Ode to the Laundry

I think that I shall never see

my whites as white as they can be

Because I haven't time, you see

To use my bleach, or even pee.

I'm frightened of my laundry piles

It seems like they go on for miles

A jumbled load of many styles

A daunting mound of washing wiles

From pants to shirts to socks and hose

The laundry comes, the laundry goes

And every savvy mother knows

No matter what you do it grows

Alas, for laundry there's no cure

Like death and taxes, laundry's sure

To be the bane that I endure

As years go by and I mature.

tlc

Silent Sidelines

It is September and that means we are playing travel soccer. And I do mean “we” in its collective sense. Anyone pretending not to be caught up in their kids' sports is a bald-faced liar.

I try to remain neutral about it all because I really don’t want to be one of those people who live vicariously through my children. I have two jobs plus motherhood so my “personal fulfillment” cup pretty much runneth over. And my standards are pretty low. I consider it a grand personal achievement that both children have finally been taught to tie their own shoes.

Yet it is hard not to become invested in your child’s sports endeavors, or at least to hide it during game time. My husband told me last weekend that I MUST lower my voice on the sidelines. Apparently, what I intend as encouraging accolades came across as the officious tirades of a raving banshee! From now on, it’s silent sidelines for me!

I just want my kid to have fun. And to win. And to be better than everyone else. Just kidding. Well, sort of. Let’s face it: the thought of a scholarship is particularly compelling after the great investment toilet flush of 2008.

I’m not really sure what exactly the difference between “travel” soccer and “recreational” soccer is, except that one costs me nearly $1,000 and the other a mere $150. Travel involves thousands of e-mails and tournaments and rosters that must be handed to officials. And of course the monogrammed backpack for $40. (I drew the line at the $80 warm up suit. To me, warm up suits should never be seen outside of a nursing home, where they must always be velour. If my son gets chilly on the soccer field he can do some jumping jacks or put on his $10 sweats from Target.)

In Hypercompetitiveville where I live, we import our soccer coaches. Literally. Every year our soccer clinics are run by a group of attractive British twenty-somethings who share a flat and date the local au pairs. They are a great bunch of guys. I’m hoping they’ll teach my son how to sound like a gentleman, even if he never learns to behave like one.

In the future, as I sit quietly on the sidelines, I will remind myself that this is travel soccer, not the world cup, and that my son is an 8-year old third grader, not Landon Donovan. He is no different than the multitude of global 8 year olds who are playing soccer without fancy uniforms, without a turn field, and without professional coaches. And I will remind myself that there are a multitude of mothers who sit silently while it happens and I ought to be one of them.

Ode to a Pest

Oh, lady talking on your phone

Will you cease your endless drone?

And shut your loud, obnoxious trap

So I can take a little nap?

Grab a book or shut your eyes

Look out the window to the skies

Do that for which you are best suited

As long as it it's completely muted.

Will you please, at my behest

Turn off your phone so I can rest?

It's not an unreasonable request.

Nobody likes a Metro North Pest!

That Voo Doo That You Do...

The population of my town is comprised mostly of well-to-do Masters of the Universe. I live among the movers and the shakers. Since the only thing I move and shake is my cellulite, it's not clear to me how I fit in here. But here I am, nonetheless.

Neither my husband nor I qualify as Masters of the Universe. On our way to ruling the heavens we're stuck in the rungs of Jacob's ladder. And that's just fine, because between you and me, it's hard to find Masters of the Universe who aren't universal assholes.

Most nights my hubby and I share tales from the day: we are each other's favorite soap opera. The cast of characters rivals day time drama: psychos, sluts, philanderers, nerds, jocks, ingenues- they're all there. We have yet to encounter evil twins, but we live in hope.

As I've watched corporate plot lines unfold through the years, I have come to truly understand what it is my husband does for a living. I could certainly never do his job, but I do appreciate what it is he is does all day long.

Interestingly, many of my friends cannot say the same. Though they are married to Captains of Industry they have no idea what ships those Captains are sailing. As first mates they qualify little more than Gilligan, albeit without the goofy hat and with much better shoes. I'm not sure why, but that seems to be the trend.

I have to wonder what it is that I'm missing. Should we be discussing deep philosophical questions instead of Bob's recent promotion? Instead of office politics should we tend to livestock on Farmville?

I don't judge my friends who live in ignorance of their husband's profession. It's none of my business. But I would think that a Master of the Universe would have some pretty interesting things to say, since the fortunes of the world ride on his shoulders. As for me and my husband, our corporate endeavors will never impact the economy, but they bring us closer, and that's good enough for me.

Go, Team!

Today my son played a soccer game against a town whose high school team is called "The Blue Wave." It's not a bad name, I suppose, for a beach town in California. But I live in Connecticut, which is known mostly for lockjaw and corduroy pants with tiny embroidered whales. "Wasps" might be a better mascot for our little corner of the world.

Our local high school team is not the Wasps, however. We are "The Warriors." I guess this is meant to conjure up visions of spear-wielding soldiers with matted hair, like the hordes in Braveheart. But it would be easier to picture our varsity squad in khakis. Instead of spears, they'll wield iphones.

Some teams have menacing animals for their mascots: the Bears, the Eagles, the Panthers. But in Fairfield County we just don't have that many ferocious beasts. If we need to go with something menacing we'll have to use our most fearsome pest: The Tick. Instead of ripping apart or maiming our enemies, our sports teams will have to threaten somehing more insidious. Beware, competition! We will make you really tired, with achy joints!

tlc

Fatigue

No matter the time or the date or the season

A mother is tired for many a reason

From tasks that are ceaseless from day to the night,

a mother is tired - too tired to write.

TLC

What I Learned At the Library Book Sale

For two hours today I volunteered as a cashier at the library's children's book sale.

There were four official cashiers during my shift, and I was the youngest by about 30 years.

Here are a few things I learned:

• Ball point pens were introduced in the mid 1940's at a cost of $26 per pen. You could shave $8 off that cost if you were purchasing them in the military.
• A good calculator in 1972 cost about $85.
• Everyone over the age of 70 moves at their own speed and they certainly DO NOT multitask.

Normally I'm not big on volunteering, principally because I hate meetings. But being a library cashier was a good gig. There was a definitive start and end time, and someone bought me an orange soda. Never once did my fellow cashiers interrupt me. They didn't bicker and they sat still for long periods of time without fidgeting. They didn't e-mail me, send "nastygrams", text me, phone me, or require my attendance at a brainstorming session. There was no laundry, no cooking, no vacuuming. Just some pleasant conversation, some addition, and the making of change.

I envied the pace of my septuagenarian colleagues. I am always looking forward, always "on task." Everything I do is in a hurry. But my friends at the library attended to their duties with care and calm, with focus on the now. I think I need to take a lesson from that. And maybe I'll find some time to revisit a children's book. There certainly are alot of them. And you can buy them cheap at the library book sale!

tlc

No Hope

This morning we had our introductory conference with Patrick’s teacher. She asked us to share our "hopes and dreams” for him.

It was really hard to answer, possibly because I have extremely low standards. Would it make the wrong impression to say that I hope he remembers to floss? Frankly, I'd consider it an educational miracle if she could teach him to put his dirty clothes in the laundry instead of on the floor. Typically, I am "hoping" that he will stop denting the garage with his soccer ball and that he will let me sleep past 6 a.m. on a Saturday.

So I guess that leaves "dreams." I'd like to see him write in cursive, I suppose, and perhaps cut his flank steak without incurring bodily injury. The dreams that I have for him really transcend his education: things like a happy marriage and a 401(K) that is not derailed by a national financial crisis. Patrick's teacher may be fantastic, but I'm not sure that spousal bliss and a well-balanced portfolio are part of the third grade curriculum.

If I stop to think about it, I hope that Patrick grows up to be intelligent, healthy, self-sufficient, hard-working, compassionate, and funny. I hope he learns to respect his fellow man and the earth, and to follow the Golden Rule. And I hope he has a son just like him.

tlc