Final huddles of Summer 2017
Little known fact about me. The first thing I ever wrote and had published was a haiku about bacon, which is altogether too perfect if you know me well. If you’re pathetic enough to keep reading this, I might copy it to the end of this post.
Anyhoo. I wrote another haiku today, pertaining to the current status of my sports mom life.
Baseball season done
Soccer season over too.
What will we do now?
Baseball actually ended nearly a week ago. I was
so damn excited for the season to be over I did five cartwheels in the parking lot really sad to see the season come to an end. Soccer season ended yesterday. If all was good and right in the world, I’d be watching them play in the semi-finals of the state tournament right now instead of writing a stupid ass haiku and blog post. I was so sad I actually may have shed a tear so damn excited for the season to be over I did five cartwheels in the parking lot.
In an earlier post I linked info stating that the tilde (~) is used to denote sarcasm on the world wide interwebs. Right now I’d like to link something stating that the strikethrough (
strikethrough) indicates one is telling a truth she wouldn’t admit to if she had her druthers. But I can’t link to that info, because I’m totally making shit up as I go right now.
Regardless of whether her thoughts on either season coming to an end were positive or negative, I’m pretty sure a politically correct mom (a.k.a. decent human being) would have the same feelings about the end of both kids’ seasons. I think we’ve probably established that I am neither politically correct nor a decent human being, but let me just add to your arsenal of proof of those facts right now.
Both of these seasons had a sort of never-ending feel about them. Soccer because it is essentially a year-round endeavor. Baseball because the team essentially sucked.
I’m not supposed to say the team sucked. A much more apt title for this blog would be shit I shouldn’t be saying. But their record was somewhere in the neighborhood of five wins and 755 losses. That might be a slight exaggeration (as would the mentions of cartwheels), but it doesn’t feel too far off the mark. In actuality they probably only played 25ish games and I have no damn idea how many were wins, but here’s one thing I actually do have enough experience and expertise to say: a seven inning baseball game takes a long damn time when a team’s not terribly sharp. Sometimes as long as three hours. And while I do embrace the ‘I Love Watching You Play‘ approach to sports mom life, there is exactly not one single thing I’d love watching for three hours.
Meanwhile, on the pitch, the girls played two 35 minute halves with a 10 minute intermission at halftime. With a running clock. And the team only lost one game all season. And 12 and 13 year old girls don’t smell quite as bad as 14 and 15 year old boys. So even though they also covered 800 (might be exaggerating again) games this summer, it was a much more efficient endeavor.
Regardless of how I feel about any of it; we have now come to the sweet spot of the year where we have about a month with no games, no practices, no carpools to figure out, no finding nut cups on the kitchen island or stinky socks and cleats in the back seat of my car, no scrambling to find uniforms and get them washed in time for the next game. As is the case with Christmas, Easter, Halloween and me making a dinner everyone in my family will eat; this sweet spot comes but once a year. And despite my describing it as the sweet spot, the thought of it always terrifies me a bit. Because nothing brings out my little tribe’s dysfunction more than actually having to be near one another.
To summarize, I just told you I liked my daughter’s team more than my son’s because they won more, smelled less, and required less time of me; and I’m slightly apprehensive about our family actually having to talk to one another for the next four weeks. I’m almost as good at motherhood as I am at haikus.
The Bacon Haiku
I love salt and lard
Oh, how I love salt and lard
Damn neural pathways