Games, Tournaments and Walking Tacos or Where is my Medal?

We have become THOSE parents. The ones whose weekends are dedicated to gyms and fields, who have gameday gear, and are constantly running a load of wash late at night so my kid’s uniform doesn’t stink out the other team on day two of the tournament. And to quote McDonald’s, we are loving it (mostly.) How the heck did we get here? Who have we become??

Years ago, back BK (Before Kids), we used to enjoy going to movies, eating out, sleeping in, dedicating weekends to long runs (enjoy might be a strong word for this) – basically doing whatever we wanted. And we’d look at our friends running to soccer and basketball tournaments that lasted the WHOLE WEEKEND and think, “Ugh. That looks disgusting. There is no way we are doing that when we have kids. We are not giving up our weekends just for our kids to play in tournaments. We will maintain that sense of self and not live our lives solely for our kids.” (Ha. Ha. Ha. Older me is laughing cynically right now as I type.)

Then we had kids. Mic drop.

I contemplated ending the blog there for a dramatic finish but I’m far too narcissistic to leave my thoughts unsaid. So as I was saying, then we had kids and found out that you don’t really have free will to do whatever you want when your job is to keep someone alive at least until they get to the age where they can reach the poptarts on their own. As our first kid grew, we put him in the typical sports programs through parks and rec. Then soccer league and basketball league. And then the day came when we agreed he could play his first soccer tournament. And I dreaded that weekend because I knew how bad it was going to suck. I was going to have to sit there under those stupid tents, WAITING around all day for my kid to play a couple of games against crazy soccer teams, WASTING a WHOLE weekend of my life when I could be doing much better things like anything else. UGH! I was gnashing teeth and pulling out my hair at the thought.

And then the dreaded weekend came and lo and behold, I got it. That tournament was a blast! I loved it (I think he did too…) This was so much fun – the anticipation, the excitement of the game, the comradery, hanging with the other parents. Sure it took up my whole weekend, but so what? I finally understood how my friends “gave up their freedom” for their kids’ sports and didn’t lose their souls in the process.

Maybe it’s because I just love sports in general. I am that parent yelling during the game, and admittedly I am pretty competitive. Not in that “living vicariously through my child” kind of way but because I love a good game. And I love my kid. And when those two worlds combine, a loss or a win is that much more emotional. My head is in my hands when we are down 2 points with a minute to go and my kid is at the free throw line, I’m jumping up when my kid blocks a goal, and I’m jerking around in my seat when the running back is running down the field as though my movements will somehow shift the space he can run through.  Through these short years I’ve already figured out to keep my mouth shut after a bad loss except to say that I love watching him play, to unpack the sports bag first when you get home to avoid serious stinkage, and to pack lots of snacks because I have yet to read research that says donuts are an appropriate pregame snack.

I’m not going to lie, it can get tough to get everything that needs to get done in a weekend completed in a few short hours because we are at tournaments Saturday and Sunday. Don’t get me wrong - I love the games. However, I’d like to make a couple of quick suggestions to anyone organizing these tournaments.

First, can the championship game please be played first at the end of the tournament? I feel like we are being penalized for being good because the number one teams in the brackets always play last. Why do we have to wait the extra two hours? Just a suggestion…

Second, has anyone considered setting up a discreet mini bar? There are times where just one beer would really take the edge off. We could be limited to just one, unless we are waiting an extra six hours and playing the 9 p.m. game because we are in the championship game and then we’d get one more.

And finally, can parents start getting the swag too? Sometimes after a particular tough and long-houred tournament, I feel like I too deserve a shirt or medal – really whatever you are giving out. Because even though it is Sunday at 8 p.m. when we get done, I still have to get groceries for the week. And that deserves a medal.

Regardless if my suggestions are ever taken into account, I concede that my 21-year old self didn’t get it. I understand how much fun it is to sit in a gym or on a soccer field for the whole weekend. I have learned to maximize those short hours in between games to run errands if possible. My bleacher seats and soccer chairs take up a permanent place in my trunk. I bought a Subaru Outback over other cars solely because I was picturing whether football pads would fit in the back. I would probably wear facepaint to a game if another parent suggested it. I am all in. Now if only the music concerts could be as entertaining. My youngest seems to be more of a rock star than a soccer star and I already have a headache at the thought of his recorder concert – only 4 short years to mentally prepare myself for that one.

Choose Your Own Adventure - It Really Doesn't Matter or A Bucket Full of Sugar Makes the Medicine Go Down

Everywhere you look, there are ways to increase your child’s happiness for a fulfilling childhood. We can throw “Just Being You” parties, customize every item of clothing and accessory for them, celebrate fake holidays (“National Hot Dog Day!”) and check out the list of 50 great things to do on an average day. Life is fun every minute! And then with another click of a button we can read a lament about how we should go back to the way things were, when we drank real Kool Aid and watched Three’s Company without understanding the sexual innuendos. Our kids should be doing homework at night – but not too much homework – and doing chores around the house to earn money. No screen time and family game night...every night.

It makes me wonder (and laugh, and tag the article to refer to later, and roll my eyes because I can’t decide if I’m on board or think it’s insane), what the heck is “good” parenting anymore.  I look over my day, week, year and sometimes I’m Super Mom and sometimes I’m Barely Holding It Together Mom. Every day is a highlight reel and a bloopers clip. Depending on the time of day, you could think I’m amazing or be on the phone to DHS.

For example, here’s a sample of my successes and failures:
• I refuse to do Elf on a Shelf or the stupid leprechaun for St. Patrick’s Day. Why would I want to create more of a mess in a house that borders on a Red Cross disaster zone? I am a fun hater.
• Reportedly, I make fantastic monkey bread in the mornings after sleepovers.
• I like to bake from scratch and have no problem whipping up a batch of cookies after a long day at work.
• I don’t keep track of screen time, not because they aren’t on the ipad and TV, but because I’m lazy.
• I bring healthy snacks from home instead of eating at concession stands during games. I hate concession stand food.
• Sometimes I skip stories at night and my bedtime routine consists of repeatedly saying in louder and louder tones “Brushyourteethgopottyandgotobed.” I simply do not have the energy at the end of the day for elaborate bedtimes and besides, they don’t go to bed anyway if I do. Instead, please go eat one of my fresh baked cookies right before you brush your teeth.
• I make breakfast on Wednesdays because it’s hump day.
• I swear. A lot.
• I have endearing (in my opinion) nicknames for my babies.
• We eat dinner as a family almost every night and go through everyone’s Pit and Peak, including any guests (sorry if this is awkward for you - no one is exempt.)
• We haven’t been to church since Easter and I’m not even sure where our church is going to be next.
• Game night often ends in someone being sent to their room.
• I make a fruit tray every week so there is always fresh fruit available, if hell should ever freeze over and they choose that for a snack instead of pretzels or a granola bar.
• I coach my son on how to text a girl.

Remember those Choose Your Own Adventure books from our childhood, where you could decide what happens to the character next and it changes the outcome of the story? Well life isn’t always that easy. There are people out there with horrific childhoods that are amazing adults and people who grew up in privileged homes that are assholes. You can hit all the marks as a parent and it still does not guarantee how your kid turns out.

Am I a good mom because I make dinner every night at home or am I a bad mom because the boys eat sugar like Buddy the Elf while on the ipad? Neither. I just get some things right and other things not so right. And you do too. Who cares? What I’m saying is do your best. And there are days your best sucks. And I’m going to try not to judge you for it. Well, I’m totally going to judge you if you hit your kid or intentionally emotionally scar them – because then you are a piece of shit. BUT if you are out there doing your best, there will be sunshine and accidental bruises along the way. Heck, you look the wrong way at a hormonal middle schooler and you'll make them cry or stomp off - and that's without even TRYING to tick them off! None of us have this figured out and trust me, I only highlight my successes on social media, just like everyone else. No one is posting that they found a bucket full of candy wrappers in their six-year old’s room (true story) but they are snapping pictures of the super healthy dinner they just served. Too bad my six-year old is too full of sugar to eat it.

The New F Word or You Can Be an Asshole, But Not a Fat Asshole

Friends, if you know me well, you know that I swear like a sailor. I am not saying I’m proud of this trait but it does seem to be well-engrained. The one thought that helps me sleep at night is that at least my children will know how to drop a swear word here and there properly because nothing makes you look sillier than stringing random swear words together in the attempt to look cool – people will know that my kids mean business when the swear comes out of their sweet little mouths. Naturally I’ve set ground rules which are, unless you are in severe pain, you cannot swear until you pay income taxes, in which case, you’ve earned it.

Now there are only a few words I won’t utter. Most of them refer to female anatomy which I find just vulgar. Can a cuss word be uncouth? But there is another word I won’t say when referring to a human (animals are exempt because well, they are animals) and that is the F word. Now you are thinking, hmmm…she is a liar because I’ve heard her say “fuck” in front of her own mother and just last night I whispered very quietly “for fuck’s sake” as my sweet Sugar Bear pitched a whining fit for 20 minutes in the car because I didn’t take him to the gym (I was trapped and was exerting all my effort to not yell.)

No Friends, I’m talking about the other F word. It’s a word that has been tossed around forever and used casually but viciously. I’m talking about the word Fat.

I thought we had an unwritten rule in our house that we don’t use that word as a derogatory adjective about people. Sure, I call my cats fat all the time – because they are fat and my cat Sydney is lovingly called Fat Syd or Shamu (she is black and white and likes to bite so this is really a genius nickname if I do say so myself.) But I was having a conversation with my Moose and we were talking about a kid he doesn’t like. He told me that he calls the kid Fat XXX (leaving the name out for obvious reasons) within his circle of friends. I was stopped in my tracks with horror. “Absolutely not! We do not ever use the word Fat to put someone down! You won’t say it again. I don’t care what else you want to call him – jerk, asshole, douche – whatever. But you will not say the word Fat. And you can tell your friends that Fat is the ONE word your mom won’t allow.” (Side note, I think I will also outlaw the word Cunt but that’s for another time.) I was shocked that my sweet demeanored baby would say something so hurtful; all I can think is that he really doesn’t understand the damage that the F word does. I’m not going to get into how society perpetuates beauty with success, blah blah blah. I could get on a soapbox and never stop typing but let's be honest, you've read it all before. It’s crazy the power shapes holds in our society but it is life in America until we see a major change in thinking. Fat is the one last acceptable form of discrimination (btw, it’s not acceptable.) But I’ve got a more personal reason why the word is simply not allowed.

See I come from a long history with the F word. Somewhere during my teens I decided that nothing could be worse than being fat, which has led to a twenty plus year cycle of either starving, over exercising, or binging - all with a healthy helping of self-hatred. I wish I could explain how insidious an eating disorder is, that even when I look healthy or even (gasp) fat, I am constantly battling with it. You could call me the worst name in the book and I wouldn’t think twice but if you say I’m fat or big-boned, I will literally curl into a fetal position for 12 hours. After more than two years of therapy I am finally getting to a point where a setback in life doesn’t equal a fast. Much like an alcoholic, I realize that this will be something I will likely deal with forever. Honestly I wouldn’t wish it on anyone - and sadly there are a lot of anyones out there dealing with it too. I recognize that I can relapse at any time and what’s fun about an eating disorder is that when you are really skinny, people cheer you on, which just further perpetuates the behavior, until you look like a skeleton and people think “Ew, gross.” And it all starts with the F word. Which brings us back to this moment.

I don’t think my Moose understood the hurt that the F word can cause. He’s not the kind of kid that looks to destroy people’s feelings, which is why it’s important to cut him off at the pass early. He’s going to meet a lot of people in his life and if he can avoid inflicting major damage, even if they deserve it, he will sleep better at night when he’s 80. He’s got my permission to call people a Motherfucker for all I care (well, maybe we’ll save that one for high school.) But just don’t call them a Fat Motherfucker. Because then you’ve crossed a line.