Get Over It. Life's Just Not Fair

Get Over It.  Life’s Just Not Fair

Last week my high school daughters played basketball against the Memphis Homeschool Team, all of whom were six-footers.  Where do they get all those tall girls?  I’m pretty sure you can’t grow to be six feet tall eating only bean sprouts and granola.  And since their team doesn’t play in a regular “league” that checks their ages, I bet 95% of them are old enough to have watched the first episode of “Friends.”

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The Homeschoolers are phenomenal because they do a couple of hours of classwork in the morning and play basketball the rest of the day while our kids have to go real school and learn stupid stuff like Latin (like, who even SPEAKS that anymore?) and endure Taco Tuesday.

A typical day for a Homeschool basketball player consists of getting up at 5 a.m., eating a yummy tofu scramble, playing online “Jeopardy! (quantum physics edition),” shadowing a Mayo Clinic neurosurgeon in an on-line internship, AP Calculus/Trig/Legos, followed by lunch of organic bean curd and “home-school ham,” composed of hand-pressed tofu and pink jello.  Then AP Adventures in Ancient Mandarin, AP Neuro-biometrics and Episiotomies Lab, and AP Cello.  

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At 12 p.m. basketball practice begins with the “make 100-three-pointers in a row or run til you puke drill,” flying to Louisville for a light scrimmage with the Louisville men’s team, and AP Sportsmanship. (stalling techniques when you’re winning by 40)

Adding to their humiliation, our girls have to watch their pre-game warm up.  Why warm up?  They could win with a serious case of pinkeye and one arm tied behind their back drawing graphs of exponential antiderivatives—with a PEN.  Instead of honing their 360 degree dunks, they should all just grab a carrot stick and listen to Yo-Yo Ma on their headphones.

It’s not fair that we have to compete against girls who play basketball all day and who actually understand how hang time and backspin affect trajectory.

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But, you know, a LOT of things in this world aren’t fair.  For example:

Having to go to jury duty.  It’s fine for you guys, but frankly, I’m kinda busy.

That without shoulder pads I look bottom-heavy. 

When networks interrupt Swamp People to run the Democratic National Convention or something stupid like that

That Luke and Laura left General Hospital

That I can’t get my 19-year-old son’s grades from his college because it violates his right of privacy, but the government can spy on my phone calls

That some people don’t realize that when you’re pretending to be on your cell phone, it means you don’t want to talk to them

Bruce Jenner now vs. Bruce Jenner then.  What a tragedy.  (I’m terribly sorry for you X-gens.  Google him, for the love of perfectly stunning Olympian gods).  We used to adore him with that strong jaw, long brown hair, short shorts, muscular legs . . . um, sorry, I digress.

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Bruce, I know it’s NOT FAIR!  You didn’t realize what you were getting into when you were strapped down and stretched tight by Kardashians.  Kris should make it up to you by finding the identity of the Target credit card hackers.  Maybe they can help you get your man card back.

Sister Act Steals Mom's Heart

Sister Act Steals Mom’s Heart

I love the circus, and I even volunteered to be in a skit with a clown once. I didn’t know what I was getting into—kind of like motherhood. My three kids built a three-ring theater of chaos, creating a whirlwind of mayhem and magic. I’m Bozo with funny make-up and clothes, trying to force all of them and their gear into a tiny clown car, and sometimes trying to force them into my version of what the circus should look like. Both endeavors are usually unsuccessful.

Managing my teenagers is like herding the big cats into the main arena when they know the smell of the raw meat is not coming from anywhere near there. They know that if they remain distracted, they can make a mockery of the poor lion tamer and avoid doing any tricks in the center ring—or the laundry room.  

Actually, distraction is an art form they’ve perfected. Late one night I yelled upstairs and asked my exhausted, giddy girls for their soccer uniforms so I could wash them. They were lying on the floor upstairs, and from below, I could only see their bare feet kicking the bannister and hear their giggling. 

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Me:  Go get your uniforms! I need to wash them!

C:  Mooooommm, we’ll just wear them dirty.  I was almost asleep.

B:  Yeah, I was getting under the covers.

Me:  I want you to get your uniforms.

C:  I want a golden toilet seat. 

Me:  (laughing)  What jersey number are you? 

C to B:  Don’t make eye contact with her, you’ll turn into a (incomprehensible mumble).  Do you know what number I am?

B to C:  Why are you asking me?

C to B:  ‘Cause it’s your turn to keep me.

B to C:  Keep you doing what?

Me (hearing their conversation):  I am gonna keep pestering you!

C:  Mom, you’re such a NAG!!

B:  Yeah, NAG-a-ramus, NAG-a-pottamus

C:  NAGmeister, NAG me with a spoon

B:  NAG-a-delic

C:  SHAG-a-delic

Me:  Where did you hear that?

C:  The Austin Powers movie.

Me:  When did you see it?

C:  Dad let me. He’s fun.

Me:  Being fun is not my job.  Where are your uniforms?

C:  Mooooommm! Stop nagging. You nag ALL the time!

B:  Yeah, ALLLL. Dad doesn’t nag. He’s fun.

This is the sweet stuff of my life. My kids sprinkle Gobstoppers and Gummy Bears into my single-scoop, vanilla world, and give me a delicious zest for life—and sometimes brain-freeze. They are the essence of bedlam and bliss, a beautiful mess all wrapped up in sugar and sass and stinky cleats. 

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 I never had siblings so their relationship captivates me. Laughter and late-night whispering weave their teenage hearts together, forming a sacred sister-bond of private affairs and pinky swears. I marvel at the rhythm of their dance, an interplay in which they are as opposite as oil and water and as intimate as peanut butter and jelly.  

I love getting to watch them every day in their center-ring silliness. I don’t even mind being the clown. However, I’m pretty sure Bozo never nags.

Dad Coaches: "We're Gonna Have Fun. Winning Is Fun."

Dad Coaches:   “We’re Gonna Have Fun.  Winning Is Fun.”

My daughters won their school’s State Championship in soccer last Saturday.  My senior daughter said goodbye to an incredible coach she’s had for four years. 

School coaches do a great job teaching the nuances of their sport to kids who already know the basics.  But who taught them the basics?  Dads (and moms) who sacrificed their patience and sanity coaching church and community leagues since their kids were spastic kindergartners.

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A good Dad-coach knows his players in ways a school coach can’t.  He’ll call Katie before a game to reassure her she can handle that tall #23 under the basket.  He knows Anna’s gonna cry if he yells.  And he knows Alexa likes chocolate milk with her pancakes after his daughter’s sleepover. 

A good Dad-coach will angrily throw his clipboard down.  And at least once each season, he’ll be ejected from the ball park and watch the game from his car for uttering “another word” when the umpire orders him not to.

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He knows how to smile nicely while questioning a ref’s masculinity.  

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He knows how to beat the Star Wars pin ball machine at Garibaldi’s after games.

He knows trash talk is just as crucial as a good helmet.

And the best team isn’t always the one that looks best on paper.  

A good Dad-coach is also über-competitive.  In second grade, my daughter played on a basketball team coached by her friend Grace’s dad.

In the championship game, they were short a player because of a stupid family wedding or something, and Grace, the best player on the team, was injured.  Naturally, Coach John sent his daughter onto the court as if she was simply sporting a bandaid on her toe instead of a giant orthopedic boot. 

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The ref, a teenage boy with video game needs, wasn’t going to get paid for a forfeit, and boots weren’t prohibited in the manual he didn’t read. So game on.

Soon Grace flew through the air, diving for a loose ball.  My daughter Catherine, a 3 1/2 ft. Dick Butkus, but twice as mean, joined the fray and Grace’s boot cut her forehead.

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The ref, at the sight of blood, was thrown into a Call of Duty virtual war zone haze so Coach John stopped the game.  I let John handle it because I’d get my Mom Card taken away if I approached my child on a court/field unless her eyeball was falling out.    

After the game, I called John’s wife who wasn’t there.  “We won!  And Grace scored 15 points!! 

“What?”  Silence.

“Oops.  Well, I really can’t talk right now because I’m taking Catherine to get, um . . . stitches . . . her head ran into Grace’s boot, um . . . we have a bad connection,” I said.

“Are you telling me John let Grace play?  What the heck was he THINKING?” she asked. 

“I don’t know, but Catherine’s beaming.  She said Coach John taught them something today—’Don’t come in second.  That’s just being the first loser.’”

Poor John, our brave, competitive Dad-coach won on the court that day, but I’m sure he paid the price at home that night.  Licking his wounds, he probably just left the house for awhile and worked on his pinball game at Garibaldi’s.