WCW - Ariana Martini

Today's WCW is taking me a bit off course.  All the way to Australia, to be precise.  Today's WCW is Ariana Martini, my 6th grade pen pal.

Ariana's photo not available, please paint a beautiful picture in your mind instead.

For those of you who weren't around for the olden times, there used to be this way of communicating with other humans called "writing letters" where you would put words on a piece of paper, put a stamp on it, and it rode in a jeep and a train and an airplane to be deposited in the box that today is commonly used for bills and birthday cards from your grandma (who had to mail it because you don't come see her often enough).

The year I was in 6th grade, stamps made the jump from 22 cents to a quarter, and boy did all Hell break loose over that.  Three cent stamps were a hot commodity for quite a while to prevent having to use TWO 22 cent stamps and running the risk of "overpaying" the USPS for their services, which was worse than blasphemy around these parts.

Our teacher was retired from the US Army and he let us know every.single.day.  First, by wearing short sleeve shirts and refusing to cover the faded and blurry green ink of his "service tat" on his forearm, and secondly by making us do calisthenics on the grass outside our classroom door.

Burpees in wet grass first thing in the morning has somehow not ever been my strongpoint.

Pantyhose were a thing.  For 6th grade girls.  You know, before they were merely "fat strangulation appliances", they were...socks.  Have you ever tried to do a squat-thrust in a skirt and pantyhose?  Try it, I'll wait....

So much WTF going on in this picture. The only one I have, courtesy of Chris Oglesby, who I'm sure only "accidentally" cropped Kari Harris out. Me and Chanda Smith rocking our pantyhose. Mr. Rooper, badassest teacher ever.

Anyhoo.  Sixth Grade taught us a lot.  We learned about the gunk that builds up in a smoker's lungs, thanks to an unprepared presenter who had his whole setup but...not a cigarette...and Mr. Rooper who let me run home 4 houses to get some from my parents' stash, an inordinate number of cartons obtained on any number of stops on an Indian reservation to or from a visit with relatives.

We learned how to measure a tree's height using a tape measure and a shadow and how to survive in the wilderness.

We learned the most about the importance of Veteran's Day that year when our teacher's tough exterior cracked and faded away with his tears as he addressed the whole school.

I learned that my heinous haircut (and perm) from 5th grade would grow out, even if it was a permullet that year.  There was hope.

I learned of the dark hearts beating in those who would harm our children in the place they should feel safest when a new student shared the terrors she and her siblings had survived in the school in the town where they lived before.

We learned about the world around us, which is where Ariana Martini comes in.

Until then, my view of the world beyond our borders was fed by Dan Rather.  Dinners were often in front of the TV, and it was a blur of somber and shocking events until we heard his signature "That's part of our world tonight" sign off.  Libya, Beirut, Iran, Russia.  It sounded as if everywhere but the US was terrible, and the only clips worth showing were sandy, dirty, bloody.  Fighting.  Yelling.  If the people were brown, they were angry.  They wanted to kill each other.  They wanted to kill everyone in their neighboring countries.  They wanted to kill Americans.  Local news was peppered with grim tales of the Green River Killer. There were never any positive messages coming through the boob tube at dinner time.

Dinner: The evening meal best served saturated in depression sauce with a side of anxiety from your favorite news anchor.

So when we were each assigned a pen pal from a school in another country, my eyes were opened to the possibility that we needed to learn and explore these places outside the 6 o'clock news.  I will readily admit I was a shitty pen pal.  I think I just felt like the person on the other end was so much more interesting, had such a better idea at how she fit into the world than I did, after getting her letters I was simply left with nothing to say.  I probably wrote something stupid like asking her if her toilet flushed backward.

First of all, Ariana Martini.  Her name, even.  Hello.  It's a grown-up glamour beverage.  With a special glass and all.  I went into this encounter fully believing that Australia was truly just covered in red dirt, koalas, and kangaroos, surrounded by an ocean full of great white sharks and crocodiles. We had not yet traveled with Nemo and Marlin and Dory to 42 Wallaby Way, Sydney and the dental office of P. Sherman.  Her words chipped away at my ignorance while forcing me to acknowledge it.

She sent carefully taped coins so I could see what their currency looked like.  She sent a picture of herself, a picture of her family's car, one she was currently upset over her father deciding to sell because all her siblings couldn't fit in and it was no longer practical.  It was a Corvette, black and silver, and it looked like a shark, its shiny underbelly eager to consume its prey.  It was just like one I've seen the last month or so parked on the street on my way to work, which is what's been making me think of her as of late and the sneaky way her very brief presence has influenced my life.

She was automatically the coolest person I'd ever known.

How did they have an American car?  I was flabbergasted.  I thought the only people in foreign countries with American cars were American servicemen who had their Mustangs and their Camaros and their Made in the US of A pick-em-up trucks shipped to them because they refused to drive some "RiceBurner" or "Nazi-KrautWagon" while they were protecting us from the Ruskies in a far away land.

She poured out about her life and her surroundings, carefully explaining that her favorite actress turned new pop star, Kylie Minogue, was as popular there as Madonna was here.  She wrote with intelligence about the things outside of her country in a way that I wasn't used to.  I secretly wished I had an updated set of encyclopedias at home.

Encyclopedia: Again, for you newcomers, it was Google version 1.0.  There were about 38 volumes arranged alphabetically to instantly access information that was at least up to date at time of printing.  They were also useful for pressing flowers and hiding money.  Mine had their own special rack, even.  You could basically decorate your room around where you were deciding to place your encyclopedia shelves.

I held onto her writings for a long time like love letters.  Her words inspiring me to look beyond myself, beyond my comfort zone, to learn more than Dan Rather was offering.

It's a big reason I don't allow my children to watch the news.  Ever.  I want them to know more than the bits of filtered information, sensationalized to sell ad minutes.  I want them to know about Malala Yousafzai and her amazing life as much as I want them to know about the Taliban and their awful manners.  We talked about the Dalai Lama a little over a week ago on his birthday and Clayton only had to be corrected four times when he referred to him as "The Llama Man".

Kids are curious.  They WANT to know about other places, other cultures, other kids like them that may not speak the same language but who feel the same feelings.  We watch documentaries like On the Way to School so they can see that education is SO important to those in other countries that they're willing to endure an unbelievably difficult journey just to get there.

It's streaming on Netflix. Go watch it right now.

And so, Ariana Martini, wherever you are in this world today, I thank you.  For inspiring me as a 6th grader to open her eyes and heart to the world, and as a mother who wants desperately for her kids to not have the same narrow views that I did at their age.  You gave me a window.  You showed me how important it is to let others look through your lens.  You put yourself on paper for judgement and consumption and you did so without apology or hesitation.  It was such a welcome gift.

I'm sorry you got the short end of the stick on our arrangement.

WCW - My Mother In Law

Yeah.  She's WCW worthy you guys.

Sunshine and BadAssery on two wheels right here.

My MIL.  JoAn.

Not Joan. Jo. An.

Bucky.  Grandma Bucky.  The glue that holds our family together.  The pint-sized Polly Pocket that is like concentrated sugar and fireworks and a quilt and leather and a party and love all squished into an impossibly tiny package.

With parents no bigger than a couple of Keebler Elves, it's no wonder you can stash her in a hospital waiting room chair for a long wait for labor...she can sleep anywhere.

She's been there always.  For everything.  For everyone.  The births?  I wasn't there, but I did hear grumblings that one person couldn't brush their teeth and another not allowed to poop for fear that she might be late to a grandchild's arrival.  She takes her attendance track record very seriously.

She makes sure we have traditions.  Each kid for their first Christmas now gets a rocking chair.  To mark their second birthday, their photo on her old rocking horse.

Lucky #13

#12 Rocking It

Everything is fair.  She makes things special not only for everyone and makes sure all are included, but she makes each person feel like the ONLY one.  She has a knack for celebrating the individuality in each of the points of light that makes our family, giving each the attention and nurturing they need to thrive and contribute back, that makes the tapestry so rich.

You wanna rock a pink tux? She'll support you!!

We are a giant, interesting bunch.  And we are chaotic and overwhelming.  And she seems to handle us all with ease like a champ.  I honestly don't know how she does it.

She wrangled us all into one place at one time.

ToddlerBandit was pissed about this, but she was determined to get all 13.

She's fun and funny and is always up for anything and never says no to a plan.  And by "plan" I mean she is always all in for "Do you want to go see Wicked in Spokane?" just the same as "Will you drop everything to watch my barfing kid?"

Always there.  For everyone.  For everything.  The only thing she says NO to is when you tell her not to bring food to your party.  "No."  She always shows up with something.

There's so many of us she can't be everywhere at once, so her calendar is sometimes full, and we laugh when she calls and her questions go like:

"Hey, what do you guys have going on for 4th of July?  2016?  I'm looking at camp spots and wanted to get the best one."

She's a planner, she's organized, she keeps us in line.  She gifts us calendars at Christmastime filled with everyone's pictures from throughout the year with everyone's birthdays and anniversaries marked, including those we are missing but who are still very much in our hearts.

She pre-guts the pumpkins every year.  This alone.....I mean....a pre-gutted pumpkin?

She comes with her own gear, prepared for anything, anytime, all packed in a Trader Joe's bag:

• 1 box of wine if she thinks you don't "already have one uncorked"
• Assorted snacks/treats she has baked at various times for holidays to deliver to children
• Assorted candies because some other grandkid got candy and she felt guilty leaving yours out
• 1 Quilting project for a baby or an upcoming graduate or other lucky recipient
• 1 Assorted item that was left at either her house or someone else's house, deliverable to you
• 1 Bag of assorted clothing hand-me-downs from another person's child to your child
• 1 Cell phone with an unusually surprising ringtone
• A cosmetics bag and/or complaints that she has helmet hair if arrival was via motorcycle

I've seen evidence of her skills with the scissors through the years and can confidently say I strive for that same level of excellence with my own children:

This photo will never die.

It's ok - it grew out!!

She has four children but treats us like her eight children.  Four sons and four daughters.  We are equal, we are unique, we are each special to her.  She lets us know that.  There's no distance she won't drive to sit in the rain to watch her grandkids succeed or at least try their hardest, no amount of time that she feels a waste to see that each of us that belongs to her is honored by having her spend her precious time with us.

And her love doesn't stop at the leaves of her own family tree.  Her heart is equally as dedicated to her extended family, her friends, and her community.  She is always there.  For everyone.  Always.

For all of that, I love her tremendously, and I'm so lucky to have her.  Today, my Mother In Law gets this spot this WCW.

(And my FIL. He has a hand in all that punkin' gutting too. And the clean up.
And the presents. He's the man behind the woman.)

WCW - Cop's Wife

Today is WCW, and the woman is actually a group of women, a club, a Sisterhood.  The Cop's Wife.


She is all the cops' wives I know and those I've never met.  The ones I'm friends with and the ones I'll meet one day.  Especially today, she is Lindy Moore, wife of Coeur D'Alene Police Sergeant Greg Moore.

Photo: Amanda Talbott, Cop Wife and Compassionate Jailer, a craft project she'd rather not.

 We hold our collective breath waiting for a glimmer of good news, and when we hear hope is gone, the wind is knocked out of us.  Now we are heartbroken for another member of this Sisterhood, this club that reaches far and wide, its chapters and charters nameless and without meetings or minutes or a guide for newcomers, its dues draining your emotions instead of your wallet.

I purposely stayed away from media as long as I could.  I thought I could will him to pull through by ignoring news updates.  Hubs, out of town this week, asked whether I'd heard any official outlets confirming what he'd heard from someone - the worst - but in our family we've learned to respect the process of official press releases.  It affords officials closest to tragedy the opportunity to inform us of the facts and it's there that we refer when games of telephone get out of hand.

I checked.  Damn.  It was true.  The official end of watch status had been reported.  I forwarded the notice in a screenshot back to him.

Shit.

The kids were hammering me with questions about dinner or whether I'd seen a slap shot or a rock they found that looked like Abraham Lincoln as we sat in the parking lot at the hockey rink.

"Mom?  Moooom...Mom...Mom...Mom?  Hello?  Mom?"

I knew if I opened my mouth to answer them I'd cry.  If I cried I'd have to tell them why.  That some asshole shot a policeman just like their dad out on a stop at the same time of night their dad works and even though I was really really hoping that the doctors would fix him, they couldn't and he died.  He died and he didn't have to.  And now kids like them didn't have a dad and a wife like me didn't have a husband.  And that asshole was sitting in jail and I wished he would just do everyone a favor and hang himself in his cell with his underwear, but that even if he tried to do that, the jailers would save his worthless fucking life, because they're also compassionate humans with their own job to do.  I had to get my shit together.

That's the other thing about cop wives.  They bend over backward to see that cop kids have fairly normal lives and aren't riddled with anxiety about their dad's work life.  Nothing to see here.  Move along.

As much as what one does to earn a living does not define them as a person, cops are different, and so are their mates.  They're held to a higher standard both on and off the job, their personal lives under a microscope and subject to judgement.  We chose this.  Maybe it chose us.  We know that it requires a balance of work and play.  We know that we can't make it without humor, flexibility, and empathy.  We have a different sort of pride, one that we know we can't always show off.  Advertising our status can make us a target and can be counterproductive to keeping the peace.  We are happy to support from the sidelines without ceremony.

We know that sometimes our dinner takes a back seat to criminals.  Sometimes it's a grieving family.  We learn to share our husband with others.  We want him back when they're done, though.  That's the deal.

We are shocked because these are the supermen of our society, the invincible heroes that run toward danger while others run away.  The bravest of the brave fighting forces of evil to protect us.

Nerdy Apple (Sarah) used to write as Cop's Wife before she updated her blog.  Her hubs, The Detective, is never named nor can she show us his undoubtedly handsome face because he deals with the dirtiest dirt bags in his work and can't risk blowing his cover.  She continues to share herself and her shorties with us, including those parts that make her part of the Sisterhood, stretching the web from the Northwest to the Bible Belt.  I am thankful for her, otherwise a stranger, now a sister to me.  Someone who understands what others cannot.

I'm also thankful for Amanda, Ashley, Darcy, Cindie, Stephanie, CodyAnn, Ingrid, Lacie, Dana, Cass, Victoria, Deena, Kit, Andrea, Teresa, Jaclyn, Sara, Erin, and the others who may have griped about the sound of velcro coming off a vest in the middle of the night, but who all actually prefer waking to that than a knock at the door.

She's never really rested from sleeping with one eye open until he's home, but feels guilty for saying so because she knows that he gets less time in bed than she does.  She knows that his fatigue can be a safety issue and it just makes her worry more and sleep even less.  She loves him for the man he is and for the selfless choice he makes to give himself to others every day.

Cop's Wife.  She is us.  We are her.  We grieve with her for her loss.  For our loss.

WCW - Kimberlie

It's WCW - Woman Crush Wednesday.  I think I might make a series out of this, but please set your expectations low.  Everyone knows I joke about how I have no friends.  The reality is, I have a lot of great friends.  They take all forms, and my relationship with each is unique and deserves celebration. My goal here is to introduce them, one at a time, so that others can see what I see in them, and so that they may see what I see in them. And well, we as women tend to be harsh on ourselves and could use some nice words from others.  I might rip off your pictures, but I make no apologies for that.  Be forewarned.  Also, fingers crossed that nobody takes offense either to being included, along with my well intentioned narrative, nor those thinking there is a hierarchy to my love. It's random and spreads like glitter in the wind.

Today's WCW is Kimberlie.



She gets this kick-off spot because I got my hair done on Tuesday after a long absence from professional help.  The young receptionist at Esten's orthodontist cheerfully asked me, "Who does your OMBRE? I love it!!" Through my gritted-toothed smile, I thanked her but assured that it was only due to months' worth of neglect.  Also, people my age don't call it "ombre", we call it "trailer trash roots".  I suppose the fashion world can slap a cute name on anything and people flock to it.

I found myself in front of a new stylist again, for the umpteenth time since I last saw Kim, explaining to our reflections in the mirror the reason for my hair's sad state to a sympathetic ear:

"My regular hair lady [yes, she still has that title] moved away, like MOVED MOVED.  To the Virgin Islands.  I was in denial for a long time.  I thought she would come back.  I thought she would visit and want nothing more than to spend her precious time here cutting and coloring my hair as she filled me in on island life.  She didn't come back.  She isn't coming back.  My hair has been a shit show since she left.  I miss her.  No offense that you weren't my first choice."

I got all fixed up, but explaining the pain her absence has left in my heart again has made me think about her, and not just for the selfish reasons that I need her around.  She is an amazing lady and people fall into two categories: those who have met Kim and those who have not met Kim.  Those who have met her never ever forget her.

I met Kim when I started dating my husband, a package deal you get when you marry someone who graduated with an uber-tiny class from a small town.  She was a lot to take in at first.  Her skin was as dark as her teeth were white, her hair standing in defiance to the elements.  Over the years, I got to know what was under all that, and under each layer I was more surprised than before.  She shares the good and bad with us, and despite any physical fakery to her appearance, her heart is nothing but honest.

She had some steady and serious boyfriends, but ultimately she is the living essence of Miss Independent.  Once, when a relationship fizzled out on a vacation in Mexico, she said "f*ck it" and stayed, making new friends and enjoying the rest of her time in the sun and sand....single.

She spent time in the military - and minimizes the significance of being the first female to participate in a ceremony that I believe deserves more recognition than she'd be willing to accept.

She takes on challenges that seem nuts to us.  She ate what she described to me as "prechewed tuna" and other ridiculous foods and literally worked her buns off to participate in fitness competitions.  Plural.  More than once.  Which of course, required her to spray to a whole new level of bronze than before.

She is the first to laugh at herself, making it safe for us to laugh at her ourselves too.  She's mixed up aerosol hairspray and Raid and PAM.  She once killed a spider that turned out to be her eyelashes on the rug.  A grocery store "stalker" was actually a man who couldn't quite find the right words to let her know that her extensions had fallen out a few aisles back.

 

OK, to be honest she has a lot of
hair issues.

She loves with her whole heart - her dogs, the Zags, NASCAR, her friends, her parents, her brother who was taken too soon.  Her heart is twice as big as her hair and overflows for those she cares about.

And wine. She also loves wine.

She took a leap of faith and moved from her own house in the neighborhood she lovingly referred to as "Methlehem" to halfway around the world to make others feel beautiful, often on their wedding day.  She has embraced a new life and caved to the fact that she would have to up her technology game to stay connected to those of us she left behind.

I miss her.  We all miss her.  We are grateful that we get glimpses into her life, even when it's freezing-ass cold here and she's posting pictures of her life in paradise like an asshole.  For that, she is my WCW.

 

Will You Be My Galentine?

I just completed an incredibly difficult assignment.

I submitted a description of why a certain friend, a special gal....is my Galentine.

But I had to do it in 100 words or less.

I know...right?

First off, I could write a million words about a whole lotta ladies that deserve a special spotlight every day of the year. So many women have my heart in a unique way these days since I've gotten over myself that makes me appreciate the passage of time and makes me say things like "you couldn't pay me to be 22 again".

That's not to discount the men in my life. They're important, too. I value them, I respect them, I treasure friendships and the honest feedback that those brave souls who have stuck it out through tumultuous years with me provide.

But this is not my Palentine.

Here are the 100 words I managed to edit down to, thinking how ridiculous it is to even attempt to condense her into this tiny space:

Emaline. Emmie. Em.

She’s been a sister, soldier, artist, traveler, and runner.  She’s run for a firefighter to drape a Tiffany necklace around her neck at the finish.  She more often runs for the Leukemia & Lymphoma Society and to remember those we have lost.

She doesn’t just face adversity bravely, she shows us all how to dissect and defeat it.  Though her heart’s been broken open, the love that flows out of her for others is immeasurable.

She knows when to hold on and when to let go. I’m so happy she holds onto me.

She is my Galentine.

She is so much more than these 100 words. She is infinitely more than this to me, to everyone who is lucky enough to know her, to have her in their lives. She's a lifelong friend despite the sands of time and more miles than anyone is happy about. She is loved more than she knows by more people than she realizes.

And so, for this submission assignment, win or lose, I love her. She is my Galentine.

Who is your Galentine?

We Are the Other People

It only happens to other people. Other women. Mostly trashy ones. Mostly trashy ones that live in trailer parks. Mostly ones that have a bunch of baby-daddies. Mostly ones that have shitty teeth and shitty hair. Mostly ones that aren't smart. Mostly just the ones who have no self esteem and no future and think he's right when he says nobody's ever gonna love her but him. For sure they're not smart enough to leave that sonofabitch for what he does to her. She needs his money anyway. She's probably pregnant AGAIN.

Maybe.

Or not.

Maybe she's super smart. Maybe she's got a great job and a good head on her shoulders, and that head has a salon cut you've always admired. Maybe her house is always perfect and her adorable kids always look like mini-models and you long for the perfect fairy tale romance that she seems to have with her Prince Charming husband.

Except you don't know what goes on behind closed doors.

Maybe she doesn't have any kids. Maybe she's too terrified that he'll do the same thing to a kid that he does to her so she couldn't fathom reproducing with him. Maybe she's seen how he treats children and it's so inappropriate she'd rather spare another life that misery. Maybe he didn't show his true colors until after the nuptials.

One in four. They're reduced to statistics that way....for every one that admits having lived through a level of disregard for another human that nobody should have to...three either are lucky enough to avoid it or don't report it.

We can't seem to get messaging right, either. While putting out a pretty strong statement about violence against women at the Grammys....they still managed to give nods to a couple of dirt bags that don't deserve mentioning.

The truth is, these are our sisters, our cousins, our mothers, our daughters, our neighbors, our friends. They are US. We keep our truth hidden as long as we can because we think everyone will judge us for our poor mate selection skills and our poor relationship maintenance skills rather than recognizing your ability for compassion. Sometimes...some people are quick to judge. Sometimes...some people are quick to try to fix our situation and tell us what to do.

I've been on the witness stand, answering questions for the prosecution, while focusing on a victim's advocate as my eyes started going black...going into tunnel vision, the body's response to stress. I would only let my Dad come to support me that day, and only because he insisted. I wouldn't let him wear his hearing aids. I knew if he heard the testimony he would cause a "contempt of court" type commotion.

I've been the unlikeliest person to reach out to the next victim of another so she knew she was not alone, and to offer my support to help build her case. Just passing along a note to let her know his behavior was consistent and that I'd be there if she needed me gave her the boost she needed to move forward and not look back.

If you are the one, make a plan. Pack a bag. Make it a "donate to Goodwill" bag if you have to. Drop it off with a friend, a coworker, a family member. Have someone whose house you can show up at unannounced and be safe and welcome for a week, preferably where you can park your car in their garage. Preferably not the person most obvious. Store some cash somewhere besides home. Even if things aren't at crisis level 5 yet, people can be unpredictable, and your safety is important. Talk to your boss. Make sure if you had to suddenly take a week off it wouldn't be a big deal. Your boss will be a lot less judgemental than you think. If your boss is judgemental and urges you to "leave your personal life outside work", you can remind him (or her) that is exactly what you are trying to do, and present him (or her) with sections from your employee handbook that address workplace violence. I almost guarantee your employer has some mention of interpersonal violence including domestic violence situations addressed somewhere in their HR materials, though some frontline supervisors fail to remember that.

Some of our local resources have joined forces to create the Idaho Coalition Against Sexual and Domestic Violence. Click on the link for additional details on how to access their services or how to support their cause. My shorties picked up a water bottle at an event somewhere bearing their logo and they seem to pick that as a favorite to drag back and forth to school all the time.

 These women have incredible strength to have endured both physically and mentally, and trailer park or mansion, they deserve our ears, our shoulders, our hearts. Make sure the ones you care about know that your door is open, without judgement if they need you. Stop feeding into the competitive culture and pictures of perfection perpetuated by Pinterest. Be real with your friends and share your genuine self with them, and let them do the same.

It doesn't matter if you've been given sons or daughters....both deserve to be shown healthy, real, respectful adult relationships. Speaking of tunnel vision...did you know young boys who witness violence actually lose peripheral vision and can lead to diminished performance in school because they literally can only see what's directly in front of them? That's right. Their little bodies go into survival mode and start to block out what it can't handle and it's so damaging as a result that it sometimes doesn't come back.

Please. Lead by example. Show them how to treat others and how to expect to be treated. That's the best gift you can give to them, and to yourself.

Get Your Balls Out of My Face

I've been silently searching quite a while (since last Fall, actually) for the right words to capture this weird, awkward, and unnerving feeling that sometimes surfaces for me when dealing with boy-children.

And we all know that's my only option here...boy children.

With two so close in age, it's easy to fall into "comparison" mode.  Hubs was famous for anxious statements around #2 not making milestones at the same rate #1 did.  My sister-in-law, a kindergarten teacher, even provided us with a developmental milestones chart so that he could see his children were, in fact...all normal.

Clayton caught up to Esten with his abilities, mainly because he was determined. When Esten learned how to ride a bike, Clayton wanted to be right there doing it too.  He was driven and mimicked everything he saw.  He developed his own interests and they're each good at their respective hobbies.

Clayton grew to love and have a desire to play sports.  Esten grew to love and have an uncanny talent for more cerebral things, like building working Lego vending machines and systematically leveling his way through a video game.

With a husband who grew up participating in sports, it was second nature to assume that his offspring would just naturally want to play, too.  But just as I hate the expectations for choices and behavior put upon our young girls, I began getting very uncomfortable at the prospect of forcing either kid into anything.  I considered the possibility that the difference in the two was solely because Esten didn't like not being the boss.  If he couldn't tell people what the rules were and make them listen, then he didn't want to play.  I call this *FirstKidSyndrome.  Clayton, by contrast, was used to doing whatever Esten told him.  This makes him an EXCELLENT team player and he is never bothered by someone else taking charge.  ToddlerBandit has *ThirdKidSyndrome.  This is characterized by a general but marked and sometimes alarming lack of fu*ks for your opinion regarding how said child should behave, dress, or eat, and is further enabled by one or more parent's worn nerves. See also: FirstKid, SecondKid for reasons why.

(*Disclaimer: FirstKidSyndrome and ThirdKidSyndrome are not actual diagnoses, and I am not an actual doctor. This is not meant to be medical advice, and as your child(ren) did not come out of my actual vagina, your results may vary).

We signed up for soccer once.  What.A.Shitshow.  Both claimed immediately after practice that they could no longer walk and expected me to carry them and their gear to the car.  It rained every.damn.day. Clayton wandered off TWICE in the just-after-sunset darkness because all the parents "look the same" and he thought he was following me.  Hubs could never take them to practice or games because of his work schedule.

I had to regroup.

Then, Clayton hit me with a request that literally stopped me in my tracks.

"Can you sign me up for tackle football?"

Ummmm....what do you say to that? We were just coming off last season where his cousin had a nasty concussion scare. But once I got ground rules laid out and Hubs' agreeing to work with me on shuttling to practice, I went to work researching the league rules and downloading the sign up forms.

As I scrolled through the league's website, I remembered having worked with the organizer in another lifetime. I remembered him telling me about how when they'd moved here, how disappointed they were that there was no football for younger kids to learn fundamentals. That it was his dream to one day start a program. It was always clear when you talked to him about it that his passion would make it a reality one day, despite this town's notorious reputation for local-yocal infighting and the innate ability to shut down outsiders' start ups.

It seemed like they had their act together. One of his friends' dads was going to be a coach. His friends were playing. I was being a lame mommy holdout and was running out of excuses.

I wrote a check.

We endured many a disappointed face when I insisted that "I heard Coach say socks on game day had to be black, white, or maroon. Anything else and you don't play. You will have only those colors", and then show up and see other kids in socks every color under the sun.

"I'm not their mom. I'm sorry that I make you follow the rules even when other people don't do what's asked of them."

I had to be the bad guy....a lot. This is normal for me.

Clayton showed up.  I mean....he SHOWED UP.  He put blood, sweat, tears, and 100% into whatever it was that was asked of him.

And pee.

The kid has like...a mini bladder.  Just after halftime at a game, as other players were taking the field, he was up on the railroad tracks taking a big-ol'-wiz because...well...he's 8 and it was his Auntie's town and he probably figured none of the 368 people that live there would mind.



I tried to tell him all season his helmet was blinding him.
He told me all season, "I'm FINE, Mom."

He never complained, unless you count the time I was late getting him to practice.  Then yes, he still complains about that to this day.

ToddlerBandit, giving zero fu*ks that this is not his ball,
nor that he looks like a hot mess.

He had existing friends on that team and made a lot of new friends along the way.  They won every single game and went on to win the championship.  Their coaches taught them well and they won with sportsmanship and pride.  He celebrated his teammates' individual successes.  He celebrated successes of players from other teams.  He tends to have a positive and supportive outlook in general, but I began to worry how he would react to a loss.

This banner was no match for the brute strength of
~The Wildcats~

Clayton was as close to flying as a tiny human could be when they won.

And then....there's Esten.

When the idea of football came up, as soon as Clayton asked to be signed up, Esten almost couldn't get out fast enough, "Please don't make me sign up too."

He preferred to bring his Kindle to the game rather than actually watch his brother and the rest of the team marching up and down the field.  He literally had zero interest.  Hubs was annoyed.

"You need to play a sport.  It would be good for you.  Pick a sport or I'll pick one for you."

Esten never hesitated.  He puffed out his chest and replied with enthusiastic sarcasm, "Fine. Gymnastics."

"That's not a sport...don't be a smart alec...you know what I mean."

Esten then proceeded to make his argument about gymnastics, knowing full well Jason wouldn't sign him up and he'd be off the hook.  After much back and forth, we revisited an old idea: Hockey.  Esten readily agreed.  Unfortunately, Clayton decided HE wanted to do it too.

Of course, as per usual, I missed the sign up deadline.  But with some quick finagling, I was able to get them signed up, jerseys ordered, and petitioned to have them on the same team.  This meant Clayton had to move up from the age bracket intended for him, but I knew this arrangement was the only one that would work for us and our schedules.

It was also....a lot of money.  Like...the kind of a lot of money that you mumble about under your breath but that you try NOT to mumble about under your breath because you really REALLY don't want to make your kid feel guilty and after all, we were supportive of spending money for your brother to do HIS sport so while it's unfortunate that your sport costs like FIVE TIMES MORE THAN THAT of COURSE we will sign you up because when you have a kid who is not-so-athletic who all of a sudden says "I want to do something athletic" it's difficult to poo-poo their dream.

Hockey is like....a million times weirder than football.  There's the whole getting dressed thing.  We had to watch a YouTube video to learn how to gear up our children.  I won't get into much detail about our first experience buying cups for sports other than to say there was a LOT of quality control going on at our house that first night.  It was a REAL novelty there for about 6 hours....lots and lots of quality control.  And then, when I finally had enough?  Clayton put his in the most obvious storage place for it: the kitchen counter.

Some days there's just not enough bleach.

There are so many secrets about tape and neckguards and not putting your elbow pads on upside down that to an outsider it's super intimidating.  Once you're IN though....it's easy.

I'm not all-the-way IN.  I don't have a bedazzled "Hockey Mom" sweatshirt.  I don't have ANY decals on my car proclaiming the league status of its occupants...so in that area I may be considered a failure.  In fact, if I did opt for a uniform, it would be a series of hoodies that say things like:

• PUCK YOU
• PUCK OFF
• GET THE PUCK OUT OF HERE (Because my kids primarily play defense)

Luckily, I'm allergic to clothing with words.  But I DO schlep my shorties to practice with their gear, and I DO show up for games in my fur coat like a crazy person, all the while trying to wrestle ToddlerBandit to sit still so I can watch.  This task is nearly impossible.

See that hoop? Yeah. ToddlerBandit is a baller, too.

I'm still unclear about the rules.  Aunt Nanny came to a game and started asking questions that I didn't have any answers for.  She left dizzy and deciding that she would prefer Jason as a bleacher mate next time.

I've watched both of my kids go from knowing nothing at all about this sport to exhaustingly correcting me when I praise them for doing a good job being wingmen.

"WING!!! MOM! It's just....WING!" they yell in unison.

Clayton on the right, per the tape on his helmet, which the
coaches have asked that we never remove, lest they never be
able to otherwise tell the Lee boys apart.

They've made new friends, and I was relieved that some of the playground judgement that Esten endures fades away when he's at the rink.  These are a new group of kids that can't pick him or not pick him in a popularity contest to be on their recess football team.

Until one of them invited the boys to his birthday party.

A teammate and his older brother celebrated their birthday together, and each invited friends.  There were 25-30 boys there and it was loud and chaotic in the rented gym where they gathered for pizza and cupcakes.

And dodgeball.

Three games in, someone decided to pair off the birthday boys and have them pick teams to play against each other.  I could feel my face getting hotter and hotter as one by one boys left the wall as their names were called and Esten got picked.....last.

Nobody really gets "picked last".  If you're last nobody even really picks you.  You're the only choice left.  He didn't even get picked by the friend that invited him, the brother ended up with him on his team.

I was a hundred times more bothered about this than him.  His face never showed disappointment, he was just as eager as the other boys to go out and play.  I was still prepared to deal with the fallout on the way home, if there was any.  Maybe his friend was trying to get all the brother's "older" friends so that his team would win (even though he still picked Clayton, who's younger than both of them)....maybe his brother wanted to pick you earlier but he doesn't know your name....

But he was preoccupied with other things in the car.  Talk of what apps and games he wanted to buy with a prepaid Visa he will get in April....some cool new function in Minecraft....something awesome that Alex said today....it was evident that this schoolyard team pick thing was not even on his mind.

It doesn't keep my heart from breaking for him.  Not that I want him to be better at sports so he'll be a more desirable teammate, either.  I hate that we are so quick to place value only on those talents we deem worthy.  The football player and the cheerleader are our "All-American" vision.  We aren't giving those with more cerebral or artistic talents and endeavors our same excited support and enthusiasm.  We expect that our boys have to do something with balls in order to make men out of them.  It's sometimes easy to forget how incredibly brave Esten has been at wakeboarding when we're stuck in the dead of winter, and it's hard for him to convince his friends (even the ones who are the best ever at football but who couldn't do what he can do on the water) that he might have some moves of his own.

Getting ready to rip this wake a new one...with a smile.

And so I will go forth and celebrate the excitement with which my children have both embraced this no-balls sport and its teaching model and our local coaches who consistently remind me just how hard these boys are working, and how impressed they are that they know if they asked them to skate on their hands they'd figure out a way to do it.  I will go forth and make sure that if my kid is picked last for something...it's not because he's a little ay-hole.  That's MY job as a parent.

Nobody has breathed one word about quitting because it's hard.  They ask to go to the rink every chance they get.  The boys (and girls) on their team and the teams around them are like a funny little family.  They are supportive of one another's growth and responsibility to the program, and outside the program...like tonight when one of their teammates...as punishment for acting up at school (and at the request of his mother) will have to skate laps while the rest of the team is practicing.

We will move on and maintain a positive outlook, not lingering too long on the losses nor the victories, and, fingers crossed, we will come out at the end of the season a cohesive family unit, a collection of individuals who have each grown in our own way through this process.  It's my hope that it gives us the wisdom and insight to pass along to new hockey families next season, and that we can take our lessons forward into the warm sun-filled summer days.

Or it might go differently, after this weekend's parents vs. kids game where, in an effort to remind his boys who has the biggest balls in this house, Hubs will likely incur a traumatic head injury and I'll spend my warm sun-filled summer days spoon feeding him applesauce.

I'm surrounded by boys.  Please send help.