Saturday, September 27, 2014

Controversy! Scandal! Soccer?

A little story to set the scene for our Soccer Saturday (okay, it's not really related to the actual plotline...but it's worth a laugh anyway...): When I went into Derek's and Riley's bedrooms today to open windows and usher in some fresh air, I was greeted with...let's just say "a not-so-pleasant odor". The best way I can describe it is, if some evil mad scientist took it upon himself to concentrate morning breath into a grenade-like device (which would be an incredibly potent and effective biological weapon, don't you think?) and then unleashed one in each of my sons' sleeping quarters...it would be exactly like that. This led to a humorous discussion in which Derek confessed that, since they'd had a day off from school on Thursday, he hadn't felt it necessary to....apply deodorant that day. In his words, "Eh, I figured I wasn't going anywhere...so why bother?" (Because yeah, it's SUCH a hardship to swipe your underarm area a couple of times...lazy teenager...)

I dramatically pretended to be speechless with shock and horror at his hygiene offense...but in truth I hadn't even noticed any difference. However, he then took it even further, performing an exaggerated sniff of his own armpit (quite brave...also incredibly foolish...not to mention fraught with potentially dire consequences to one's health and well-being...) and then adding brightly, "I don't think I need any today, either!" In mock outrage I demanded, "Do you want people to actually enjoy--or at least tolerate--your presence today?" Without the merest whisper of a pause he shot back, "Well, I want my competitors to smell...the stench of defeat!" Nice one, dear...now go hit the anti-stink-stick before you show your face at the breakfast table...

The next thing that happened kicked off (ha! sorry...) the Intrigue of the Day. Husband got a message (which I read, since he never checks the home email) from the commissioner of Derek's soccer league, It was a heads-up to coaches, that before each game today, officials would be on hand to check player names against the published rosters, ensuring that everyone on the field had actually registered to participate. According to the statement, "some parents had raised concerns about all the kids being legitimate Rainbow players". Well! Let me tell you, this made for quite the titillating mealtime conversation, first thing on a weekend morning. We speculated as to who the non-rule-followers could be. We wondered why they would do it--what possible benefit could you derive from using unsanctioned players? Is it a Danny Almonte situation, where they're attempting to sneak older kids onto the team? Could it be a financial issue, where some families didn't have the resources to pay the league dues? But the real bottom line is: what the HECK are they thinking? Repeat after me: It's. Only. A. GAME. Not to mention, this is not exactly a World Cup qualifier, people; it's rec-level, for crying out loud! (Hello, "mountain"? I'm sorry to have to break this to you, but you're really more of a..."molehill"...)

But wait, it gets BETTER! (I know, right? How could it possibly get any more thrilling? Or maybe that's just me...and the coffee...) Derek's team (who by the way had precisely the players they were supposed to...no more, no less) was supposed to be engaging in a rematch with their opponent from the first week--incidentally a team that had beaten them pretty soundly...while appearing as though they had already been playing together for...years, maybe?  (Just sayin'...) Riley and I arrived just as the whistle should have blown to signal the beginning of the contest...and we passed the "Team Whose Color Shall Not Be Named" striding the wrong direction, toward the parking lot rather than the pitch. I did one of those theatrical double-takes, following their backs as they walked away, my brain reeling with incomprehension. Finally I gave up trying to figure it out on my own and finished covering the distance to where Husband and his team were preparing for their match...maybe?

And then it was reported to me with gossipy glee that the warned-about roster check had revealed SIX undocumented players being presented by the Other Color Team for duty. The commissioner had informed their coach that the team could still play--but without the...ahem, "Illegal Half-Dozen". Instead of accepting this decree....he chose to leave. (So is that not an awesome example: cheating...AND poor sportsmanship. Well done, Leader of Today's Youth.) This of course also stranded Husband's players without anyone to challenge. Except...the coach whose team had just finished their game offered to stick around and play again with a group of kids cobbled together from, say, "anyone who's willing to keep running for a bit longer". Oh yeah, THERE'S the shining role model we were seeking. Nicely played, sir. Oh, and a couple of the kids from the disgraced team who actually were authorized Rainbow players--showing admirable character and maturity, in my opinion--returned after their coach had departed, to join the...what at this point amounted to a glorified scrimmage.

So, after all the hoo-ha, those that participated seemed to have a good time, practicing a fun sport on a gorgeous day in an atmosphere of camaraderie and fair play. Because hey, isn't that really what it's all about? And hopefully, this is the end of the nonsense...that is, unless we get another email informing us that we'll be required to bring birth certificates next week as proof of age...maybe I'd better dig Derek's out...just in case...


Wednesday, September 24, 2014

Math Headaches...to the nth degree...

There are some things you just adore hearing as a parent--stuff like "thanks, Mom", or "this is the best (dinner/vacation/fill-in-the-blank) EVER", or even "yeah, I did (designated chore) already". You'll notice that nowhere among those delightful phrases was anything remotely resembling "Hey, I need you to come sign this paper that says you're aware I'm failing Math." Nope, definitely N-O-T on my list of all-time favorite expressions, especially when delivered in a deadpan voice by my 14-year old son, who pokes his head in the door to my bedroom briefly before nonchalantly strolling back to his own...possibly-soon-to-be-locked-dungeon.

Perhaps a bit of background is in order. In July, when we visited the Guidance department to discuss Derek's schedule for his Freshman year, the counselor noted that Math 9 might initially pose some problems. You see, Maryland isn't yet adhering across-the-board to the Common Core Curriculum, so Derek's instruction last year differed from what his peers were covering in North Carolina in 8th grade. Therefore, as it was explained to us, there might be some "gaps" in his knowledge, things that might be review for other students, but that he'd have to catch up on, in order to follow what the class was learning. (Um....yippeeeee...)

To complicate matters further, we've now officially reached the point where I may--or just as likely may not--be able to help him with his homework. I mean, it's been a looooong time since I've had to do any of this nonsense...I mean "stimulating and challenging...number-type stuff". Case in point: one night he had to factor polynomials. Great! I used to looovvvve that--it's like a puzzle, and you just have to figure out where the numbers go, and put the right signs in, and....I know, I know. "Nerd Alert". So I demonstrated my strategy for tackling the procedure...and he came home the next day reporting "we did it ALL wrong!" (Yet was he able to explain how we messed up? Or show me the correct method? Or give me any clue whatsoever about what his teacher wanted? Of course not! Ugh...I curse you once again, Teenage Boy Brain...) Even better, the next night he popped in to casually inquire if I remembered how to write an "equation in geometric form". Wait, I'm sorry, what? I understand all of those words individually, but strung together like that, they're just...gibberish. (Incidentally, he now knows it's "a times b to the x power". Well, good for you, sweetie...I'll just take your teacher's word for it...)

Anyway, you can imagine what we're dealing with, here. It was already a state of...Mild Mathematical Mayhem. But then...the first test descended upon our shoulders. (Cue ominous music, flashes of lightning, dark, scary...geometric...beast lurking, ready to pounce...or is that too dramatic? I'm telling ya, numbers can be a nightmare, man...) And Derek was still confused about several of the key concepts he knew would be appearing on the exam. Oh, and it was the NIGHT BEFORE. Naturally. It was also a soccer practice evening, so it ended up being about 9:15 before we figured out that he had questions I couldn't address for him, and I got a chance to email his teacher. Fortunately, the Open House had taken place just a few days prior, when I'd met the lovely Mrs. R in person. During her presentation, she explicitly stated that she was "almost always available for extra help before school". So in my note I basically apologized for bothering her...and for the last-minute nature of my correspondence...and gave her a gentle heads-up that Derek would be greeting her first thing in the morning for some 11th-hour-test-prep-tutoring.

So a plan was hatched: drive Derek to campus early, skipping all of the wasted time walking to the bus stop, standing around, picking up other kids, blah blah blah. As he was exiting the car in front of the school, he leaned down and asked, as if it suddenly occurred to him,"What if she's not there?" My advice reflected equal parts determination...and desperation: "Well, then, you hang out there and wait for her to arrive...for today, you're a...Math Stalker!" "Oh....kay," he replied as he ambled off in search of arithmetic enlightenment. Aaaaannnd, apparently it didn't entirely work, as he scored a 71...which in this enchanting world of the 7-point scale...equals a D. (Please, you don't even want to get me started on a rant about the grading system...that's a whole...other...diatribe for an upcoming post...let me take a moment to beg forgiveness in advance...)

Now we're caught up to the "acknowledge my sucky grade" moment. In truth, he was exaggerating quite a bit (whew!) because his overall score so far isn't THAT bad...in fact, it would be a B...on a "normal scale". (Sigh....) But it looks like we're going to be managing the "hey, what'd I miss" issue for a while. And perhaps I should just go ahead and write to his teacher again, warning her that she may be spending a good deal of quality before-school time with Derek, bonding over...whatever crazy incomprehensible topic they happen to be covering in upcoming lessons. If this is going to become a regular thing, maybe I'll start sending him in with muffins for their 8:00 meetings...that could only help out the cause, right? Mmm, and definitely some extra coffee for his chauffeur...squared...

Saturday, September 20, 2014

Dance dance revolution

As someone who admittedly gets bored pretty easily, and also regularly craves novel experiences, I make an effort to seek out new things to try whenever possible. In some instances this works out brilliantly; other times it ends up more in the “been there, done that…moving on" column. Case in point: finding a dance class here in Chapel Hill has so far proven to be more difficult than I anticipated. I have no desire whatsoever to do tap or ballet, which is mostly what the local studios offer for adult clients. Casting my net a bit further afield, I decided to venture to a studio in Durham, to sample a class billed as “Lyrical/Contemporary”--a genre I’d never attempted previously.

I first attended the Advanced Beginning level, assuming that with some dance experience--even if it was a different type--I’d be capable of catching on to what they were doing. Um…yeah…not so much. I don’t know if it was my lack of background or the teacher’s style (which was pretty much “jump right into a choreographed routine, without actually instructing on how to perform the individual moves beforehand”), but I was basically lost from the get-go. Okay, then, Plan B: dropping back to the Beginning group. When I strolled into the room, however, the very first thing I noticed was that everyone in the room was…about 20 years my junior. Awwwwkwaaaard. So while I was (slightly) better able to follow the steps, I spent the entire hour feeling out-of-place and uncomfortable. Obviously I won’t be continuing with that one, either…

Which leaves me with…absolutely nada. But…in desperation, I found one more option to test out: a fitness class called Nia, which according to this description lifted directly from the website is body-mind-spirit fitness and lifestyle practice that combines dance, martial arts, yoga and self-healing. Through expressive movement, Nia empowers people to achieve physical, mental, emotional and spiritual well-being. Uplifting universal music guides your body to move in a way that is natural for you with no comparison or competition. Nia delivers cardiovascular and whole-body conditioning and creates one of the most exhilarating, dynamic, creative, playful and fun classes ever!” Well jeez, that sound just peachy!

Stepping outside of your predictable little box is a good idea, right? And all fresh experiences provide potential for growth and self-improvement? (Yeah, let’s go with that…) So I figured I’d give it a shot, and showed up for a session. The teacher (whose name, incidentally, was…Haven…and I ask you, can it possibly get more…organic…than that?) greeted me warmly and made me feel immediately welcome. So far, thumbs up. Then the rest of the participants started trickling in…and when I looked around a few minutes later at the very small group…I was the only one who wouldn’t qualify for a Senior Citizen Discount. (NOT that there’s anything wrong with that! I’m just saying, suddenly the tables had turned, and I was the…proverbial Spring Chicken…sigh…)

Before officially beginning the lesson, Haven had us stand in a circle and introduce ourselves. Then she explained that we always set an intention for the class--okay, I’m used to this, as it's standard in yoga as well. (Mine is usually something along the lines of “I want to leave here calmer, stretchier and more focused than I started out this morning”...) So the next words out of her mouth were (totally not making this up) “Today, we’re going to sense…the inner arches of our feet.” I’m sorry, WHAT? I couldn’t stop myself from glancing around to see if anyone was grinning in response to the joke, but there was only intense concentration and utter earnestness on the faces of my fellow…Nia…ists. Oh. Dear. What had I gotten myself into? 

At that point we were asked to close our eyes, focus all of our attention on those freakin' inner arches, and see what other sensations we could pick up throughout our bodies. And then we were expected to share. I admit I was panicking a little, as everyone else had something utterly serious and profound to report about their “balance” or the “energy flowing up through the center of their body” or their…“right shin” (again, NOT making this up, even a little bit). What the HECK was I supposed to report--the truth? That I was sensing…incredible feelings of foolishness…mixed with no small amount of…mild embarrassment? (Yeah, I fabricated something about my knees being out of alignment, or some such nonsense, and sold it with what I hope was a straight face…best I could do on the fly…)

Finally, Haven cued up the music to kick off class. Ahem…it was some sort of tribaldrumming…number…complete with...chanting. And evidently--as I was literally startled to discover--the members who regularly practice this kind of exercise feel inspired to whoop…and, I don’t know, bark?…and otherwise randomly vocalize along with the accompaniment. It was all very…earthy, I suppose. And the actual, physical portion of our hour? We followed Haven in all kinds of swaying, arm-waving, reaching, bouncing, undulating, spinning, balancing…stuff. There were also periods when she would call out for a “free dance interlude” and we just…well…did whatever the heck we pleased for a few minutes. There were other times when she led us in mimicking the natural movements of various animals (actual words cheerfully called out over her shoulder at one point as she demonstrated clawing gracefully at the air in front of her with both arms raised overhead: “BEAR FACE optional!” Ay yi yi...)


Holy…Dances with Wolves…Batman, that was one wild experiment! I think it’s obvious that, although it was amusing…ONCE…I will not be returning for a repeat performance. I enjoyed myself to a certain degree, but it didn’t constitute much of a strenuous workout. Let’s just say it’s not my cup of…psychedelic tea. So it seems that I’ll need to do some more digging in my quest for dance satisfaction. Next New Experience, here I come…(Bear face optional!)

Tuesday, September 16, 2014

Now for the Game of U15s...

Okay, it’s time for the other half of the Soccer Saga, otherwise known as “the teenager’s tale”. It all started when Derek tried out for the JV team at his new high school, enduring two-hour morning and evening practices for several days. Each time he came home and reported back to us, he didn’t seem all that confident about how it was going. Mostly, he painted a discouraging picture about how many of the kids were much bigger (and if you think this might be an exaggeration, he was specifically talking about the ones with full facial hair…who drove themselves to the field) and how they also seemed to demonstrate more talent than he did. So he wasn't all that surprised when he got cut, rather than making the team. Honestly, he wasn’t crushed by it at all (I think I was actually more upset…for him…than he was). Rather, his immediate reaction was a semi-panicked, “Oh my gosh, what am I gonna do about playing soccer this Fall?”

You see, he couldn’t simply join the same league his brother was already registered for, because they only include U15s in the Spring (their rationale being that they can’t drum up enough players, as too many boys in that age group are busy…playing for their school…oops…) So I had to research other opportunities for Derek to get out and kick it around this season. What I came up with--the only choice, as it turned out--was a club called (are you ready for this?) Rainbow. Aww, doesn’t that sound all...happy...and friendly? Sure it does…but all that glittery good feeling comes with a (rather significant) caveat: they play small-sided (when Derek’s used to a full squad of 11 vs.11)…short field (Derek’s previous games were all the standard 100-yards for the past 2 years)…and (here it comes, the biggie) CO-ED.

I’m sorry, what? You mean, they’ll be sharing the same grass with…girrrrllllls? Now, please don’t misunderstand me, here--I’m not in any way disparaging the athletic ability, or the mental or physical toughness of my gender. I was a field hockey player, myself, and I’ve watched the sisterhood of the U.S Women’s National squad kick...butt...on the pitch. I know chicks can Bring. It. On the other hand…Derek spent the last 4 seasons in his Maryland league getting pushed around at first (as a 7th grader, by 8th graders), then practicing and honing the techniques of…um…let’s just say “using your body as a tool” (it sounds nicer than “weapon”, yeah?) to gain and maintain possession of the ball. The “shoulder check”, the “strategic lean”, even the illegal-but-only-if-the-ref-sees-you “shirt tug” were all finely crafted to employ against…other, similarly-aggressive male creatures. So really, my only fear was the potential size differential…and testosterone level…between my 5’ 10”, 135-pound son…and his female teammates.

But we took a deep breath, crossed our fingers, and signed up anyway, hoping for the best. Aaannnd...as it turned out, there was no need to fret. Derek came home from his first practice and declared that the best player on the team was a tall girl named Sarah, who ran circles around the rest of them with her impressive ball-handling skills. As for the others, there is a wide range of ages on the team…and also admittedly large differences in height as well. (The smallest boy is--not kidding--6 inches shorter and 20 pounds lighter than 6th-grade Riley…) That being said, as one would hope, the kids just play, without regard to any of the pesky potential issues pondered by their parents. About the only thing that separates the sexes on this team is that one of the girls has to be reminded to remove her earrings before matches. (Yes, I realize this could just as easily apply to boys as well, but in this particular group she just so happens to be the only one with pierced ears…so far, anyway…)


At this point I’ve only seen the Sting in one game, (since my boys’ practices overlap, and I’m shuttling Riley around while Husband hangs with Derek) but they looked alright...for having been thrown onto a roster randomly by the commissioner, and only having worked out  together for a couple of weeks. One thing Coach Husband (oh yeah, he got roped into volunteering when they didn’t have a parent to supervise them) wants them to do a LOT more of is communicate with one another….yeah, that's right: “chatter on the field”…which will probably come naturally the more time they spend together and the more comfortable they get with one another. (Teenage boys being closed-mouthed, I get…but maybe the chicas can give them some pointers on how to talk it up out there?) Anyway, I’m looking forward to watching them develop as a well-oiled passing, shooting, scoring (not to mention of course the all-important "defending") machine. Yep, this should definitely be an interesting season…

Sunday, September 14, 2014

eh, "normal" is overrated, anyway...

By now, Team WestEnders has a couple of 5K races under their collective belt, the last one having been logged in Maryland, just before we moved. We've found that it's a good distance for us, as we can all do it fairly easily, without straining ourselves too much or having to, you know, "train" beyond our usual running routines, or anything crazy like that. Given the total fitness culture in our newly-adopted hometown, it was really only a matter of time until we entered our first North Carolina race. So, that would be: "about 2-1/2 months" if you're counting...

One day while meandering along the winding road just outside our neighborhood, I noticed a small sign near the sidewalk. Because the speed limit is 35 (due to all the--you guessed it--runners and walkers and cyclists that use the designated bike lane), I had time to actually read it. It advertised an upcoming race, happening just a few blocks up the street in the nearby town. And the name of the event? The Not So Normal 5K. Hey! WE'RE "not so normal"--sign us right the heck up!

When I went online to register, what I gathered was that the name derived from the course itself, which was actually set to be 2.95 miles, rather than the standard 3.1. The organizers explained that the goal was to make it a very "friendly" route, meaning a relatively flat, simple-to-follow loop. Furthermore, because they wanted you to focus on having fun, rather than competing, it would be an untimed run. Hold on, let me get this straight--no pressure, short and smooth, starting about a mile from my house so we don't have to get up at 0-dark-are-you-kidding-me-about-exercising-at-this-hour-thirty? Well...yeah, baby!

The only bummer was that, since we had to wait to find out Riley's soccer schedule (he has a game the same day...but later in the afternoon...he's young, he'll be fiiiiinnnne, right?) I missed the deadline for the guaranteed Swag Bag. (Pouting...) Fortunately, I overcame my deep disappointment related to that loss...and also my natural abhorrence for A) getting up early and B) working out shortly after I pry my eyes open. At this point we kind of have it down to a science: roll out of bed, throw on race-day clothes, drink juice and eat either a banana or a granola bar, pin dorky bib to shirt, lace up shoes...drive to starting line. When we got there, we realized something very, very lucky: it was a cool, cloudy...absolutely ideal...63* at race time. (Yeah, I was almost...cold...but that's just me...)

When the...Emcee Guy?...yelled "Go", Riley and I took a few strides together, in solidarity. Then...he accelerated to his comfortable rate and took off, leaving me in the (metaphorical) dust. A few seconds later, Derek trotted up behind me and asked where Riley was. I pointed into the distance, whereupon Derek gave a half-wave and sprinted off to catch his brother. Aaannnd, mere moments after that, Husband chugged by, patting me kindly on the shoulder as he moved off with the faster pack. Sigh. (So actually, when I say we do these things "together", it's in the...spirit of the thing...I guess...)

But my family abandoning me was only the beginning of the story. In the previous 5Ks we've done--not that I'm trying to "beat" anyone, don't get me wrong--I've always felt kind of pleased about my performance because I move past a few people here and there along the way. This time? Not. So. Much. During the run, as I maintained my regular, 9-1/2-ish minute mile pace--I was passed by...small children...grey-haired grandfatherly men...a dad pushing a jogging stroller (that was embarrassing)...and (the final blow) a woman in a TUTU. (Nope, NOT making that up...and can I just say how jealous I was? Next year I'm totally doing this thing rocking a tiara...) Oh yeah, and the woman who I politely informed that her shoe was untied? She stopped, fixed it...and cruised by me again a couple of minutes later. Good grief! I'm in pretty decent shape and all, but clearly I'm not the kind of road-running maniac that frequents this crazy town! (Yeah, about that "training"...ugh...)

At least I wasn't in the very back of the crowd, and I wrapped up in about 28-minutes, which is fine for me. My loving spouse and sons, having crashed the endline at 23, 24, and 25 minutes (teenager, 11-year old, Husband, ) were standing along the sidewalk to cheer for me as I puffed the last few steps. As I slowed to a stop, I heard Emcee Guy shouting to the people just behind me, "Run faster, you're being chased by a gorilla!" (He was not kidding...but don't ask me how the man in the furry ape suit ran 3 miles, because I just don't have a good answer for ya...) We were then treated to the usual water and oranges for our efforts...popsicles for the kids...and reaaalllly good coffee from one of the local cafes--yum. But the bonus? There were extra race tees for those who hadn't scored the tote-full-o'-free-stuff beforehand. That's right: workout over with before breakfast, 10,000 steps counted for the day, already...and a new running shirt? My not so normal race experience is now...complete!



Friday, September 12, 2014

The trees...and me...

This week I set myself the modest goal of...fabricating a resume. Okay, not really "making stuff up", per se...more like "rewriting the text to present my skills and experience in a different way, for a new target audience". (Um...that would be "anyone who wants to give me a job and pay me"...so right now it's a pretty broad category, there...) Then, with that delightful task accomplished...I needed to concoct a cover letter as well. Doh! Brain meltdown!

Anyway, when that was ALL finished, I needed to get the heck up off my butt, leave the house...and commune with the Great Outdoors,...or something. It's Friday, after all, and although the kids are slaving away in school (poor darlings--mwah hah hah!) who says I can't take a Field Trip...all by myself? Yeah...just me and my camera, that's what I'm talking about! I decided upon the North Carolina Botanical Garden, which is located about 10 minutes from our neighborhood. It's open to the public, FREE, and...well, what more do you really need to know? Oh yeah: probably contains lots of gorgeous flowers...and whatnot. Sign me up!

I've gotta say, one thing I really noticed right away when we moved here is how this area protects, nurtures, and enjoys its abundance of green space. Parks everywhere you turn, trails galore for running/walking/biking, and So. Much. Forest. I mean, if you can't find peace and calm here...you truly might need a...Nature-vention (Heyyyyy, did I just made up a new career?)

Seriously, you get to walk in the woods along a shaded, soft-dirt path (the only other sounds--besides your feet--being the trickling of a stream, the calls of the birds...and the crackling of manic-squirrel paws as they rush over the leafy ground...apparently playing a hotly-contested game of tree-tag). You can wander through various garden displays, admiring the cornucopia of flora--from the aforementioned flowers, to shrubs, pond plants, herbs of all varieties conceivable (and some....NOT even in the realm of imagination) and even...carnivorous greenery. (I felt compelled to stand there for a while...waiting for, I don't know..."Seymour" from Little Shop of Horrors? But nothing even tried to chomp me...I was slightly disappointed, I admit...)

I'm actually glad I went without the boys, who probably would have been unimpressed by all of the...plant life. (I can just hear them now, "Wait, you mean that's IT? No dangerous rock faces to scale, no perilous rapids to cross, no steep trails to conquer?") But for me, it was a lovely way to pass a couple of relaxing hours soaking up the stillness and admiring the landscape. I have a feeling it must be one of those places that looks completely different every season, depending what's in bloom at the time. So from now on, whenever I need a nearby, no-cost, therapeutic stroll, I think I've found the perfect go-to location. And if I tell the Male Posse I'm going out to...spend some quality time gazing at trees...they won't even want to come with me! Aahhh, blessed alone time...I feel more tranquil already...


Monday, September 8, 2014

Kickin' It (U11 Style)

Ever since Derek was a wee 6-year old munchkin (hard to imagine, I know) he played soccer for our local league in Maryland (awesomely located, oh...about a mile or so from our old house). When his brother reached first grade himself, he completed the same rite of passage by joining the team sports brigade. It became a seasonal routine: each Spring and Fall I'd log on to the website the instant I heard through the Soccer Mom grapevine that registration had opened. Then (click) review and update their saved player information data, (click) pay the registration fee, and (click) print my receipt. Easy peasy.

Well, let me just tell you that those days are O-V-E-R. Derek "aged out" of that league, anyway, as it only offers teams through 8th grade....which of course became irrelevant when we, you know, "moved".  The boys wanted to continue playing, so this Summer I researched opportunities for them to do so. How hard could it be, right? Ha! For starters, there are 3 distinct organizations in our area. If that weren't daunting enough to wade through, there are also 3 levels of play within each of them. Ay yi yi. Without any friends yet in our new location to guide us, sorting out all of these options took multiple phone calls, emails, and pages of scribbled Notes to Self.

Finally, I got it narrowed down to "I think we want Triangle United". But here comes another glitch: they don't offer Derek's age group in the Fall, since presumably so many high school kids play for their school team. (Hold that thought, to be addressed in a separate post--are you getting how complicated this all is?) For Riley, I determined that we belonged with the "Challenge" level. You see, "Recreation" seemed too...I believe the term I'm looking for is "non-competitive"? And the top tier, "Classic" involved a year-round commitment (yeah, you can stop right there...but wait, there's more...), practice at least 3 times per week, games all over the state...and out-of-state tournaments. YIKES! Basically, soccer would become the entire focal point of all four of our lives...um, how do I put this: No. Thank. You!

If we needed any more indication of how seriously they regard the Beautiful Game around here, Riley had to show up for a "tryout" before he would be allowed to join a Challenge team. As it turned out, this merely meant that he scrimmaged with other kids his age--with the Director watching-- to make sure Riley's skills were up to par with his peers in the club (not to worry, he passed the little test). So I scrambled to sign him up...which entailed downloading the paperwork, filling it out, and driving it--along with a check--to the actual office before the deadline passed. After he was added to an existing roster, we had the further (expensive, unexpected)...pleasure...of ordering him a uniform. I'm sorry, what? Yep, over $80 (with shipping) for 2 jerseys (home and away), an official pair of shorts, and Triangle United-approved green socks to wear over his shinguards. I mean, don't get me wrong, they're super-nice and all (thanks a bunch, Nike...marketing at the expense of pre-teens...and their parents...much?) but reaaaallllly? Oh, and that didn't include the required PRACTICE T-SHIRT. (Another ten bucks...sheesh!)

Okay, I'm done griping about the cost (for now). Moving on to the enjoyable stuff: Riley had a for-fun-only, pre-season tournament last weekend--a kind of "tune-up" of 4 games in 2 days for the kids to play together and get in some extra practice time. This took place at a different location than where he normally meets for practice during the week...hmm, is this going to be the norm, I wonder? Then yesterday he had his first regularly scheduled match...in another city entirely. (That would be "Efland", for the curious...or if you'd prefer, you may refer to it as "Elf Land"...like Husband insists upon doing...) Oh, we're the "away team" for this one, I get it! So it's slowly dawning on me that while I assumed I was choosing a local league for the convenience and simplicity it offered...we might be doing some "traveling" after all, this Fall. Oh well, Riley has totally bonded with his new teammates, the parents we've met and chatted with on the sidelines seem delightful...and hey, we're getting to explore our new environment...one soccer complex at a time...

Thursday, September 4, 2014

Uh-oh...here we go...again!

Once upon a time, a girl--we'll call her..."Jan...a" (Oh, all right, you got me, it's ME. Where was I?) Oh yes: once upon a time a young girl went to college--and graduate school--to become a speech-language pathologist. Upon completing her higher education, she procured a job in a local school system, thus beginning her professional career. After a few years, she got the itch for a change of scenery, and made the switch to a school district closer to home. In the meantime, she met, dated, and married Husband...eventually leading to the "time to start a family" crossroads. She and her understanding, supportive spouse decided that they could afford for her to take a year's sabbatical and stay home with the munchkin, before returning to her job.

However...she had started to experience little twinges...deep-down feelings that it just might be time to...shake things up, career-wise. At first, Husband didn't believe her when she attempted to explain what was happening. You see, he has been employed in the same industry since finishing his own schooling many years ago. Furthermore, he enjoys it, and can very easily, happily envision sticking with it until...well, retirement. And might I just say: GOOD FOR HIM. There's absolutely nothing wrong with that kind of...what would you consider it, "career loyalty"? (Besides, it's good if only ONE person in the relationship is a...professional flake...right?) So initially, he dismissed her musings as part of the whole "post-partum flightiness package", or something. "You'll miss it," he confidently assured her. "You'll want to go back after spending some time at home."

But...she didn't. Okay, then...what to do next, she wondered? How about using another skill she already possessed (Sign Language, from studying it in college and attending graduate school at Gallaudet) to try getting hired as an interpreter? Of course, since she didn't have daycare lined up yet, she had to bring her 16-month old along to the interview. (As I remember it, he sat in the corner and quietly colored, like Mommy's wee angel...sniffle...) And she was nervous...and rusty from not having signed in a while. But the extraordinarily sweet, sympathetic lady (incidentally, extremely pregnant herself--I've always thought that tipped her in my favor) gave her a shot and hired her anyway. And whattya know--she spent the next 13 years contentedly part-time interpreting at this little community college...and would still be there today, in fact...except for that teeny, tiny glitch known as "moving 300-miles away". (Makes the commute a total bummer...)

And while the new locale is quite wonderful in a myriad of ways...it turns out there's just not as much demand for educational interpreting down here. Hey, no problem--it was Summer anyway, so everyone got to chill for a bit and get settled in properly. But now...the kids are back in school. Husband is busily clattering away at the keyboard and conference-calling and...whatnot. And our intrepid heroine is...pretty darn bored. (I mean, c'mon, no matter how much the boys eat, there are only so many trips to the grocery store and Costco one can take to fill up the week...and no matter how deadly dull my day may be, I'm not inclined to do anything crazy like, you know, "clean"...shudder)

So there was an actual interview today--a position at an elementary school where "knowledge of Sign Language is preferred". The experience was nerve-wracking...but valuable: facing a whole "panel" of educators, answering questions about myself, striving to sound as intelligent, competent, and knowledgeable as possible. (Seriously, one of the queries was: "Where do you see yourself in 10 years?" Wait, you're JOKING, right? Yep, clearly you people don't know me at all...hold on while I do my best to stifle the laughter and formulate a sensible, truthful-but-purposefully-vague response...) But after the meeting, the details of the job description just didn't sound like something that would bring me satisfaction...especially for 40 hours a week.

So that brings us up to date...aaannnnd right back to the drawing board. What to do next? On second thought, perhaps the initial question should be: what actual marketable skills do I have left untapped, that I could offer to the world? Or let's just bottom line this, shall we? What sort of meaningful, fulfilling job can I obtain, to get me the HECK. Out. Of. The. House? I'm fresh out of brilliant ideas, but definitely open to suggestions from my most Esteemed Peanut Gallery. Remember, the first rule of brainstorming is that there are no bad ideas, so put your thinking caps on, and let's figure out together "What Johna Wants To Be When She Grows Up"...or, you know, at least "this...year?"...Ready, Set, GO!