(NOT) A Soccer Mom

I didn't choose this week's writing prompt from the list so much as it just fell into my lap. It was number three - Steppin' outside the box (describe a time when you went way out of your comfort zone).


You know what I never wanted to be when I grew up? A soccer mom. Literally. I very much wanted to me a mother, just not the kind who knew anything about soccer.

I have nothing against soccer, besides a deep-seated notion that it's hands-down the most boring sport ever. I don't deny that soccer takes talent, or even that it deserves to be wildly popular. I just find myself snoring over the very idea of it. I'm odd, I know.

So imagine my chagrin when Ethan decided that it was the only sport he wanted anything to do with. And then think of the distress I felt when I received an e-mail from the city not long ago stating that they needed two more volunteer coaches or they'd have to start refunding money, (kicking kids off the teams).

What could I do? I volunteered. With the specification that that they should use me only as a very last resort seeing as games are on Saturdays and I have a husband who works Saturdays and three kids who would then need a babysitter. Plus practices.

OH! AND THE FACT THAT I'VE NEVER PLAYED SOCCER IN MY LIFE AND HAVE NO CLUE WHAT THE RULES ARE OR HOW TO COACH OR PLAY IT!!!

Sorry. I needed to get that out.

So of course, they immediately plastered my name right on the list of willing volunteers and sent out an e-mail to all the player's parents stating that they had all the coaches they needed. Psh.

I'm freaking out just a tad. But if nothing else, at least I get a cool bag and a whistle out of it. That's crap I can use every day, people.

Sven, Bertha, Dilbert, and Hilde

I wish to inspire everyone to live life to the fullest. To make each day memorable; come hell or high water, or threat of bodily injury. This is a true story. Names have been changed to protect identities.



Once upon a time there was a young woman, Bertha, who was very good friends with a woman named Hildegarde. They had gone to school and church together for several years and had many adventures. Eventually, Bertha fell in love with Hildegarde's brother, Sven, and they were married shortly after Hildegarde married her own love, Dilbert.

One summer, Hildegarde and Bertha, along with their husbands, spent a lovely weekend at the beach. They basked in the sun, visited quaint shops, and splashed in the salty sea water. At the conclusion of their memorable weekend they traveled back to the city, but on the way they decided to pay a visit to Sven and Hilde's mother on the family farm.

When they got to the farm, however, the mother was out. While they waited for her to return, Sven and Bertha decided to take a nap, while Hildegarde and Dilbert opted to go for a walk.

Sven and Bertha made their way back to the guest bedroom and laid down on the bed. As Bertha was lowering her tired head towards the pillow, she looked out the window and caught sight of Hilde's head popping up out of the tall grass in the field across from the house. "That's odd," she thought. "Where's Dilbert? I thought they were going for a walk? And what is Hilde doing kneeling in the grass?"

But then Bertha's jaw dropped as she saw Hilde peel her shirt off and disappear again into the very tall grass.

"Sven!", shouted Bertha. "Hilde and Dilbert are doing it in the field!"

"Where?", asked Sven and he hopped off the bed to peer out the window.

"Right there in the grass, out past the well," pointed Bertha.

Sven began to laugh as he watched the grass moving to and fro in the very still summer air.

"Let's get the hose!", snickered Bertha.

"No way," protested Sven, "Hilde will kill you. She's much stronger than you and you know she would take you down."

"Yes, but first she'd have to catch me, and would she really chase me through the field naked?"

"Well, it'd be that or hunker down in the grass getting soaked!"

"True," muttered Bertha, "but either way it would be hilarious to watch! And I might be able to outrun her. Let's go!" Bertha bounced off of the bed and darted for the door.

"No. You are not getting the hose," commanded Sven, grabbing hold of Bertha's wrist. "Just go to sleep - it's not worth the trip to the emergency room."

"You're no fun at all," came the pouting reply from Bertha, but she obediently lay down and closed her eyes, trying not to picture the scene outside the window.

Bertha never did fall asleep on that golden afternoon. She spent the nap hour picturing all the possible outcomes of having gone through with her wicked hose scheme. Some of her daydreams were frightening, but most made her smile. And to this day, whenever someone talks about regrets in life or changing the past, Bertha remembers that day and vows to never let an opportunity to use a hose go unused again.

Mind Over Uterus (Alternatly Titled "Shameless Overshare")

*A disclaimer. If you are a male relative of mine or are bothered by discussion of female anatomy or visits to gynecologists, please skip this post and come back tomorrow, when I promise to discuss none of those things.*

The mind is a powerful thing, and I hope that mine doesn't qualify me as crazy - but after this last week I may have to embrace the truth.

On Tuesday I once again convinced myself that there was something very wrong with my insides. Specifically, my reproductive system. The pressure, the bloating, the (excuse me for saying) excessive vaginal discharge, the heavier than normal menstrual bleeding... It had to be bad.

Normally, I try to stay away from any websites like WebMD or diagnose me dot com because I know that I am a raging hypochondriac and I need to just chill out. But this time I thought that one of those symptoms was so far out of my norm that I couldn't ignore it. So I googled my little heart out.

No one should ever google the things I googled.

I soon discovered that I had all the symptoms of ovarian cancer, (which are basically anything from abdominal pressure to eyeball twitches), and I panicked and called to make an appointment with a gynecologist.

This morning I stood in the bathroom ready to prepare for my appointment, and I had to wonder what was the appropriate level of personal topiary? You don't want to leave things untidy, but you also don't want to look like you're trying too hard. I spent a good hour in the bathroom shaving to perfection, taking extra care to avoid a repeat of "the Soul Patch Incident of 2007".

At 11:30 I headed out to the gynecologist. Part of me knew that I was about to have a very routine visit, the other part was wondering if my life insurance company would grant me an advance on my death benefit so I could take my kids to Disneyland before I succumbed to the inevitable.

I walked into that doctor office and wondered if I had gotten the wrong building. It was like a posh ski lodge with muted lighting, huge wood beams in the ceiling, a separate room for kids complete with two story play structure, and everywhere I looked there were women who resembled models from Hustler Magazine, except that most of them had baby bumps. That was the only indication that I was in the right place.

I approached the reception counter and told them my name and who my appointment was with and while I watched the girl type in my info, I gazed down the counter and noticed that all of the staff looked like Bratz dolls. They had gobs of make-up accentuating big eyes and full lips, their hair was teased into playful, spiky messes of intentional seduction, and not one of them could have been over the age of twenty-five.

I started to wonder if I had walked into some kind of cult reproduction of the Playboy mansion.

Then the receptionist handed me one of those vibrating pagers that you get at Olive Garden on Friday nights when 600 people all decided at 7:00 that they wanted crappy Italian food.

"I'm sorry? What's this for?", I asked.

"We'll page you when it's your turn," said Miss Thang.

"My turn to eat? Can I see a menu? I should have brought my husband."

Unamused, Miss Thang went back to her typing.

I sat down and tried not to look at all the pretty women sitting around me. Where were all the old people? The women with hairy upper lips or so many piercings and tattoos that it almost certainly guarantees some kind of diseased pustules on their girl parts? You know - the women who make you feel better about a stranger poking around in your downstairs because nothin' you got is going to be as bad as what the doc will have to deal with on them.

I realized that on this day, I must be that woman for all the sex kittens there.

Not that they were worried about anything with their perfect skin, stilettos, and expertly applied make-up. I actually felt kinda bad for the doctors and hoped they had some kind of system in place to keep themselves calm.

I tried to keep my eyes on my Parent and Child magazine, but I kept stealing glances at the other waiting patients until I felt my pager buzzing on my lap.

Dinner time!

I collected my things, met the nurse who was waiting for me in the hallway and was led to a scale that is not as polite as the one I have at home. I decided to take five pounds off for clothes. And another two for shoes.

Blood pressure, check, then into the exam room. I was given a lovely paper gown and blanket and was told to put on the gown so that it opened in front and lay the paper blanket across my lap.

And it's always a race, because some of those doctors, I swear they try to catch you standing there naked, trying to slip your arms into the holes without tearing it. Give a girl a minute to make herself presentable!

I had barely gotten my rear onto the table and the blanket around my legs when the doc knocked and opened the door. Phew!

He came into the room, and good grief, even the doctor was beautiful! A nice looking man with gray around the temples, dark eyes and a gentlemanly southern accent. He sat down and asked me all the standard questions, including whether I had any questions for him.

This is the part where I had to say things like "discharge" and "bowel movements". I tried to tell myself that he deals with this stuff all the time, but I couldn't look at him while I talked.

What on earth makes a man want to become a gynecologist anyway?

The doc took it all in stride, performed a thorough exam, including one of those obscene ultrasounds that do not take place on top of your stomach.

At the completion of his time with me he pronounced me completely healthy from a gynecological standpoint and suggested I go to see a gastroenterologist regarding my bloating, pressure, and general feeling of constipation in spite of my normal bowel functions.

Turns out I don't have ovarian cancer - just irritable bowel syndrome.

Which means a lifetime of Metamucil staring me in the face.

But at least I got my annual Pap taken care of.

So tonight the muscles in my left arm are sore, even though I haven't used them for anything out of the ordinary. I bet it's the onset of something sinister.

Damn that WebMD!

Glad for comfortable couches, because I might have to sleep there for the rest of my life.

Last fall when Andrew drug us all on his annual salmon fishing trip and we actually had a very good time, both he and I brought home a souvenir to remind us of something that we missed about the Northwest. I bought a hooded sweatshirt from Mo's seafood restaurant in Cannon Beach, Oregon, and Andrew sweet-talked an old friend who works at G-Loomis in Woodland and got a G-Loomis sweatshirt for $21.

We brought our sweatshirts home and grinned in comfortable joy every time we wore them.

Which for Andrew was about three times before I accidentally put his sweatshirt in the dryer and shrunk it.

I felt horrible, and a little afraid, because he was going to find out and be so very, very upset. Turns out that, yeah, he was a bit sad, but he didn't get angry with me at all. And that made me feel worse because his wrath would have alleviated some of my guilt.

I put the sweatshirt through the wash again and then stretched it as far as I could without tearing the seams. He can still wear it, but not in public so much. It's a little short and small and sad.

For Christmas, I bought Andrew a BYU hoodie to make up for shrinking his G-Loomis hoodie. And then this morning, I was rotating the wash and found that I had done it again. I put his BYU hoodie in the dryer, too!

You know that feeling that you get when you do something really stupid, and while it's not a huge deal, it becomes the most frustrating thing imaginable when you do it again and again? I hate that feeling.

And now I'm a little afraid again. Not because I think that Andrew will lay into me for being careless, because he's not like that, but I can already see the disappointment on his face when he finds out. I hate being the cause of his disappointment.

I think I'll try to stretch this one, too, and then hang it in the closet and not say a word. Maybe he won't notice that it's become a short-sleeved sweatshirt?