Resignation

Those of you who are not on Twitter or Facebook or Cre8Buzz (and really, if you're not on Cre8Buzz, what exactly are you waiting for?) may not know that I got suckered into stepped up to the plate for my kid and volunteered to coach his Little League team.

There are just a few issues with this.

I hate other people's kids. Not all of them, mind you, but for the most part, people's kids are shitheads. Two of the boys on the team hate me. Well, women. They hate women. How do I know? When I pull them in to talk to them about respect, and how they talk to me, they say, "Um, where's our real coach?" Really? I am, dude. "No, you're the team MOM." No you little fucking cocksucker, I am the COACH. And I will sit your ass out in a motherfucking heartbeat if you roll your little womanizing eyes at me one more time. I Double Dog Dare you to try me on this one.

I hate other kids parents. What do the jerk-off dads of the asshole kids do through this whole thing? Stand there. Giggling. It's going to be a long season.

I have played exactly ZERO baseball games in my whole life. This gives me the slightest little handicap in the whole "teaching other people" department. Fortunately, I am a fast study. And they gave me a handbook.

I can't throw a ball for shit.

I am not quite strong enough to properly lock the equipment shed, which is 15,765 years old and made of lead and the eenciest bit warped. My angle for this? Get there early, earlier than ANYONE, and unlock it, set up my field, and play dumb blond when the other coach says, "But we're the home team. We're supposed to set up." Ooooo, I didn't know! Oopsie. (This is where the boobie shirt really pays off)

Me? In a Baseball cap? Like Britney without any makeup on. Like Jack Nicholson in the morning. Like the kid from Mask. Not. Cool.

I have three kids. One of which is two. Only one of which is on the team. Baby wearin' is frowned upon in the middle of a baseball field during play.

Did I mention that I've never played baseball before?

I have the tiniest little potty mouth problem. Just sayin'.

Since I am a girl, the moms of the kids on the team think it's totally okay to come up to me and ask about the baby, and tell me how proud they are of their son, and how though all the rest of the kids are total shits, well, see how good my boy is being and aren't I a great parent and my isn't that a low-cut top you have on and do you knit because I just got this new pattern and shut the hell up, woman. I'm busy over here.

I have a nasally voice. I can't help it; I was born that way and you try living in Philadelphia during your formative years. It's not exactly the hottest of accents. Point is, I don't exactly command attention. Maybe I should go for the Fran Drescher thing. NO ONE can ignore that evilness.

Really, I've only ever even once watched a baseball game start to finish, and I am pretty sure I was fairly intoxicated and quite possibly making out with someone through most of it.

And the biggest problem of all? The real kicker? I am, and please don't repeat this, I am kind of liking it. As in, enjoying it. Shitty kids aside (I have awesome stink-eye; that'll be nipped in the bud) it's kind of, well, err, um, fun?

Someone get me Chrysler on the phone. It appears I'll be needing that minivan after all.

See all the Thursday Thirteens here.

On the High Dive

A decade ago today, my whole life changed.

I think, in hindsight, I was probably too young and too naive for such a change, but I asked for it, and hot damn did I ever get it. As of 11:20-something on April 14th, 1998, almost two weeks past when it was "due" to happen, not one thing about me has remained unchanged.

And thank god for that.

Everything I thought I loved, everything I imagined meant any little thing to me, is long gone. Every vinyl album, every trinket of my past, every book I've ever wanted to read, or movie I wanted to watch, every man I've ever loved; none of it really matters all that much.

I still really like solitude. I just grew accustomed to living without it. I still really like books and movies. I just look at them like little treats now. I still really, REALLY love being in love, and the whole dance that goes with it, but I have learned that this love, this little boy, is so much more and better and grand than anything I will ever know otherwise.

I held a tiny person in my arms, under my chin, to my chest and in my lap, and I dreamed. I dreamed of first birthdays and bike rides. I dreamed of trick or treats and kindergarten. I never dreamed of today, of this, of a decade. I couldn't; it was too far away, like trying to picture the infinity of space. Even now when it's here upon me, I cannot fathom the fact that it's been 10 years. That I have kissed his sweet face and tucked him into his bed 3,650 times. That I have spent (almost) every single day with him and have witnessed every step, every inch of growth, both inside and out. That little baby, who's voice I tried to imagine when I closed my eyes at night, now speaks of things I never knew, of interests that are not from me but of his own yearning to learn.

He is trying to separate from me now, wanting independence and responsibility and relationships outside our family. He wants so much to be his own man, and yet, in tiny little ways, he still needs his momma, even though he'd never admit it. When he realizes that he left every stinking Gameboy game he owns in the car and now they're gone, he doesn't go to his room to cry. He comes to me still. He buried his head in my lap and he sobs while I rub his curly little head. He still sits on the kitchen stool while I make him a little chocolate something to ease the sadness. He still lets me brush his teeth every once and a while, still lets me help pick out his outfits and tie his shoes...he is still my baby, if only for a little while more.

I never thought I wanted this. I never thought I could do this. Ten years, one decade later, I am more afraid than I have ever been in my life, because I realize today that this was the only full decade I will ever get with him. The next time we hit this mark, he'll be busily pursuing a degree or a career or a girl. He won't be under my roof. He won't share the early hours in the morning with me before the rest of the family gets up. He'll be his own, and will have achieved the independence that he is fighting for right now, and I don't want to imagine life without this. Without him. He is the greatest thing I have ever done, and he has changed and reshaped me more than any other person or thing could ever hope to.

And I don't just mean like this.

10 years ago



Ten years ago, I didn't have this:


Yup.  I MADE that.


I most certainly didn't have this or this:


Not sure I even WANTED that back then


I couldn't have imagined the sound of his voice or the gait of his walk:


Just scored a triple!


I couldn't have guessed if he was a lefty or a righty:


Lefty AND Righty.  Who knew?


I had no idea that he would have the biggest green eyes and he'd have freckles on his nose:


Freckles and green eyes


I tried to imagine him in a car seat or a crib, but I never dreamed that he'd be a man, among other men:


Dude, he’s so cute I could die.


But I do know that because I got him, I also got him:


Goofy.  Just like I like’m.


And also, because of him, I can haz cheezburger:



I can haz cheezburger


Goodbye, my darling 9 year old. I'm gonna miss you. I hope the 10 year old you that I will meet tomorrow morning is as awesome as the 9 year old was.

See all of Sarcastic Mom's Weekly Winners here.

My Three Ring Circus

No recipe today, kids. Today we're trying something different. I'd like to take an itty bitty moment and direct your attention to one of my very favorite bloggers, Tiff at Three Ring Circus. I'm going to try to do this semi-regularly, this spotlighting someone else, someone better than me, someone whom I respect and admire and (dare I say it?) love a bit. The ever-fab Dan Leone has this rule that he'll only do a meme if he firsts talks about another blogger that is better than himself, and I have always loved that idea. I am running with it a wee bit.


Three Ring Circus




Tiff is a mother of seven. That's onetwothreefourfivesixseven children. I have half that and I am commitable. I don't know HOW I first met her; I just tripped and fell over her one day on the blog. And I stalked her for a long time, and now, we're buddies.

I love Tiff for a thousand little reasons. She can write a whole posts about doormats. She has beautiful kids, and takes lots of pictures of them, she's not as wordy as I am because she finds the right words the first time, every time.

Oh, and she makes me cry big fat chunky tears that make make my throat burn and make my eyes feel like I haven't slept in a week. Schindler's List cry. E.T. cry. (Shut up, I was 8 or something.) Only one other blogger thus-far, ever, has made me cry like that. She's next on my to-do list.

Tiff is one of the two bravest women that I have had the honor of becoming friends with through this zaney thing they call an internet. She is an advocate for her children, all seven of them, even the little baby up in heaven.

Maybe I don't believe in heaven, but I believe that her William is in heaven, and I don't care who tells me otherwise.

The best thing about Tiff is that when I asked her for a word or two about her for this post, she described herself better than I ever could:
This is me:

Old. Very old. I'm not kidding. What? Almost 36 is old.

Jelly like. After six children, I'm almost proud to write that.

Almost.

Tone factor; Zero. Care factor even less.

Mother.

Wife

Midwife.

Did I mention mother?

To alot of kids.

Seven.

Yes, I DO know what a TV is.

Five of my own and two foster boys.

I know I said I had birthed six...

I've got an angelbaby.

I like photography, scrapbooking and fighting with our paediatrician.

Oh, and I like to write.

Alot.

On my blog.

One more thing.

I'm an Australian.

Don't hold that against me.

Aussies are cool...

at least WE think we are!

Do yourself a favor...go spend a little time with her. She is wonderful.

Next up; Loralee. Dude, I told you I was outting our love.