying from the lectern. I let out a sigh of relief and glance at my children, only to notice Noah's shorts. His Wal-mart shorts. His non-matching his shirt, non-perfectly, non-what-we-told-him-to-wear-uncoordinated shorts.
I start trying to get Rich's attention by staring at him. Okay, by shooting him evil, poisonous daggers with my eyes, which is completely inappropriate in church, I admit, but I did it. Then I started pointing to Noah's shorts. Rich looked at me, shocked, irritated, but like, 'What can I do about it?' Honestly, my first thought was, 'Well, go home and get the right pair, you were on clothes duty!' So, I quietly asked Noah, "Why didn't you put on your other shorts like Dad told you too?" and Noah's reply was: "Because these make me look more handsome and are more comfortable and you know I don't like button shorts!"
And that's the point where I turned forward in my chair, gritted my teeth, smiled and started repeating, over and over and over, in my head:
"God doesn't care what Noah is wearing....God doesn't care what Noah is wearing.....God doesn't care what Noah is wearing...."
and then proceeded to focus on church and watch my two young men make their First Communion with a joyful heart. Because in my heart of hearts I know God didn't care one bit what Noah was wearing....but I will tell you....Noah's mom sure did.
First Communion and Trash Talk
I did not mean to go on hiatus from the blog. I meant to go into the Witness Protection Program, running and screaming from my life, especially when we were hit with a two month plague that included the flu, strep throat, Fith's disease, and a host of other illnesses that children share when they lick each other at school. However, the government cannot change your unique "momminess" to your unique children and mine kept finding me.
After abandoning that plan, Richard and I found a home to purchase four miles from where we live now, which is consuming even more time, as once again I am packing up our lives and placing them into cardboard boxes. Anyway, those are my lame excuses; on with the blog.
Yesterday, after soccer practice, Jonathon's coach, October (yes her real name), asked me to walk with her; telling Jon to kick the ball around with his teammates. Before I relate the story, here a point of clarification: Sarah is the co-coach of Jon's team, but for Monday night's game she was the center referee because the two teams needed one.
The conversation:
October: "So Sarah was reffing the game last night. The kids were lined up and all of a sudden she hears this voice say, 'You're not getting this ball!' She looks around and realizes it came from Jonathon!! Quiet, never says a word, your kid Jonathon! Your kid was trash talking! Of all the kids we couldn't believe it because we've been trying to get him communicate with his teammates all season and now we realized why hasn't been....he's too busy talking to the other team."
So, I am in total disbelief, kind of half-laughing, but still looking at her, like I hear what your saying, but not it's not sinking in...my mind is thinking, Jonathon? not Brandon? right? Wow, okay, but huh, my kid, really? So I waved Sarah over, and she explained everything all over to me and said, "I was thinking about calling it, but remembered I was the ref, not the coach, and when I saw it was the kid that hadn't said seven words all season, I was shocked I just kind of shrugged and thought okay buddy."
Sarah then proceed to explain that parents would be shocked if they knew how much talking goes on between opponents during a soccer game, but even she was a little shocked at how much was going on during her U10 game, considering it was nine and ten year olds.
I looked at both of them and said, "Well, how do you want me to handle this as his mom. What should I say to him?" They both quickly replied, "NOTHING!!" because apparently, at this level of sports, unless your coach, not your ref, flat out catches you trash talking, it's a non-coachable, non-punishable, part of the game, and no one is really, what's the word, ummm....poleaxed? ummm....shaking their head? ummm...mommed? over it like I am. Rich told me trash talking is all a part of getting into your opponents head.
However my response after that conversation, to both of the coaches, with my hand to my heart, blinking my eyes rapidly was: "On Sunday he is making his First Holy Communion and on Monday he is trash talking. It just warms my heart." And then I let out a big sigh the way only moms can do, shook my head, and laughed the laugh of a mom in total disbelief that she even had this conversation.
Jonathon did know something was up because on the ride to Noah's baseball game, as soon as I stopped at the first light, he started asking me what the coaches and I had been discussing. Jon and I did discuss the trash talking, but all I said about it is what his coaches said, "If you have time time to trash talk you have time to communicate with your teammates." Jon is taking that under consideration.
So, you better be satisfied with this first blog after the hiatus or I will have my nine year old leave nasty messages on your voice mail.
After abandoning that plan, Richard and I found a home to purchase four miles from where we live now, which is consuming even more time, as once again I am packing up our lives and placing them into cardboard boxes. Anyway, those are my lame excuses; on with the blog.
Yesterday, after soccer practice, Jonathon's coach, October (yes her real name), asked me to walk with her; telling Jon to kick the ball around with his teammates. Before I relate the story, here a point of clarification: Sarah is the co-coach of Jon's team, but for Monday night's game she was the center referee because the two teams needed one.
The conversation:
October: "So Sarah was reffing the game last night. The kids were lined up and all of a sudden she hears this voice say, 'You're not getting this ball!' She looks around and realizes it came from Jonathon!! Quiet, never says a word, your kid Jonathon! Your kid was trash talking! Of all the kids we couldn't believe it because we've been trying to get him communicate with his teammates all season and now we realized why hasn't been....he's too busy talking to the other team."
So, I am in total disbelief, kind of half-laughing, but still looking at her, like I hear what your saying, but not it's not sinking in...my mind is thinking, Jonathon? not Brandon? right? Wow, okay, but huh, my kid, really? So I waved Sarah over, and she explained everything all over to me and said, "I was thinking about calling it, but remembered I was the ref, not the coach, and when I saw it was the kid that hadn't said seven words all season, I was shocked I just kind of shrugged and thought okay buddy."
Sarah then proceed to explain that parents would be shocked if they knew how much talking goes on between opponents during a soccer game, but even she was a little shocked at how much was going on during her U10 game, considering it was nine and ten year olds.
I looked at both of them and said, "Well, how do you want me to handle this as his mom. What should I say to him?" They both quickly replied, "NOTHING!!" because apparently, at this level of sports, unless your coach, not your ref, flat out catches you trash talking, it's a non-coachable, non-punishable, part of the game, and no one is really, what's the word, ummm....poleaxed? ummm....shaking their head? ummm...mommed? over it like I am. Rich told me trash talking is all a part of getting into your opponents head.
However my response after that conversation, to both of the coaches, with my hand to my heart, blinking my eyes rapidly was: "On Sunday he is making his First Holy Communion and on Monday he is trash talking. It just warms my heart." And then I let out a big sigh the way only moms can do, shook my head, and laughed the laugh of a mom in total disbelief that she even had this conversation.
Jonathon did know something was up because on the ride to Noah's baseball game, as soon as I stopped at the first light, he started asking me what the coaches and I had been discussing. Jon and I did discuss the trash talking, but all I said about it is what his coaches said, "If you have time time to trash talk you have time to communicate with your teammates." Jon is taking that under consideration.
So, you better be satisfied with this first blog after the hiatus or I will have my nine year old leave nasty messages on your voice mail.
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