September 12, 2005

Tackled by Football

The busyness factor in the Tiny Kingdom rose dramatically last week when Finn started tackle football. Until then, we’d been managing everything just fine - Finn has drums on Tuesdays, and all three boys attend Pioneer Club at the church on Wednesdays. Porter and Drew are playing fall baseball and they practice on Thursdays. All of these activities have regular schedules and are considered a normal part of every week.

I thought football would be the same: another uniform, another set of practices and games. Nothing I couldn’t handle. When Chatty Mom called to see if her son, Bert, and Finn could carpool to practice, I took the opportunity to ask a few questions about the upcoming season.

Chatty Mom and I have been carpooling for years. She has three boys, I have three boys, and we tend to parent the same way. It’s worked beautifully for ages.

As an added bonus, Chatty Mom is always in the know about our little corner of the Tiny Kingdom. She’s up on everything about school, teachers, social events and sports, and she wasted no time giving me the unvarnished truth about fourth grade football.

“You are going to freak out when you see the practice schedule for the next month,” she said.

“Why?” I asked.

“Because our nine year olds have a three day jamboree next week to ‘teach the boys safety.’ That’s code for ‘three days to watch all the kids and divide them into teams and try to brainwash them into believing that football is more important than any thing else, including school and sleep,’” she said.

“Wow,” I said, impressed that a bunch of men thought they could accomplish all that in just three days.

“That’s not all,” Chatty Mom said. “You are going to die when you hear this. The following two weeks they have practice every single day. In the fourth grade. It’s the damnedest thing.”

“We can’t go every day,” I said. “Finn has drums on Tuesdays.”

“I know. It’s okay to tell me that, but don’t let anyone else find out that’s why he’s not going, or they’ll think you don’t take football seriously,” Chatty Mom cautioned me.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” I said. “I can drive the first day.”

“Great,” Chatty Mom said. “But you better prepare yourself. You are not going to believe all the dads who will show up at the practice and stay there the entire time. And a lot of the moms.”

“No they won’t,” I said. “Dads never stay at baseball practice unless they’re coaching. And the moms have other kids to drive around. That’s ridiculous.”

“You wait,” Chatty Mom said knowingly. “Football is not baseball. You will see every man you know in his business clothes in the sweltering heat, watching the practice. And they’re not just watching their own sons. They’re checking out all the other kids, too. They want to see who’s good, and who isn’t and who’s going to play quarterback. They really think the next Peyton Manning is out there at the fourth grade football practice. It’s unreal.”

Chatty Mom is prone to exaggeration, so while I respected her input, I figured that she was overstating the extent to which football would take over the Tiny Kingdom.

I was mistaken.

I dropped Finn off at the first football practice, and saw to my surprise that there were more parents on the sidelines than players on the field. Groups of men in business attire stood in the 100 degree heat, watching their sons intently. Groups of ladies, some in tennis clothes, some in floral capris, were there too, with siblings by the hand.

It was the biggest Tiny Kingdom get-together I’d seen since Open House at school.

I couldn’t stand it. I got out of the car and mingled on the sidelines, listening to the conversations around me. I realized that anyone who saw me might think that I was scouting out
the players, not the parents, so I grabbed my big sunglasses out of my purse and wore them while I prowled around.

Chatty Mom was right. All around me, the spectators were discussing the boys’ performances, how well their older brothers had played in the past, and who might be a breakout star.

I passed one group of guys and dropped my purse on the ground, then knelt down by them, picking up lipsticks while I eavesdropped.

“Yeah, Jack may be one of the best players now, and he’s certainly one of the biggest, but he’s peaked in terms of growth. Look at his parents. I think by sixth grade he’ll be old news,” one dad said.

I was dumbfounded. Old news? In sixth grade? I snuck back to the van, panting in the heat.

That night, I let loose about the whole football thing to Bill.

“What’s up with these guys?” I asked. “Chatty Mom says that they attend every practice. She says they think football is the only sport worth playing and that everything else, including baseball, is for wusses. They’re checking out the other kids, trying to figure out who’s going to be the quarterback. It’s unbelievable,” I sputtered.

“I totally believe it, “Bill said calmly.

“I was listening to some of the guys talking, and they were having a serious talk about which boys have grown about as much as they’re going to, and which boys have tall parents and should get a lot bigger, and whose dads are athletic. The boys are in the freaking fourth grade! Where are their priorities?” I ranted.

“Honey, calm down,” Bill said. “We don’t have to be like everyone else. Finn may not even like football.”

“Damn straight,” I said. “And I found out that they’re practicing every day for the next ten days. Well, I have a life, mister. And Finn does, too, and it’s not centered around football. If football and drums conflict, he’s going to drums. In the grand scheme of things, drums will serve him better. Look at Charlie Watts. He’s in his sixties, and he’s still drumming for the Stones and ENJOYING THE TIME HE PUT INTO HIS MUSICAL INSTRUMENT!” I shouted. “Name me a single football player who has been able to play as long as Charlie Watts.”

“I’m on your side, Anne,” Bill said. “We’re not in an argument. I agree with you about drums. I’m not sure who Charlie Watts is, but I’m sure that Finn will be able to play the drums longer than he will be able to play football.”

“Okay,” I said, realizing that maybe Bill was not going to be like all the other dads. “I just don’t want us to be hovering around on the field during practices so that people think we’re all fired up about Finn being the best player out there.”

“Honey, I wasn’t at the field today. You were,” Bill reminded me.

“That was just for investigation. I was disguised. And I confirmed Chatty Mom’s information. You won’t see me on the field again until game time,” I said.

“Me either,” Bill said. “I think we’re on the same page.”

The first night of the jamboree was rained out. Finn missed the second night to go to his drum lesson. He went the third night.

It was a day where schedules were complicated. After much discussion, we decided that Chatty Mom would take Finn and Bert to football, and I would take Porter and Drew to church at 6:30. Bill would stay at work until Pioneer Club ended, then pick up the duo at church at 7:30, get Finn and Bert from football at 8, and bring everyone home.

I dropped Drew and Porter at the church and called Bill’s cell phone to let him know where the boys would be waiting to be picked up.

When Bill answered, I had trouble hearing him, as there was a lot of noise in the background.

“What’s going on at the office?” I asked. “It sounds like there’s a lot of people there.”

Bill hesitated. Through the phone I heard someone yell, “Hit him harder, damn it!”

“Honey, it doesn’t sound like you’re at the office,” I said slowly, hoping for the best, but suspecting the worst.

“I’m not,” Bill admitted. “I’m at the field watching practice. My meeting was done early and I was over this way so I just stopped by to see what was going on,” he whispered.

“Gotcha!” I yelled. “This proves it! You’re just like all the other dads! Now everyone’s going to assume that we want Finn to be the quarterback and that we think football is so important that you have to leave work and watch practice! Our reputation as a family that refuses to be sucked into the Tiny Kingdom mindset will be destroyed! You’ve got to leave at once!”

“Honey, you need to be a little quieter,” Bill cautioned. “I think people can hear you over here– they’re shooting me dirty looks. Wait, here’s Chatty Mom. She wants to talk to you.”

I could not believe it. Chatty Mom was there, too?

She was.

“Hey,” she said casually, as if nothing was amiss. “You would be really proud of Finn. He’s hitting everyone really hard.”

“And that’s a good thing?” I asked.

“Apparently it is. I think I’m getting the hang of it,” she replied cheerfully.

“So,” I said, “is Finn really doing okay?”

“He really is. No one’s getting hurt, and he’s made a bunch of great plays. You’d be proud,” she added. “And don’t be too hard on Bill for showing up here. Men can’t help it. It’s something in their genes that pulls them to the field. I think they’re secretly reliving their athletic days of glory or something,” she said.

“I know. I’ll go easy on him,” I said. “But you — that’s a different thing. If you weren’t such a dependable carpooler, I’d be steaming mad at you right now,” I told her.

“I know,” she said. “I can’t believe I’m doing this. I should
be embarrassed. For God’s sake, it’s fourth grade football.”

“You know, we could make a deal,” I said.

“I’m always willing to talk,” Chatty Mom replied. In the background I heard someone yell, “You’re never gonna hurt anybody if you keep playing like a girl! Come on, son!”

“How about I don’t make fun of you for succumbing to football fever, and you promise to call me if Finn gets hurt or does something great?”

“Deal,” Chatty Mom said, without hesitation.

I’ve learned a lot about football in the last week. I’m not so sure about the rules of the actual game, but now I am extremely aware of the respect the sport must be accorded, at least superficially, if I am to exist peacefully in this town.

September 9, 2005

Not A Normal Day

I was going to act like today was a normal day. I woke up, got the kids off to school, and went to Jazzercise. I left class when the rest of the class started floor work, because I’m still not able to get on and off the floor, and went into the locker room.

And burst into tears.

It was then that I realized that maybe I’m a little nervous about this afternoon. In a few hours, I’ll go see my liver doctor and have my annual hepatitis C test. Only this year is different. I finished my interferon treatment five years ago, and they treat hepatitis C like cancer. If you stay in remission for five years, they say you’re “cured.” I’ve tested negative each year so far, and have no reason to think this year will be any different. Still, the enormity of the occasion is overwhelming.

I cannot believe I’ve made it this far. It doesn’t seem long ago when the first shipment of needles pre-loaded with interferon were delivered to my door in a box, cooled with dry ice. The twins were just six months old when I started, and eighteen months old when my treatment ended.

After I finished, my doctor told me to wait a couple of months before exercising so my body could recover. Of course, I didn’t. I was desperate to “be normal” again. I immediately signed up for Jazzercise, and the Voice of Reason, afraid I’d collapse on the gym floor, insisted on coming along.

Five years later, we’re both still at it, step-ball-changing and grapevining enthusiastically.

Today, I plan to drink lots of water and Gatorade so my veins will be nice and juicy. I’ll have a little prayer time, then do my usual routine. I’ve got to pick out hardware for the new front door, pay bills, pick up carpool, take the duo to a birthday party, take Finn to football, and get the boys’ clothes washed so they can hunt little birdies with Bill this weekend and give me some much-needed solitude. Given that, I bet it will be hard to dwell on things too much.

But still, there’s no denying it’s not a normal day.

September 8, 2005

Seattle Revisited

Bill and I are heading to Seattle next week. He has business there and I am tagging along.

We’ve been to Seattle once before, but that was a very different trip. We planned to go camping out there right after we finished the bar exam in July, 1992. That summer we studied, watched the William Kennedy Smith trial on TV, and dried food for our trip. Dried, shriveled zucchini! Dried meat sauce! Dried Super Soup, full of black beans! (We did pack fresh garlic. Even when camping, I have certain culinary standards that must
be met.)

The exam lasted three days. Then we packed our stuff and headed west. Our plan was to camp for several days near Mount Rainier, visit Seattle and civilization, then camp again in the Olympic National Park.

As we marched into the forest near Mount Rainier, it began to sprinkle. The sprinkle turned into a rainstorm which developed into a deluge.

Camping wasn’t a total loss. I learned to remove my contacts before I smashed the garlic, not after, unless I wanted to spend the next thirty minutes outside with my face turned up toward the rain, hoping the raindrops would wash the garlic juice out of my eyes.

Bill learned that Super Soup is not that super, and can result in vomiting. If you vomit while camping, your girlfriend probably won’t kiss you for a while.

We saw lots of banana slugs and lots of mud puddles. Mainly we sat in the tent and watched the sky for any signs of fair weather. None were forthcoming. The storm was still in full force when we gave up and sludged out of the woods 36 hours later. The only dry item of clothing I had was a single pair of underwear I had hidden in a ziplock bag.

We drove to Seattle ahead of schedule, and found a cheap motel. We pitched our tent inside the room so it could dry, and covered every available surface with soggy clothes and dirty socks. The room smelled like a big wet dog.

Then we had lots of extra time to explore Seattle. Coffee was just getting started. We discovered mochas and lattes and enjoyed them very much. We went to Pike Place Market. If my memory is correct, we ate at Wild Ginger, which was supposed to be the hot new restaurant, because I’m always in search of great food.

(Not many people know that I planned our family’s trip to Disney World with as much thought to the cuisine as to the optimum touring schedule. Some might view that as an exercise in futility; I took it as a challenge.)

I can’t wait to see how Seattle has changed. We plan to revisit Wild Ginger, and the International District so we can eat dim sum with mysterious fillings. I plan to pack plenty of dry, stylish clothes, and we’ll leave the tent behind.

September 1, 2005

Getting Back Up

The last time we were in New Orleans was for a birthday party last February. Chatty Mom planned the gathering for months, and had ten couples from around the country meet in the city one weekend to celebrate her husband’s fortieth birthday.

We stayed in the French Quarter and surprised the birthday boy on Friday night. After a festive dinner, we hit Bourbon Street. At one point I turned around to see Bill drinking a shot of something. It wasn’t just any shot, of course. This being New Orleans, it looked like a test tube of neon pink matter, and it was served by a scantily clad waitress. She didn’t give it to Bill with her hands– she used her cleavage. It didn’t faze me; I was too busy dirty dancing and collecting beads from strangers in the bar.

The next day, we were mighty glad I had remembered to pack my Alka-Seltzer Morning Relief.

We just got our power back last night. Thanks to the great men at Pike, an electric company from one of the Carolinas, I think. We’re getting to be tight with these workers from three states away– they rescued us from darkness after Hurricane Ivan also.

Until last night I was literally been in the dark about how bad things were south of us. Now that I’ve had the chance to catch a little TV, I’m in shock.

New Orleans is a special town. It’s filled with memories for so many people, including my family. My husband and I got engaged there, and we spent a good part of our long distance engagement meeting there. My brother-in-law grew up in the Big Easy. It’s profoundly unsettling to see pictures of recognizable places covered with trash and water.

Here in the Kingdom, we’re five hours away, but the destruction, though minor in comparison, is a constant reminder of Katrina’s strength.

If I stop for a moment, I feel helpless. I’ve been able to ignore it for a while, under the guise of cleaning up. Once the storm passed, everyone emerged from their houses en masse, determined to erase all vestiges of the storm from their yards as soon as possible. My sister paid my nephew $6 to clean their lawn of debris. I used another method: the “Let’s See If We Can Get The Pile Of Sticks To Be Bigger Than Mommy’s Head” challenge. We did. Huge piles of branches dot the sides of the streets all through our neighborhood.

The power has been restored to just about everyone around here, although I can still hear the neighbor’s generator in the house behind mine. That means I’m able to immerse myself in cleaning the inside of the house, which was starting to look like a barnyard. It smelled worse. The washer, dryer and dishwasher have been running nonstop to catch up with all the mess we’ve created over the last few days. The melted ice cream has been tossed, the thawed meat has been thrown away. The fridge and freezer have been scrubbed with Citrus Pine-Sol. We’re so thankful we have clothes to mess up, and food to eat.

In many ways, our life has gone on as usual. The boys only missed one day of school. All the fallen trees in the area missed our house. That did not prevent the twins from seeking to make our surroundings as dangerous as possible. Yesterday after school I found Porter and Drew up at the top of a tree they are usually allowed to climb. I had neglected to tell them to stay out of it since another tree had partially fallen into it, creating a precarious web of limbs. Somehow, they climbed right past the interloping branches without viewing it as a safety hazard.

I made them climb down and gave them permission to climb on the smaller tree that fell in the back yard. They climbed happily for about ten minutes before I heard them coming inside in tears. Drew fell out of the tree and landed on his face, slicing his lip with his tooth in the process. Porter got stung by something large at about the same time.

I spent the next few minutes with both patients on the sofa, applying ice and cautioning Drew not to get blood on the furniture. Both boys are fine. Another day, another minor medical mishap, another dip into the supply of Band-Aids and Cortaid.

There’s been a run on gas here. Bill and I decided it was okay to fill up the cars, but we stopped short of filling up red gas cans. That was my first instinct after watching the news and seeing mobbed gas stations, but after some reflection we concluded that if we can’t survive for the foreseeable future on two tanks of gas, we aren’t trying hard enough.

We can’t clean forever, however; nor can we remain in the dark about the horror that has visited our country.

Although I titled this “Getting Back Up,” I don’t think anyone around here feels like we’re at that point yet. The wound is too raw. We’re still hunkered down, waiting to see how it all plays out.

My prayers are with everyone affected by the storm.