Fatigued Soccer

Somehow Atticus sprinted and dribbled and kicked his way through nearly one entire soccer season with his mother taking nary a picture, despite him both loving the game and being really quite good at it.

Finally, though, I managed to get my act together.

As ever, click to embiggen.

It was a good game, and according to Derek he played well.  (I always think he plays well, even when he has apparently done something less than great.  This is because I am still baffled that any child of mine could have so much as a modicum of athletic talent.  This boy has dodged all the genetic bullets my DNA could throw at him, which let me assure you, are legion.)

He, like, runs toward the ball, over and over, and chases after it for close to one hour straight.  This is amazing.  Let's also take a moment to appreciate the kid above on the right who may be having some kind of existential crisis.  "But why do we chase the ball?"  I feel you, buddy.

As well as he played though, and as happy as I was to have finally remembered the camera, it was kind of a tough game to watch.  Atticus is normally more or less tireless during these games of his, but on this Saturday, he was sluggish and slow compared to his normal self.  He would kick the ball, or pass it, or whatever, but then instead of sprinting after it as usual he'd just stand there, or walk.  I couldn't figure out what was wrong with him until Derek said, "Well, he didn't get any sleep last night, remember?"

Oh.  Right.  Night terrors.

We've experienced the effects of our son's night terrors for years now, but it was still pretty upsetting for me to see it so clearly, how exhaustion was keeping him from doing his best.  I realize it's just a kids' soccer game, with minimal repercussions, but watching all those other kids bounce around out there, it was evident how different Atticus's reality is from theirs.  And that sucks.

How to tell if Atticus had a rough night:  look for the bags under his eyes (illustrated above) and the thousand-yard stare.  Same goes for his parents, with the addition of slow download speeds for his mom.  Please allow an extra ten seconds' worth of blank staring when asking her a question. 

The day after this game, though, I was talking to another parent about her little girl, who has Type I diabetes, and who has had to re-orient her family's life around this diagnosis.  It was a good reminder that all families have invisible struggles, from night terrors to diabetes to children who give their mothers that birthed them a hard time about listening to Christmas music in October.  THERE IS NEVER A BAD TIME TO LISTEN TO CELTIC CHRISTMAS, OKAY, UNGRATEFUL PROGENY?

Know who he reminds me of, though, in this red jersey of his?

Especially when he's looking all tall and stuff?

His dad.

He's the tall one in the middle there.  Comparing the two, I'd say the genes are strong in this one.

Maybe Yoda had night terrors, too.

Soccer season is now over, which Atticus is already grieving.  I'm excited about the time this frees up, but am wise enough not to say so.  It's already given us extra orchard time!

On the eighth day He created Soccer Camp. And it was good.

If we were to sign Adelaide up for soccer camp, the results would be marked and severe.  We can barely get her out into the backyard for a family game of fútbol without groaning and tears and the ever-present question, "Why?"  (Or, more accurately, "WHHHHHYYYYYY?") The answer to this being a sensible, "You have been reading for nearly four hours.  That is why you have a headache, and don't feel well, and are, ahem, the tiniest bit cranky.  Come outside, breathe the air, and interact with the human race for thirty measly minutes."  So soccer camp would no doubt be seen as akin to trying to kill her clean off.

Our boys are a different story.

When the opportunity arose for them to attend a camp staffed by British college students studying to be soccer coaches (because evidently that is a thing you can major in outside of the United States where we more or less collectively suck at soccer, at least on a world stage), both jumped at it.

I didn't really know what to expect.  I had a couple friends whose children had participated in this camp in the past and had nothing but praise for the organization, but the coaches change every year and, to my mind at least, you'd have no way of knowing whether or not you're going to get stuck with a real stinker of a coach for five straight days, two hours each morning.

Thankfully, no stinkers made their way to Iowa last week.  All the hallelujahs.

Please click to embiggen and see Caedmon (third from the right) joyfully bellowing, "LET'S MAKE IT HAPPEN," their mantra for the week.

The boys were pleased, I was pleased, Adelaide was... maybe not pleased, but certainly helpful, as she escorted the boys between the library and the camp most of the week.  Most tellingly, Derek was pleased, and as a former soccer phenom, he is by far the most difficult to please of us all.  He said their skills and drills were good, the scrimmaging was good, the [insert words he could have made up for all I know] was good.  Good!

I got to attend their final day of camp, and was so impressed with our boys.  I mean, I'm impressed anytime they don't cringe away from a ball flying toward them, or scream unnecessarily when a ball flies toward them, or watch a ball as it pointlessly rolls past them- all things I have been known to do in middle school P.E., in high school P.E., and last night in our backyard.  I am nothing if not consistent.

And they looked so happy to be out there.  The befuddlement was thick in the air around Daughter and me.

I mean, look- here Caedmon finally managed to get it the ball past the goalie, Coach Mark.  He is thrilled.

That's not to say that never had a similar expression on my face before.  Holler "CHEESECAKE!" and watch me fly.

Atticus, too.

Happy to be playing soccer, I mean.  Not the cheesecake thing.

Honestly, it was downright bewildering.

The boys also learned some unexpected things, like what the coaches referred to as "party tricks,"

and that they speak English in England.  (Atticus to me:  "Mom, if Coach Isaac is from England, how can he speak English?"  Oh, sweet boy child.  How terribly and adorably American of you.)  

Every once in a while, though, I'd see a little of myself in the boys.

That extension!  That pointed back toe!  Why isn't this boy in ballet? 

If that gif shows anything, though, it's that there seems to be plenty of drama on the soccer field, or football... pitch?  Field?  Stage?  Anyway, who needs Giselle when you have this

and this

and of course this?

Although I see that last one and think, "Poor guy!  He just found out his childhood best friend finally lost his battle with cancer."  Because all this emotion can't be for a game, right?  (Raise your hand if you're wondering how thirteen years of marriage to Derek the Rabid Minnesota Vikings Fan has taught me nothing.)

 One moment while I pull myself out of the whirling vortex of gifs I just allowed myself to be sucked into.

.

.

.

.

.

Okay.  I'm back. 

So:  Soccer camp was good, nay, fantastic, our boys learned a lot about soccer and where our language comes from, and I thanked the good Lord above that in this case, Derek's genes prevailed. 

All the hallelujahs.

Big, juicy, soccer-y thanks to Derek's parents for gifting the entrance fee to the camp as our boys' birthday presents.  It was obviously a success!

Going Wrong, Going Right

It's been a rough couple weeks around our house, as Derek and I have been sick.  While I won't subject you to the pitiful details of our recent collective existence, I will say it was a never-have-I-identified-with-roadkill-so-strongly-type illness.  We were flattened, and it was ugly.

Naturally, this all coincided with any number of activities in which our family was expected to be present, and while we did all we could to stay in our hole and keep from breathing on innocent bystanders, sometimes it just couldn't be helped.  This led to fun interactions such as the one where my pregnant friend approached me for a hug and I was like, "DON'T!  Don't touch me!  Don't even come close- you do not want this!"

Still, life goes on, even when one is staring at the ceiling and asking oneself, "Which do I feel more like:  A human carcass or a flesh sock?"  I found evidence of this ongoing life when I stumbled outside only to find my tulips were blooming!

Adelaide also had a couple music things, including her piano recital.  She performed beautifully.

Atticus had his first soccer practice of the spring.  Other, better, healthier parents stood outside and watched their progeny; I grabbed mine before he could jump out of the vehicle and said, "Listen, I am not leaving this van.  If you need me for some reason- like if you get hurt or anything- you will just have to crawl over here and get in, because I am not getting out.  I will push the button to open the door if I happen to see you approaching, but that's as good as it's going to get tonight."

In my defense, it was in the forties and very windy, and hello, I was sick.  Side note:  I don't want to sound judgmental or anything, but if you're not using a photo of your grandma as a bookmark, you may or may not be doing life wrong.  And if the previous anecdote makes you think that I probably shouldn't be judging anyone, well, you're right, but I stand by the bookmark thing.

I also felt well enough one day to pay my yearly blood debt to the rabbit fence surrounding my vegetable patch.

Two pertinent pieces of information related to this photo:  My tiny, feeble strawberry plants have now been weeded, and I will never be a hurdler.

To sum up the past sickly, illness-ridden few months we've had:

At least something's going right for us; I mean, you did see those tulips up there, right?  Oh, and the daughter.  Yes, the daughter is what's going right.  She's suddenly not allowed to read this post.

Ice Cream as Motivational Tool

At the beginning of the soccer season, Coach Jeff (the other half of the undefeated coaching team that is Jeff and Derek, the latter of which Caedmon refers to as "Coach Daddy") told the players that anyone who was able to beat him in a race around the field would get ice cream.

Every week at practice the kids tried and failed to beat Jeff, possibly because he has the tiniest height and age advantage.  At the final practice, however, they managed to secure a head start on that week's attempt by working hard on their drills, and Jeff just happened to have enough ice cream for everybody in a cooler he just happened to have with him.  None of the children questioned this.

Informing his players of the astounding coincidence that is a cooler-full of ice cream + a head start orchestrated by the coach.  All they had to do was run their legs off around the field one last time.

The only rules were that they had to stay outside the white lines, and they had to run the whole way.  I'm actually a little amazed that they managed to follow these rules, as they all became a little squirrelly when they realized their relative proximity to ice cream.

There they are on the other side of the field.  This was by far the fastest I ever saw a couple of those kids move.

Atticus and friends closing in the finish line, safely ahead of the coach:

Wonder of wonders, every last kid beat the coach, who then cruelly brought them in for a congratulatory huddle before unleashing the team.

There's always a kid who just can't wait.

Then, because our other two kids were sitting there wearing the most pathetic faces in their considerable arsenal, Jeff told them that if they ran around the field, they, too, could have ice cream.  Atticus claimed this wasn't fair, as they didn't have to beat the coach.  Adelaide and Caedmon cared not one whit what Atticus thought.

Also not outside the white lines, which Atticus, of course, pointed out.

And that is how you brainwash young children into thinking running is fun.

A List for Friday

• Signs your children are growing up in the age of technology:

Caedmon loves to draw pictures, but he will often ask if you want just a picture, or a picture and an audiobook.  If you go the audiobook route, it means you are possessed with infinite patience and/or have twenty minutes of your time to sacrifice to a meandering story about super heroes and lightning coming out of fingertips and hot lava.  There is always hot lava.

Recently when he posed this choice to me, I went the audiobook route.  I don't really remember why I did this to myself, but I'm fairly certain guilt was involved.  Caedmon drew his picture full of swords and lightning and stick figures with disturbingly large fists.  He wrote a bunch of random letters and a few short words on the reverse of the piece of paper; this was the audiobook portion.  Then he brought the paper over to me, allowed me to view his masterpiece, then flipped it over and prepared to recite a tale of lava and derring-do.

Before he began, however, he said, "Oh, wait, there's an Ad before the audiobook can start.  But you can Skip it if you want to."

Methinks we've been watching too many YouTube videos.

Caedmon loves audiobooks, but will still deign to listen to a paper version.

• Signs your children have fantastic teachers:

In Atticus's kindergarten class they have this thing called "magic words."  There is a list of a few magic words every week, and every time the kids hear or use one of these words, they are to tug on their ear.

Atticus thinks this is pretty much the greatest thing ever.  I think this is pretty much the greatest thing ever, because it has him using words he didn't previously, all while wiggling his earlobe with his fingers and looking meaningfully at me with a smile:  "He is such a RASCAL," *smile wiggle wiggle*, or "I was FRIGHTENED the frisbee was lost," *smile wiggle wiggle*.  

I love the way he says these words in an announcer's voice, enunciating each consonant, but there was the week I learned I overuse the word "finally"; I worried our son's ear was going to fall clean off from all the tugging he had to do.

Atticus also has a fantastic coach, although it isn't his ear that sees plenty of action during soccer- it's his tongue, which evidently must bask in the light of day for him to successfully kick the ball.

Click to embiggen all these to see his Soccer Tongue.

Two Soccer Tongues!

And here's Atticus and Derek, looking very... coachly.  I say if "kingly" is a word, "coachly" can be, too.

• Signs your family has faces more suited to those strange mugs with faces than to a glossy magazine cover:

You know, this kind:

Looks like a Crisler

These are the faces our family makes whilst playing mini-golf together:

Neither Adelaide nor I are able to remain composed when we make a bad putt.  And when you ask Caedmon to make a "pirate face," because we were playing at Pirate's Cove?

A Thursday List

• The suspicious previous owners are at it again.  Or... were, I guess.

Newly unearthed bricks basking in the warmth of the long-hidden sun.  

Adelaide recently came home with a stick that her school optimistically called a White Oak tree.  While I was out back digging a hole for the white oak stick, about ten inches down I began to unearth bricks.  I fished three out of the small hole required for the stick, but hit more around the perimeter of the hole.  I thought about widening my search to see how many I could find, but figured Derek would frown upon arriving home to find half the backyard being excavated for the sake of old bricks.

Why, Suspicious Previous Owners?  Why all the buried nails and bricks and faux dead bodies?  Someone please explain this to me.

• Derek and I made a whirlwind trip to Milwaukee a couple weeks ago so he could accept a few awards he won for his work.  

This is my favorite of the pictures I took while Derek was giving his "Thanks for reinforcing the fact that I'm amazing" speech.  I like the way the Master of Ceremonies behind him there is gazing adoringly at my husband.  It's like he's been taking lessons from Atticus and Caedmon.

• There have been more soccer games:

Derek showing Atticus how to... throw the ball back into the game... probably?

Atticus with the ball, there, doing something fancy.  Pretty sure it involved kicking of some sort.  (Three games in and I am a veritable soccer savant, friends.)

Atticus is on the left, there, turning on a dime to run toward the ball.  Do anyone else's knees kill just looking at this?

It's very strange to watch one of my offspring play a sport with such enthusiasm.  And- hey, sisters of mine, get this:  When there's a gaggle of children fighting and kicking at the ball, Atticus enters the fray with gusto.  And when a ball comes flying at him at indecent and possibly harmful speeds, he runs toward it.  There is no screeching, no ducking, no closing of the eyes.   How are we even related to this kid?