This should have been Monday Motherhood, but can I tell you how tired I was yesterday after camping, watching soccer in cold, windy conditions, and then doing eight loads of laundry upon returning home? Can I? Did I? No, I was too tired.
So it’s Tuesday. The laundry is done, but not quite folded. Raise your hands. How many of you get the laundry folded and put away all in the same day? Not an errant sock or dish towel lying around looking for a home? Your cleaning woman does it? Well, good for you. I’m laundry challenged, especially when it comes to convincing my children that jeans do not have to be washed every time they’re worn. In fact, until the jeans are standing up on their own and walking into the laundry room by themselves, I don’t want to see them.
Where was I? The weekend.
Miss T is a Brownie with the rest of the girls in her second grade class, so I’m lucky to only be dealing with women I know, mothers of Miss T’s friends and classmates, which means when I commit to pitching a tent (okay, my friend pitched the tent) and sleeping on the ground for two days and nights, I’m doing so alongside women with whom I’m comfortable enough to spoon. (We didn’t have to; the tent was big enough.) I mention this because the general Girl Scout population is a subculture to which I’m not immediately drawn. There are several reasons. Unlike the Boy Scouts, there is no instruction on how to tie a really good knot. There is nothing so far in Miss T’s training that inspires me to think she could survive in the wild. Really, I’m not sure where the “Scout” in Girl Scouts comes from. She can cut and paste with the best of them and string beads to make a bracelet, but doesn’t know the first thing about starting a fire. Also, sitting around the campfire Saturday night, I wondered who these women were with the missing teeth and healthy mid-sections, holding up three fingers to silence a restless, frozen audience and then chastising young girls for shining their flashlights in order to see and follow the Girl Scout salute. I never made it past Brownies all those years ago because I was certain then, as I am now, that I’m not made up of Girl Scout material. Of course, it’s all about Miss T, which is why I went on the trip in the first place, but I think she thinks her days as a scout are numbered. On the plus side, I did learn how to use jumper cables to help start the dead battery in my friend’s car.
Just fifteen minutes away from our campsite on the beach in Ventura was Bun Bun’s soccer tournament. I missed the last one because I was away, so I cut out of the activities with Miss T for an hour on Saturday afternoon to attend Bun Bun’s first game of the weekend. Watching her run up and down the field, her blonde hair bouncing in its ponytail, scooting around opposing players and passing the ball with skills you expect from someone much older, I was verklempt. She and her teammates played with such spirit, there wasn’t a parent on the sidelines who regretted giving up their lives one weekend a month to watch these girls play. Was I proud? You betcha. Are their Girl Scout moms who think the “soccer people” subculture is weird? Probably. I don’t care. Any one of the girls on Bun Bun’s team could outrun a bear while clinging to the 1st place trophy they won after four games.
All of this came on the heels of Goldie’s performance in the middle school concert on Thursday and Friday night. From the timber of her voice, you’d think I went out back and smoked cigarettes with her every night after dinner. I don’t. But hers is a smoky instrument, a voice with style and resonance, and so when she sings, you listen and she can carry a tune. Hearing Goldie sing the 1930s song “Dream a Little Dream of Me”, I felt like I was sitting in a speakeasy, weeping over a scotch and soda. My heart burst not only because she did so well, but because she surprised everyone else by doing so well. Now if only I could teach her how selfish it is to hide one’s light under a bushel. She may have to figure that one out for herself.
Shelby had her boyfriend over Saturday afternoon, but Jack missed us so much, he got stressed and ate the banister. It’s impossible to please everyone.
We’re almost as busy this weekend, but looming down the road, in the middle of June, everything comes to a screeching halt and summer sets in. I’m terrified. Perhaps I’d best start making plans now. Any ideas?