Confessions of a Soccer Mom

While on the soccer field I saw a glimpse of the future and it really made me think. It made me think about how fast our kids grow up. It made me think about winning and losing. And it made me think about how we can only provide our children with the tools they need in life, and then they alone must go out and build their own houses.

And those, my friend, were sobering thoughts. Especially for the soccer field.

My 10 year old Natalie, is playing advanced soccer for the first time this fall. Although she has several seasons of developmental soccer under her belt, Natalie was obviously not prepared for the level of intensity or aggression that the opposing team displayed. Somehow through those many past soccer seasons, we were naively shielded from this type of play. But after our first game last week, I realized, we're not in Kansas anymore, Toto. See, most of the girls on Natalie's team moved up to the advanced league together, and even their coach moved up with them. In fact, most of them tried out together on the same sunny day, giggling, talking and frolicking while nonchalantly kicking a soccer ball around the a bigger, more manicured field. And truthfully? Even to me, it seemed like a very easy transition. Order some uniforms, pay a little extra money, drive a bit further to the soccer complex and voila, my daughter now is on an advanced soccer team.

But, life changed on that windy Saturday morning. And I have a feeling we've only just begun.

The day started out pretty much the same; suit up, eat a good breakfast, take your asthma meds, put your hair in a ponytail, yippee, let's go play soccer. We had a 10:15am kickoff which was the first game of a doubleheader, the second game was scheduled for later that afternoon. So that morning, the girls and I drove out to the soccer complex with another teammate and her mom, all of us enjoying the longer ride. We arrived an hour early so we had plenty of time to catch up with the other soccer parents. My 6 year old Charlotte several little sisters to play with, and she ran off quickly and staying active and occupied for most of the morning. At that time, no one had any idea of the nightmare to come.

Sometimes ignorance, is in fact, bliss.

When the girls hit the field, the opposing team scored almost immediately. And it only got worse. Somehow all of the mommy chatter on the sidelines faded. Somehow all of us snapped into our concerned parental mode. Somehow we all sensed, this game was going to be different.

The opposing team was amazing; faster on the field, more aggressive with the ball, cocky with a bad ass attitude AND their goalie wore cool gloves. Our girls looked like the proverbial deer in the headlights. Shocked. Stunned. Silenced. And as we all watched helplessly on the sidelines, I realized I was watching my daughter grow up right before my very eyes.

Although I admit, physically, the team could have been more prepared that day, I don't think anything could have prepared them mentally. Normally, we don't teach our girls aggression. Normally, we don't teach our girls to exude such blatant confidence. Normally, we don't teach our girls that winning is everything. I know for a fact that I am guilty of that. I know that I stress fairness at all times. To never prey on someone's weakness. Fair. Equal. Play nice. For heaven's sake, when I was growing up, my sisters and I used to play Monopoly by first choosing our favorite colors and then no one was allowed to buy that particular color property. ('Oh no Grace, you can't buy that red one, Liza gets all of those, remember...') It wasn't until YEARS later, as an adult, that I realized that that ain't the way to play Monopoly. Duh. Talk about embarrassing.

But, truthfully? To this day, if I could, I would still give my sister Liza all of the red properties. Because that's just the kind of gal I am...

And it doesn't help that in our bubble that we call Kings Grant, our kids just aren't naturally exposed to such aggression. Everybody definitely knows your name in this neighborhood. Anonymity is not something we enjoy here on our tree-lined streets. We all share the same school, the same piano teacher, the same art class, the same soccer field. We are filled with polite conversations with our extremely polite children. Listen, I am not saying that we don't have our problems because everyone does, but for the last few seasons, our soccer team has glided gracefully through win after win after win. And on this windy day, with change in the air, they were just not prepared for a loss. And a punishing one at that.

The game dragged on, and unbeknownst to some of our girls, the opposing team was actually mocking them. Laughing at their inexperience. Showing off at their expense. I could feel the anger rising inside of me. And I could actually feel my heart breaking for my dear, unsuspecting daughter. But as I sat there clutching my soccer chair, screaming for the Fireballs to get motivated, I realized that this is all part of life. All part of my daughter's life. And sometimes I just can't make it all go away.

After the game was finally over, the coach exploded. Perhaps it was his own guilt of not preparing his team for the slaughter? Perhaps it was embarrassment? Perhaps he was just angry? Deserved or not and for whatever the reason, for the first time in many seasons, the coach exploded. He ranted and raved. He threatened. He raised his voice. (Oh, the horrors!) He crossed the line, that imaginary line of our bubble.

Needless to say, most of the girls were a mass of tears, sweat and ponytails as they walked off the field to meet their parents. Some of them were sobbing openly. It was a terrible sight. My first instinct was to rush over to Natalie, hold her in my arms and tell her that everything would be okay. That the other team was mean and hateful. That it wasn't her fault. That we didn't have to do this anymore. But, somehow I knew that wasn't what she needed. Even if it's what I needed. Of course, she needed for me to tell her I that I loved her, but she also needed to hear that they did in fact get beat. Badly. And that we needed to practice differently. And that the coach was being human. And that tomorrow was another day. And that life on and off the soccer field would go on.

As we walked to our car with shoulders touching, I realized that she is almost as tall as I am. And that somehow 10 years slipped away quickly like a shadow in the darkness. People always tell you that their childhoods go by so fast. But you never listen. You never listen when those same people tell you to nap when the baby naps (who the hell ever did that?). And you never listen when they tell you you have not idea how much your life will change after having children. But the 10 years since I became a mother? Like a blink of an eye. In 1996, I had been married for 11 years, worked full-time and had a whole other hairdo. Now suddenly, it's 2006 and my daughter is 10 years old. Experiencing heartbreak on the soccer field. And growing up right before my very eyes.

We will go back to that soccer complex next week, and we will hit the field again. And this time, Natalie will be a little more experienced, a little more prepared and a little more confident. But me, on the other hand? I've only just begun.

Basic Instinct

What if you don't trust your instincts? Okay, what if you do trust them but don't want to follow them? What if you want to do something for the sake of doing it? Not because it's good for you or not because it's the right thing to do? What if you just want to do it? How about this one. What if you just want to ignore your instincts? Will they hang their instinctive heads and simply go away?

What if instincts be damned?

Listen, I am not talking about anything illegal. I am not talking about causing harm to anyone. I am simply talking about ignoring the voices in my head and ignoring the basic instinct. How bad can that be?

Okay, the fact that I am even asking the question doesn't bode very well for me, does it? But, sometimes I do a very odd thing. I will think and think and think about something...and then after much thought, I decide to finally do something, sometimes without consulting the person in which it involves. (And there are even times that I consult EVERYONE but that person. Ick.) So, in my mind, I have thought about it ad nauseum, but the unsuspecting soul that it involves? Never heard a word of it. And inevitably, I surprise the poor soul with my declarations of truth and whatnot...

But this is different (she says), I really don't have to consult anyone about this situation. This one is just for me to decide. And it's a tough one. But it's my tough one. See, sometimes I feel like I talk about my life more than actually live my life. Like my life is a really good conversation piece or something. But this time, (she implores), it's different. This one I get to decide something on my own. Okay, granted it's nothing earth shattering, but still, it's important to me.

So. I am sitting here at my computer writing out the Pro and Con list. Wondering if this really would be different for me. And thinking about my instincts. Thinking. Thinking. Thinking.

It's funny how I can do the parenting thing with my eyes closed. Somehow THOSE instincts I can trust without a shadow of a doubt. I don't think too hard about being a good mother, I just mother. And as a mother, I usually don't spend time questioning my actions, wondering about options or regretting decisions. I know it's the easiest and best thing I have ever done. And that has always surprised me (and everyone else for that matter). Motherhood was scary at first, but now, 10 years later with a divorce and two fabulous daughters under my belt, I find that it comes naturally. And although I am far from being perfect, my motherhood style definitely works for us.

So then why is it that I can't trust my instincts in other aspects of my life? It's like I become this ridiculous mass of insecurity when I am not driving my minivan.

So, with the exception of motherhood, I guess sometimes it's easier for me to think about something instead of doing something. I guess sometimes I would rather talk about the possibility of a boyfriend than to really HAVE a real boyfriend. I guess sometimes I will use my instincts as an excuse for not doing something. Hmmm. I claim that my instincts are protecting me from something, but in fact it is just preventing me from taking a stand. From doing something. Wow. What a concept. Sometimes I use my instincts as an excuse for not doing not doing something.

But this time? Not so much. I am going to take the risk. I am going to do something. And I am going to enjoy every minute of it.

Okay, so at least I will try.

Me, Myself and Pie...

I am dreaming about pie today. Hmmm. Pie. Blueberry. Apple. Pie. The other day while I was ironing, Charlotte and I watched a Food Network show about pie. It was about a pie contest to find the best pies in the country? Pies. Pies. Pies. All kinds. It was like pies gone wild. Seriously. Peanut butter chocolate. Raspberry. Apple caramel. Pie. Well, since we watched that show, I just can't stop thinking about pie. Now I am obsessed with pie. Crumbly crust. Juicy berries. Oh my.

Pie.

I am supposed to be cutting down on my sugar intake. Sugar has this nasty way of making me gain weight. Serious weight. And 6 years ago when I lost all of that weight (52 lbs, to be exact...), it was all about cutting out the sugar. So. Here I am again, cutting out the sugar. Boo hoo. Damn sugar. Here's the strange thing. Before I turned 40? (A million years ago...) I never even cared for the sweet stuff. I was a salty, crunchy girl. Always wished I could have a salt lick in my shoulder, just in case I needed a salty fix at a moments' notice. Ah. But, then suddenly when I hit the magic 4-0, it was like I was living in a game of Candyland or something. Now I am always craving something sweet. Cakes. Chocolate. Cookies. Soda. Oh my. And pie.

Pie.

There's something amazing about pie. Simple. Sexy. Smart. That crust. The filling.

Although I bake, I don't make pies myself. Too hard. I do make a damn fine caramel cake though. But I don't make pies. I have on several occasions been known to pay The Pie Peddler $23.00 for one pie. Oh my. Delicious. Unbelievable. Those pies are sinful. And $23.00. And I don't care because they are worth every penny. Every single penny.

Isn't it funny when you can't have something...that's when you want it the most? And now? I so want some pie. But here's the thing, when I was eating everything in sight a month ago, it could have been All You Can Eat Pie, a virtual pie cornucopia, or a pieapoolooza. But, sadly, I didn't even eat a slice.

I guess it's that way with so many things, right? If we can't have it, suddenly it seems so appealing? I wonder why that happens? Maybe it's because we don't appreciate it when we have it? I guess the last time I had pie I didn't realize that it might be my last piece for a long time. I didn't savor the flaky crust. I didn't linger over the perfect blueberry filling. I didn't know. I just didn't know.

Ah, but let me tell you. I know now. The next piece of pie I eat? I will cherish. I will remember. I will not take it for granted. And I will make it last. Because you never know do you when it might be the last time.

Okay, so no pie for me today, but at least a girl can dream, right. And for today? I will simply live and let pie.

Enter The No Morphing Zone

I once wrote a story called "The Eight Hour Lunch". It was about meeting a marvelous, charming, funny, intelligent man named William for a lunch date. It was supposed to be just lunch, but it turned out to be an entire day of talking, laughing, driving, watching the rain, drinking coffee, trying on shoes, browsing for books, looking for a discontinued men's cologne and eating both lunch AND dinner together.

In my story, I write about how William and I have a conversation about how sometimes we would find ourselves "morphing" in relationships. His. Mine. You know, morphing? It's when you don't simply say what you mean because you feel that might hurt or upset the other person? It's when you agree when you really want to disagree? It's when you want to please, all the time? (Who me?) It's when you lose yourself to someone else? It's when your needs are practically non-existent? It's when you want to be the perfect match for them, no matter what? Morphing, as William and I discussed it, can happen gradually, with your full knowledge. And sometimes it just happens without any premeditation on your part. But no matter which way it does happen, inevitably, you will find yourself in a relationship that isn't satisfying, because you never made it clear who you really were or what you ever needed or even wanted.

And this isn't only in romantic relationships, it applies to all of your relationships. Friends. Family. Bosses.

At the time of this discussion, I was strongly considering taking a job across the water (and away from having to drive by the Zen-like house everyday. Look, there's absolutely no other way out of my complex, but to drive by his house. Everyday. Every single damn day. Ugh. And we think the Gods don't have a sense of humor? HA!) to become a GM of a men's clothing store. But here's the thing. I believe I was only taking the job to 'morph' into exactly what my prospective boss wanted. I wasn't taking the job because I WANTED to take it. It became more about being the 'perfect' employee for him. Because of the 'morph', I was willing to take a job that I was overqualified for, to move my children and myself 30 miles north; across the water, away from my friends, my family, the school, the community, my entire life. This comfortable place that took me 5 years to build. So I almost morphed.

Almost.

See, morphing isn't just about pleasing someone...it's about how it makes YOU feel inside. Morphing makes you the perfect person for THEM. Morphing makes you anticipate what THEY want. And when you do that? The crowds go wild for you. They can't get enough. And when I was morphing into the perfect GM for this job, it felt great for someone to go on and on about how talented I was. It was exhilarating. Like a drug. And even though it wasn't the right job for me, I was high on the adulation. So I almost morphed.

Whew. I came to my senses and didn't take the job. But it was close.

And of course, me being me (I think, therefore I don't sleep...) after talking to William about the morph, I just couldn't stop thinking about it. I thought about how often I have morphed in other relationships. And what has happened after the morph...

Look, I am not talking about the compromise. I know all about the compromise. The compromise is a damn fine thing. No one hates the compromise. I am talking about something else entirely. It's like painting, and blending yourself to the point of being another color.

Hmmm.

It was good to finally have a name for it. Morph. Morphing. Morphed. Now the voice (hey, at least it's not voices...) in my head can name the behavior that I wanted to avoid. 'Rose, don't morph. Don't get back on that motorcycle. Don't do it.' And that in itself? Delightful.

Although I don't have any definite answers about how NOT to morph (but I am working on it), at least it has a name. I can define it and recognize it and know when it's about to rear its' ugly head. Hey, maybe I am simply taming it? Who knows. But what I do know? I don't want to live in the morphing zone ever again.

And what about the story I wrote of William and the Eight Hour Lunch? Well, in the end of the story I realize that on that day he might have simply been morphing for me. (And believe me, he did a fine job. Truly.) But then later when we made a pact never to morph in a relationship again? Well, as luck would have it? I never heard from him again.

Ah, the power of the No Morphing Zone. It can be a lonely, but virtuous place.

Hair Today...Gone Tomorrow

Sometimes going to your hair stylist is better than going to see your therapist. Sometimes simply cutting your hair allows you to change your own life.

Hairapy, if you must.

Okay, so I got my haircut yesterday and I feel fabulous. No, I still don't have a job. Yes, her white car is still in his driveway. And yes, I still need to cut down on the sugar intake. But, still, when you have a good hairdo, life just seems to be more tolerable.

Shallow? Damn right it is, but sometimes it IS better to look good rather than to feel good. And since I can't lose the 10 lbs that mysteriously appeared over the 44 days the girls were in Dallas, a good haircut has to do for right now.

So I called my stylist on Thursday and begged for an appointment. As luck would have it, she could see me on Friday at 11AM. Yippee. Yippee. Yippee.

Ah, I have been with my hair stylist, Theresa for 5 years. And through those years, we have survived 6 different hairdos (4 of hers, 2 of mine), 3 different salons, her cancer scare and my divorce. And now we are still together in her very own salon (to which I am very proud). She's an amazing soul, my stylist. She's the I-am-Woman-Hear-Me-Roar kind of gal. Strong. Opinionated. Holistic. We can talk about men, dogs, restaurants, men, vitamins, and men. We make each other laugh. We can sit in comfortable silence. We have a great relationship. And I am very glad for her.

Okay, I am ashamed to admit it, but I have cheated on her twice in our relationship. Once when I felt she wasn't getting the direction in which we were going. And another time, when she couldn't fit me in on a days' notice...and I had a hot date coming up. Both times I came clean to her, although my true confessions were unnecessary. Because she took one look at me and knew I cheated. It just wasn't her work on top of my head. Ooops.

Ah, my good haircut. I felt like all of the hair on the floor symbolized my stress and worry. Snip. Snip. Snip. All gone. Marvelous. Hey, make no mistake, I know for a fact that women from all walks of life feel this hairapy phenomenon. Look in the grocery store, and you can tell when a woman just got a haircut. It's a glow or something. Lit up from within. A skip in her step. Happy. Fulfilled. Satisfied. Okay, okay, okay, maybe it's only until her next next shampoo, but we take what we can get, eh?

Yeah, so I still have to find a meaningful, creative job with a purpose. I still have to work through the ridiculous ZLHF (you know, the Zen-like Heartbreak of February...blah, blah, blah). AND I still need to work out three times a week.

But now at least I will do it all with a better attitude and a new sassy hairdo.

Ah, hairapy.

Superman's Cape

It may sound absurd...but don’t be naive

Even heroes have the right to bleed

I may be disturbed...but won’t you concede

Even heroes have the right to dream

Five For Fighting

I have spent too much time in a phone booth. And I have not been making calls. I have spent a lot of time in a phone booth changing in and out of a Superman cape. Here's the thing. As a single mother of two daughters, I made it a priority to show my girls strength, courage and resolve even during the times that I felt none of those things. I always wanted to be a strong role model to my girls, even if my marriage to their (perfect) father failed. I didn't want them to think I was weak, scared, confused. I needed to be strong. And for the past 5 years. with the help of the cape...that was the party line. Because everything is easy to do when you put on the Superman cape. And I put it on all the time. But somehow this year, they finally saw the cracks in my facade and I have to believe it helped our relationship immensely.

The girls were too young to experience the heartbreak of my divorce. N. was 5 and C. was only 1 when we split. And to top if off? My divorce was a quiet, polite one. Yes, after 15 years, G and I quietly and politely ended our marriage. No fighting. No shouting. No long trial separations. It was just over.

And from the beginning the girls and I worked hard to move past the divorce; we relocated from CA to VA (Ah, Mayberry...) to be near my friends and family, we read all of the right book "Dinosaurs Divorce", "It's Not Your Fault, Koko Bear", "Mom's House, Dad's House", we attended therapy sessions, we drew pictures to express our innermost feeling and besides all of that, we laughed, and loved and carried on. It was almost effortless.

And we seemed to have survived it.

But this past year? They experienced the pain of heartbreak first hand. They cared about the Zen-like man and not only because he had a great lake house and a fun dog (now ours...). Although it helped. They were simply used to him in our lives. And they, like me, were not prepared for it to end so suddenly. Ah, there are people out there that said I never should have introduced him to my kids in the first place. And to that I say, bullshit. Here's the thing. I dated this man for 3 months before my kids even met him. When G. lived in DC, he would have them every other weekend...and that's when I dated Zen-like man. Only when my girls were gone. I was determined to make sure it was a 'real thing' before my girls met him. But, with love, just like life there are no guarantees. Try explaining that to your 10 and 6 year olds.

At first I tried to use the cape to show my strength, to prove to the girls that if we could survive a divorce, the simple Zen-like break of February would be nothing. But it didn't work that way. For the first time, the girls saw the chink in my armor. Hurt. Sadness. Confusion. And no cape was going to change it.

But, here's the thing. I know in the beginning, the girls were surprised by my tears, my moodiness and especially, my silence because this was a side of me that was never ever revealed to them. I have always kept it together for them. Never allowing them to see the dark side. However, months after the hearbreak, I discovered something absolutely startling. I discovered that my girls still loved and respected me with or without the Superman cape. It has been quite a shock realizing that my girls can accept the fact that I am human, and definitely not a super hero.

In fact, here's a thought. Could it be possible that actually respect me MORE because of my own perceived weakness? Hmmm. It's ironic that I have always encourage them to feel sadness, if that's how they feel. I never tell them to "Stop crying", because sometimes one simply has to cry. But, until this past year, I doubt my girls ever saw me cry before.
Interesting, eh? Maybe the girls seeing the real me, all of me (tears included) helped to strengthen our relationship?

A long time ago, I dated a man who said that seeing me depressed, down or sad was like seeing Michael Jordan have an off day on the basketball court. And he continued that truthfully, no one ever wanted to pay to see Michael Jordan miss the shot. Ouch. Okay, so it wasn't long after that comment, I decided not to date him anymore...but nevertheless his comment stuck with me for a long time.

Maybe this man only wanted to see the happy, positive, cheerleader Rose. Maybe he didn't want to see the uncertain, hesitant, scared Rose. Or maybe he didn't really know me at all?

But, with my kids it had to be different. If I never allowed the girls to see any other side of me except the super hero side, then it isn't THEIR fault that they always expect perfection in the Superman cape.

So, my tears fell, I felt the pain, the dinners weren't homecooked EVERY single night...and everyone survived. In fact, some of us even thrived. Without a phone booth in sight.

"I'm only a man in a silly red sheet

Digging for kryptonite on this one way street

Only a man in a funny red sheet

Looking for special things inside of me

Inside of me

Inside me."

Five for Fighting

The Short Goodbye

My last relationship ended in 5 minutes. Make no mistake about it, the relationship itself was over a year long. But the goodbye? 5 minutes. Some tell me it was easier that way. Ripping off the bandage. Throwing you in the deep end. Hearing someone tell you over the telephone, it's not you , it's me ...and then he promptly lets some chick move into his house. (Oh, maybe it really was, it's not you, it's HER?) Perhaps it is better being hurt one time, quickly, no flowery preamble (God, I love that word...preamble. Sounds like I am writing about the Declaration of Independence or something...), no dimly lit restaurant, or a 'Dear John' email? Who knows? What I do know is that my last relationship ended in 5 minutes.

See. These are the things I think about when I don't have a job on the horizon.

I was looking at my little black book today. It's my fabulous, little leather bound (moleskin, I think that's what Barnes and Noble called it...) notebook, which hold the secrets to my life.

Some of my secrets include:

That on 2/3/06 I needed to buy carrots, sour cream, onions and butter. That the rear lightbulb on my car (which always seems to go out...) has a stock # 3057LL. That I wanted to check out Robert Downey Jr's CD "The Futurist". That my vacuum cleaner bags are Kenmore Progressive True Hepa. That in order to find Devon's pool in Arlington, VA, I had to take a left at Longfellow, right at Patrick Henry, left at Wilson, and pass a Korean grocery store. That the girls take 3mg of Melatonin. That sometimes I write titles of stories in my little black book. (The Fear of Falling. A Platter of Stress. A Jury of Her Own Peers. The Short Goodbye.)

My little black book holds stuff about myself that I will never remember if I didn't write it down. Sort of like my mini-autobiography.

Anyway, I was looking in my book today, while I was waiting for C to get her hair cut (and man, does she look snazzy at 6 years old!) and I stumbled across a title of mine, "The Short Goodbye". And not only did this one have a title, but there was a pretty good story attached. Then of course, as I sat there reading my story...I started thinking about the Zen-like Heartbreak of February and the short goodbye.

I wonder if the 5 minute goodbye represented the depth of our relationship? I also wonder why I spent over a year with someone who wasn't right for me. Hmmm. Maybe it was because I was just living my life and didn't really want to think about what the relationship was or wasn't? (denial, denial, denial) But, in my defense, don't you think that sometimes when you're IN the relationship, you can't SEE the relationship for what it is? Almost like you can see the trees, but you can't see the forest? The days pass, the bliss is ignorant and love never finds a way?

And then you find yourself a year later...standing on a porch and he's not answering the door.

Thinking. Thinking. Thinking.

I read in a lame magazine once that when a relationship ends, it takes half the time of the actual duration of the relationship to actually get over the relationship and be able to move onto another. (Of course, that doesn't apply to some men. Apparently, some men can move onto another relationship as soon as they hang up the phone.)

I believe that if the goodbye is only 5 minutes...you should be able to get over it in 5 minutes.

So, I think instead of The Short Goodbye, I will call it Break Up Karma and hope for the best.