This morning my oldest child managed to put soap in her eye and then run through two sets of daily contacts before I could convince her to let nature do its work and flush the burny stuff out of her ocular orbits. Then just as she was putting them on, her glasses broke. Then only a matter of minutes later, she cut her finger trying to fish a stashed pair of contacts out of her pocket. Then she missed her bus. Tough start to the day for anyone. Especially difficult if you’re newly 13. “I’m going to wear my hair over my eye today,” she told me as I drove her to school in my pajamas. “I don’t want people to think I have pink eye.” “Good God! Don’t do that,” I exclaimed. “With your luck you’ll walk into a door. Or a moving car.” I wonder what she did to piss off Karma. Karma’s a bitch.
This morning I noticed my husband’s cat of 17 years had managed to get his arthritic body on the toilet and was attempting to drink the blue water. I picked him up from the toilet and he peed on me. Like, for over a minute. Sooo much pee. Normally I would find the humor in this, but today I can’t. Two months ago he weighed over 15 pounds. When he snoozed on the couch he looked like he’d been poured there like a giant pancake. Today you can see his hip bones and he drinks over 2 cups of water a day. He is always hungry, but declines any food unless it’s cheese or tuna. He no longer grooms himself, and even though he gives it a valiant effort, he doesn’t make it to the litter box more often than not. It doesn’t look good for him. He’s been with us longer than we’ve been married, an intrinsic part of our story and it breaks our hearts that his chapters are ending.
Karma’s a bitch and a whore.
Last night during a rainy and cold and so unevenly matched it was painful to watch select soccer game, I got to experience the dark side of what it means to be on a select team. Even though the girls are a “team,” they are competing against each other for spots on the field. That means the parents are competing as well. I hadn’t realized this going in. I know it’s part of the package, but I’ll admit that it’s confusing and hurtful to me to hear things said about my daughter by the very people who are supposed to be supporting her. “She should have gotten that!” “Oh, come ON!” And (and it’s not just me being a sensitive woman) it’s not so much the words as the tone. I hear them yelling on the sidelines, and I’m confused because a lot of it is NOT supportive. I hold my tongue, because it will help no one if I say what *I’m * thinking about their daughter (Is she running through water? Another hand ball?), but wow. So much pressure on these girls. They’re 10 years old. TEN. I worry that I’ve made a mistake, but I worry that NOT allowing her to join select would have been a mistake as well. She loves soccer. She loves being able to say that she’s a level 3 select player. She loves the drills and the practices. She loves it and wants to take it as far as she can. Rec league wasn’t cutting it for her anymore. This is where she needs to be to do what she wants to do. But DAMN, Sam. Back off my kid. She can out run, out kick, and out manuever yours. That’s why she’s out there. Don’t make me say it.
To further punctuate the theme of this post: