Who doesn't love the Olympics? There's just something about all the hard-work and camaraderie among the athletes that make me want to suit up for a trip down the luge or something. And Bob Costas...don't even get me started on all that yumminess.
Truth is the Olympics make me feel like a complete imbecile.
You see, I was the scrawny, freckle-faced girl that every team captain avoided picking until there was no one else left to choose. I was that kid...I was incredibly slow and remarkably uncoordinated. I couldn't win a game of "flag-tag" if my life depended on it, and basketball...wow. Whoever assumes that a 4-foot-8, 80 pound 6th grader can possibly muster up the strength to actually get the basketball anywhere in the near vicinity of the goal, much less through the hoop, is completely asinine. Who does that?
And then there was Coach Christian. Good God. Why in the world this man was allowed to teach P.E. to middle school children is completely beyond me. Let's just say it's a good thing I was a late, late bloomer.
I'd really like to say all that has changed now.
But, of course, it hasn't. So about 18 months ago I took up the only sport I thought I can manage. I figured running was the perfect exercise for me. And why not? It's like walking, just faster. Right? It requires no coordination or complex, thought out game play; it's just one foot in front of the other over and over again. And several months ago, I started running with my friend, Meghan. It's the most opportune time for me to catch up on all the "news" I otherwise would have missed out on. Did I say perfect sport?
So, I suck at sports...so what. I'll obviously never make it to any Olympic games, unless of course they change the rules to allow the syncopated rhythm clapping game as an official event. I love that game, and whenever I can find someone crazy enough to play it with me, I can take on even the most talent percussionist.
We all have our talents :)
Sunday, February 14, 2010
Thursday, February 4, 2010
Perfect Attendance is for Losers
Ah, 1983. What a great year in the grand scheme of my life. Ronald Reagan was president, Sally Ride (rock on, sista) was the first woman astronaut, and Ghandi won the Academy Award for Best Picture.
Right. Of course, without the help of Google, I wouldn't have remembered any of that crap. I mean gimme a break; I was 8-years-old for cryin' out loud. I was much too busy fighting with my siblings over who Mom and Dad loved more, who got to sit where in our awesome red and white striped van, and which of our three (sometimes four depending on the weather ) TV stations to watch. So unless current events and 80's movie trivia somehow got subliminally mixed into a random ABC Afterschool Special or our 8 track of Bing Crosby's White Christmas, chances are I didn't know about it.
All I cared about was who I sat next to on the 45-minute bus ride to school, who I played Chinese jump rope with at recess, and who I would be moved next to in Mrs. Dixon's 3rd grade classroom because I couldn't keep my gigantic mouth shut for .5 seconds. In addition to all of these childly duties, I also had to keep my kick ass pair of brown KangaROOS clean and stain free. It was a hard life after all. But I somehow managed.
And then my best friend, Julie, had a fantastic idea. WE'LL JOIN GIRL SCOUTS! Yes! It all made sense. It would get me out of riding the bus home one afternoon every single week. It would have been a phenomenal plan if we would have done something besides hold hands, sing songs, and stroll over bridges...sometimes all at the same time. I mean really. Even in 1983 I had better things to do.
So, here I find myself in 2010 in not too different of a situation. Fabulous. Here we go again.
I don't claim to be the world's best parent. I didn't join the PTA, I don't volunteer at the school (except for the fun stuff), and I almost never do speech therapy homework. I'm not perfect by any stretch, and I'm really just figuring it out as I go. The mere fact that my children are as level headed as they are is nothing short of a God given miracle. But there is one thing that I have learned in my almost ten years of motherhood. Perfect attendance is for losers.
That's right...L.O.S.E.R.S. Losers.
Why in the world I would care that my 9-year-old has perfect attendance in **insert secret, undisclosed after school activity here** is absolutely outside my realm of thinking. Really? REALLY? I can see his high school graduation now..."And is there any graduate out there who never missed a **insert secret, undisclosed activity here ** meeting in the school year 2009-2010? If so, please stand up so we can recognize you." Right. Not gonna happen.
Here's another thing I know. NOBODY CARES. Nobody. It won't matter to anyone in 50 years. Hell, I'll probably be dead by that point, and if Levi still faults me for not taking him to his **insert secret, undisclosed activity here** every single time the doors were open then so be it.
So, do we show up 90% of the time? Yes. Do I pay attention and keep my mouth shut during the meetings? Of course not. Do I actually remember to take the manual and flip to every page during the meeting to see how we're making progress towards our next accomplishment? Nope, not even close.
Here's the cold, hard truth. I've never even opened the book. That's right all you organized and punctual **insert secret, undisclosed activity** moms. That book has never been opened by me. I have NO earthly idea what it takes to earn any of the accomplishments or even what exists to even attempt to earn. And here's something else. I don't really even care.
But what I do have is a fun-loving 4th grader who's not afraid to make mistakes and speak up in a crowd. He's hard-working, friendly, and loves to make up his own jokes and share them with anyone and everyone who will listen (and even those that won't). And that, my **insert secret, undisclosed activity here** crazed friends, is worth more to me than some ridiculous perfect attendance pin any day of the week. So there. Take that.
**Insert secret, undisclosed activity here** are prepared not their mothers. Instead, I choose to teach independence, responsibility, and the ability to work without being under constant supervision. Good for me. I am a good mother...(repeating under my breath)...I am a good mother...I am a good mother.
So, raise your right hand, extend your three fingers, and repeat after me..."On my honor, I will try to serve God (which I absolutely do), my country (I vote...does that count?) and mankind (hello, I write a blog) and to live by the Girl Scout Law (well, okay, I don't exactly live by the Girl Scout law, but three out of four ain't half bad.)
Bring it, moms. You ain't got nothin' on me.
Right. Of course, without the help of Google, I wouldn't have remembered any of that crap. I mean gimme a break; I was 8-years-old for cryin' out loud. I was much too busy fighting with my siblings over who Mom and Dad loved more, who got to sit where in our awesome red and white striped van, and which of our three (sometimes four depending on the weather ) TV stations to watch. So unless current events and 80's movie trivia somehow got subliminally mixed into a random ABC Afterschool Special or our 8 track of Bing Crosby's White Christmas, chances are I didn't know about it.
All I cared about was who I sat next to on the 45-minute bus ride to school, who I played Chinese jump rope with at recess, and who I would be moved next to in Mrs. Dixon's 3rd grade classroom because I couldn't keep my gigantic mouth shut for .5 seconds. In addition to all of these childly duties, I also had to keep my kick ass pair of brown KangaROOS clean and stain free. It was a hard life after all. But I somehow managed.
And then my best friend, Julie, had a fantastic idea. WE'LL JOIN GIRL SCOUTS! Yes! It all made sense. It would get me out of riding the bus home one afternoon every single week. It would have been a phenomenal plan if we would have done something besides hold hands, sing songs, and stroll over bridges...sometimes all at the same time. I mean really. Even in 1983 I had better things to do.
So, here I find myself in 2010 in not too different of a situation. Fabulous. Here we go again.
I don't claim to be the world's best parent. I didn't join the PTA, I don't volunteer at the school (except for the fun stuff), and I almost never do speech therapy homework. I'm not perfect by any stretch, and I'm really just figuring it out as I go. The mere fact that my children are as level headed as they are is nothing short of a God given miracle. But there is one thing that I have learned in my almost ten years of motherhood. Perfect attendance is for losers.
That's right...L.O.S.E.R.S. Losers.
Why in the world I would care that my 9-year-old has perfect attendance in **insert secret, undisclosed after school activity here** is absolutely outside my realm of thinking. Really? REALLY? I can see his high school graduation now..."And is there any graduate out there who never missed a **insert secret, undisclosed activity here ** meeting in the school year 2009-2010? If so, please stand up so we can recognize you." Right. Not gonna happen.
Here's another thing I know. NOBODY CARES. Nobody. It won't matter to anyone in 50 years. Hell, I'll probably be dead by that point, and if Levi still faults me for not taking him to his **insert secret, undisclosed activity here** every single time the doors were open then so be it.
So, do we show up 90% of the time? Yes. Do I pay attention and keep my mouth shut during the meetings? Of course not. Do I actually remember to take the manual and flip to every page during the meeting to see how we're making progress towards our next accomplishment? Nope, not even close.
Here's the cold, hard truth. I've never even opened the book. That's right all you organized and punctual **insert secret, undisclosed activity** moms. That book has never been opened by me. I have NO earthly idea what it takes to earn any of the accomplishments or even what exists to even attempt to earn. And here's something else. I don't really even care.
But what I do have is a fun-loving 4th grader who's not afraid to make mistakes and speak up in a crowd. He's hard-working, friendly, and loves to make up his own jokes and share them with anyone and everyone who will listen (and even those that won't). And that, my **insert secret, undisclosed activity here** crazed friends, is worth more to me than some ridiculous perfect attendance pin any day of the week. So there. Take that.
**Insert secret, undisclosed activity here** are prepared not their mothers. Instead, I choose to teach independence, responsibility, and the ability to work without being under constant supervision. Good for me. I am a good mother...(repeating under my breath)...I am a good mother...I am a good mother.
So, raise your right hand, extend your three fingers, and repeat after me..."On my honor, I will try to serve God (which I absolutely do), my country (I vote...does that count?) and mankind (hello, I write a blog) and to live by the Girl Scout Law (well, okay, I don't exactly live by the Girl Scout law, but three out of four ain't half bad.)
Bring it, moms. You ain't got nothin' on me.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)