Thursday, June 26, 2014

fu(oo)tbol(all) 101

Because Princess owns about 17 pairs of Nike shorts, played at least 5 years of recreational basketball at her church, and once won a golf trophy, she is well-versed in anything “sporty.” Since the World Cup is going on, Princess thought many of her constituents could use a refresher on two very confusing sports, futbol and football.

The first thing you need to do is accept that nothing with these sports makes any sense. Once you’ve accepted this fact, you’ll need to know the difference between futbol and football. Futbol is also called soccer, and you kick the ball with your giant spiky FUT. Football is just called football, like it doesn’t have any other secret names, but the thing is that even though the name says so, you DON’T kick the ball with your foot, except for one guy, and he’s not as big as the other guys and people yell at him a lot because he only has one job to do, and sometimes he ruins the game for everyone. That’s sad.

In futbol, which we’ll just call soccer because it’s less confusing, you CANNOT touch the ball with your hands except one guy. He’s a GOALIE and he’s bigger than everyone and he’s got ONE JOB TO DO (keep the ball from getting in the goal), except sometimes he ruins everything for everyone. They also make him wear a different shirt than everyone else, and it’s really sad. But Princess' brother tells her that he's usually yelling at everyone else like "I AM YOUR LEADER STOP MAKING ME LOOK BAD YOU PEASANTS," so that's cool.

In soccer the guys work together to kick the ball all the way to the other team’s goalie, but it’s really depressing because sometimes one of the other guys will kick the ball ALLLLL the way back to where it was originally, and the guys are like “UGH we just did all that work for nothing.” It’s pretty inefficient, but basically that’s what happens back and forth for forever until finally the striped shirt guys are like “you guys are done come get some juice boxes and orange slices!” and the guys are like “FINALLY these long socks are so itchy!”

In football it’s kind of the same except so much slower that you will probably get really bored. You’ll need to go to the concession stand about fifteen times because these games last about four hours even though the clock says 20 minutes or something. Princess usually just eats hotdogs and cheers when everyone around her cheers. (But this backfires if you didn’t realize that your seats are in the enemy section. Then you may get a mean look from your husband who just realized he has the worst wife ever. Or something.)

Anyway it’s like snail soccer except, again, DON’T USE YOUR FEET UNLESS YOU’RE THAT ONE GUY. (You do not want to be that guy.) Everyone gets in a line and hunches over, and then one guy will throw the ball under his legs to the quarterback. The quarterback is the boss and he yells out some codes and probably has a really hot girlfriend. Then the quarterback will hold the ball for a second and look around. Sometimes he’ll run and everyone is like “whoa whoa whoa” and sometimes he’ll throw it, but then the guy who he’s throwing it to needs to LOOK OUT because he is about to get jumped on by some really giant dudes. If the guy drops the ball, it’s called a FUMBLE and then whoever jumps on the ball first wins and gets to keep it. (But not forever because then the game would be over, and to be clear, the game is NEVER OVER.) If he catches it, he can run until the big dudes jump on him, and then they line up again and yell more codes. The goal is to get past those yellow lines that only show up on TV until they get all the way to the end of the field, and then the other team does that whole thing going the other way. This goes on forever until you die, and then it’s only half time, but GOOD NEWS there is a show with sparkly baton girls and tuba players.

So that’s pretty much it. If you have any questions regarding football, futbol, or general sporty-ness, Princess is your girl.

P.S. Read another super informative post about sports here.

Tuesday, June 24, 2014

the presentation game

When I was pregnant and was asked me what kind of a person I was praying Adelaide would be, I didn’t quite know how to answer. I hadn’t even thought about it. In fact, her “person-ness” was lost on me completely—I was too busy praying that she was actually a real baby and not a psychosomatic issue. Even during the PUSHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH part of labor, I was like, “Nope. No way we’ll get a baby out of this deal.” I was convinced it was just a really weird workout that would inevitably NOT result in six-packs abs, which is what I’ve learned to expect from workouts and why I almost always come up with something better to do.

Anyway, what I mean is I’M A PILLAR OF FAITH. Feel free to be inspired. My paranoia and overexposure to weird TLC shows did such a number that the luxury of praying about and dreaming about the person she would become—it was foreign. But then I knew.

I want her to be the kind of girl that lets people relax.

In college I met a girl who let me relax. I’d spent my whole life lamenting and taming the craziness that is my hair. But I met her—this girl with huge, frizzy hair, and honestly, she looked awesome. I’d never seen anyone cooler. She shopped at Anthropologie (I didn’t even know what that was at the time), had tons of friends, and was nice to everyone. She was awesome, and her hair was awesome.

So after that, when I felt the urge to rage against my “lion’s mane,” I decided against it. I decided, this giant hair—this is okay. This is pretty. This is me. 

That was a really cool thing she did, showing me how to be okay with myself. We need to do that for one another. We need to give each other a break. 

Girls need girls who don’t wear makeup every once in a while.

Girls need girls who don’t obsessively diet.

Girls need girls who don’t agonize over missing a workout. 

Girls need girls who laugh in the dressing room on that day when NOTHING FITS (the worst!!!) and say, “Forget this. Let’s look at shoes.” 

Girls need girls who don’t talk calories at the dinner table.

Girls need girls who don’t Instagram every early morning bike ride and trip to the farmer’s market.

Girls need girls who don’t untag the ugly pictures on Facebook.

Girls need girls who wear the wrong outfit sometimes and just own it. (“Haha! I showed up in my prom dress and y’all have on Nike shorts. I’m so weird! Let’s order an appetizer.”)

Girls need girls who can take a compliment—and mean it.

Girls need girls who can give a compliment—and mean it.

Girls need girls who can apologize for the right things (“I’m so sorry I hurt your feelings!”), but don’t apologize for the wrong things (“Sorry that my shirt is all wrinkled!”)

I want Adelaide to be that girl. We really need a girl like that.

The thing is, if I want Adelaide to be that girl, I have to teach her, and that’s easier said than done. I have been patting myself of the back for not untagging myself in this picture my sister lovingly posted on Facebook. I KNOW, it's the least flattering picture ever and not even my fave Instagram filter (Valencia) could save it. But that dumb yellow towel is on my head for about a fourth of my day sometimes, and, Lord help me, I should like even THAT Caroline and not take her too seriously.

Once when I was pregnant and fresh off of an Instagram binge, I put my phone down and wanted to cry. I was feeling the pressure—pressure to make sure Adelaide had cute stuff, an awesome nursery, the best of things. It was a weird new insecurity—like my fear of not wearing the right outfit was projecting itself onto my baby. The whole feeling was totally stupid and annoying. But we have to deal with the dumb sides of ourselves, too. So I put a mental stake in the ground. (Hence the bad Facebook picture.) I decided to make it my goal to be the kind of mom that shows my daughter in word and deed that I MATTER and that SHE MATTERS and that we can DO THINGS THAT MATTER even when we have a giant yellow towel on our head or we ate too many rolls at dinner (I CANNOT STOP EATING THE ROLLS) or find ourselves carrying around a few extra pounds (ROLLS!!!) or accidentally say the wrong thing.

Kinda like that time during sorority recruitment when they had me talk to this girl we really wanted to join our sorority, and I suddenly found myself telling her allllllll about how I shed everywhere (I TOLD YOU, THIS HAIR, IT IS CRAZY) and how it made my roommate grouchy and how she spent hours on her hands and knees swirling it out of our hot pink carpet, and then that girl CUT US the next day and everyone was like “OH NO! WE WANTED HER! WHAT HAPPENED?” and I avoided eye contact with everyone. KINDA LIKE THAT.

Anyway, we’ll take all the help we can get. Will you invite us over when your house is messy? Because then we’ll know it’s okay when our house is messy. Will you talk to us about things that you’re struggling with and not just the things that are going well? Because then we’ll relax and little and share what’s been hard for us, too. (Like not asking for more rolls at dinner. And other stuff that is less stupid.)

P.S. I’ve written about this before, but I keep coming back to it. I think I’m done now.

Tuesday, June 17, 2014

motherhood, three months in

I slip into the next room to grab something, and I overhear Adelaide babbling to herself. “Blah blah blah” she says, all kinds of baby nonsense. And I say (aloud, to no one), “Listen to that crazy baby in there talking to herself.” And Adelaide leaps out of her lamb Rock ‘n Play and shouts “HYPOCRISY” with jazz hands and a box step. And I’m like, “Wowzers, this is so my baby.” 

That’s kind of what motherhood is like as far as I can tell. A little piece of you blabbing about nothing yet all the while making you realize so much about yourself. Too much about yourself. It’s kind of like how I thought I was this agreeable person, and then I got married, and God went, “HA!” Or how I thought I was so patient, and then I became an eighth grade teacher. Also hilarious. And now I’m a mother. A mother to a brilliant baby, a wise little babbling Yoda. And in the name of full disclosure, I spelled wise with a “z” on my first try of that little fragment that would’ve cost a student of mine two points on a paper. So yeah, HYPOCRISY, and also I’m a little dumb. But that’s hardly my fault.

Babies take your brains. Did you know that? They are squishy little aliens that poop themselves silly and take every bit of intelligence you once thought you had. When I was pregnant, I couldn’t remember how to unlock the door to my house, so I had to stand very still at the front door until I remembered. That was humbling, and I should have realized then that it was only the beginning of the foolishness. Because while Adelaide learns to reach for things and dominate tummy time and kick her little legs when she hears music and stick out her lower lip to manipulate me into doing whatever she wants (“okay fine you can have a pony”), I can’t remember if today is Wednesday or Thursday, but nope, it’s Tuesday, and I’ve missed The Bachelorette again. DANG IT, ANDI, I NEED TO KNOW ABOUT YOUR LOVE LIFE even though it will inevitably irritate me and I’ll get all high and mighty and swear off the “trash TV” once again, but this time I mean it, forever. HA! God chuckles.

Adelaide, who refused to be the only girl at camp without a pair of Nike shorts.

I took that baby girl to camp with us last week, and MAN did she yuk it up. (Again, full disclosure, I have no idea what that phrase means but I’ve been really wanting to use it.) This girl was smiling and giggling and cooing at everyone, and just gobbling up the attention like her dad eats peanut butter. (STRAIGHT FROM THE JAR Y’ALL WITH A HUGE SPOON.) Whose child is this that loves attention? Certainly not her mother’s, although I do seem to recall my nine-months pregnant self performing for my sister a strange dance to “I Live for the Applause” by Lady Gaga. OKAY FINE SHE’S JUST LIKE ME. And her dad. Talk about two people who love to talk and have people listen. She’s doomed.

I had all these ideals before I had a baby, like “I won’t be that girl who talks about/posts pictures of her baby incessantly” and “I won’t be that mom that thinks her baby is better than the other babies,” but that lasted about zero seconds because I saw that baby for the first time and I knew two things:
  1. I am obsessed with this baby.
  2. This baby is superior to all other babies.
In conclusion, it is inevitable that I will become the stage mom everyone hates, and let’s all pray to God that I do not turn this baby into the big brat that I am just now realizing that I am. 

The end.

P.S. Help?