Football Season

I wrote this three years ago when John first played football in 4th grade.  He is already done with the sport, at least for this season, and maybe forever, time will tell.  But these memories are still fresh in my mind as if happened just yesterday, and some still remain with Jake this year as he races into his second year of tackle football.

The squirrels in our neighborhood are on some kind of crazy rant.  They’ve buried nuts in my flower pots, they’re walking around on the sidewalk and porch like they own the place, and they run top speed toward the wheels of the cars passing on the streets until they see panicked drivers slam on their brakes –then once the danger is passed, they run laughing back the other way as if to spite us.  Perhaps there is just something in the fall air that instinctively makes them act this way.  Or, maybe like me they’re relieved to feel a crisp bite to the air and they just don’t care.

            Fall causes me to scamper around like a crazed squirrel too, cramming kids, sports equipment, chairs, blankets, sweatshirts, homework along with the cell phone and lap top into the van for the daily run.  There’s no longer room for groceries since we travel equipped for any weather condition, any sports site, or any delay in the action when we can multi task.   

            This year much of our mad dash also involves wearing a helmet and padding.  We’re experiencing the trials, tribulations and triumphs of 4^th grade football for the first time. 

            That means equipment, lots of equipment.  It’s all necessary I understand, for safety purposes.   But at our house, it’s mostly there to provide an annoyance because,   inevitably, some of it is going to be lost. 

            The prospect of wearing the time honored football uniform comes with much anticipation and excitement.  Actually wearing it comes with challenges no one could have imagined.   On the night the uniform first parades into the house, the problems start at the top with the all important head gear.  As I peer in through the face mask opening into my baby’s eyes, I can see padding mashing down his forehead and pressing his cheeks inward toward his lips.  His eye brows are noticeably pushed downward.  It looks very safe.  So safe in fact, we fear he may have to sleep in it since it won’t budge to slide off his head without taking his ears with it.  The equipment experts have informed John, that the helmet must fit snugly to provide the proper safety.  Also, he’s told, when he’s sweating it will be easier to take off.  But on this night, the only one sweating is his mother as I pull outward with all my might trying to pry each side of the shiny black shell off of his precious skull without bloodshed.

            When at last we have success, we hold a tearful family meeting about how to advance the helmet wearing process without ruining the entire season.

            Figuring out how to wear shoulder pads poses little trouble so our confidence is bolstered until we get to the bag of white pads that are apparently suppose to fit into the pants…somewhere…somehow.  

            Since a few with snaps seem to match up with snaps on the pants, that gave us a place to start.  But placing the rest of the rubbery safety equipment into their proper location was a little like putting a spatula into a pair of panty hose. 

            Finally we achieved our goal and my son stood before me, completely padded from head to toe in order to play a game in which the purpose of the padding had escaped me until this moment.  People will be hitting this sweet boy that I’ve raised, so hard he needs to wear armor and he’s expected to do the same back.  Naturally I cried.

            Several weeks into his season, the helmet poses no more problems.  It’s true; it slides off a sweaty head more easily.  The pads and uniform are only a challenge for me as I continue to ask who thought white practice pants was a good idea.  And we’ve had the chance to witness our first real game and watch a real swagger on the heels of our padded up 4^th grader as he runs around the field a changed man; a football player.  

Pinball Wizzard

I am trapped in a pinball machine and I can’t seem to escape.  I’m hoping that the return of the school day has arrived to rescue me and that the routine of life built around the strict schedule of school can suck me out of the endless ping-ponging from thing to thing that has become my life this summer.

It goes a little like this, pull back the spring-loaded handle and launch me into another summer day.

I walk into the kitchen to add butter to my grocery list. But before I can get it written down, I notice the milk has once again been left out on the counter.

Then I see the dirty dishes stacked at a dangerously helter skelter angle and rush to avert disaster.

The phone rings to say I can reschedule the dog’s grooming appointment so I go to write that on the calendar, but am distracted by yesterday’s laundry folded and in my way.

I shout out that we’re going to be putting away laundry now, and recruit the boys to help but have to kick shoes out of my way to get through the doorway and have to break up a wrestling match as I head upstairs. 

Laundry basket in hand, in my own room, I see there is plenty more to be put away there.

That’s when I see the book I’ve been reading on my bedside table and bring it downstairs, fully intending to carve out an hour to myself to dive into a chapter or two. 

Coming down the stairs I notice the bills waiting by the computer to be paid, but after I log on I see an email with the required forms I need to fill out for one of the boy’s sports teams.

Unfortunately, there’s no time to fill them out now because I need to run someone somewhere again and as long as I’m out I plan to stop by the bank, and grocery store too.

Construction closed the road in front of the bank so I have to find an alternate route, and I have to make two trips to the car at the grocery store because I forgot my cloth reusable bags.

Then I notice we also need gas.

Finally I head home, humming and mentally catching up on all I’ve accomplished.  But before I can even pat myself on the back I see a “tumble weed” of hair dancing along the kitchen floor because the dog is literally shooting out hair in clumps.  I make a second trip to the calendar to actually write down the grooming change.

I quick grab the vacuum only to discover that every light in the house has been left on.

Both kids have practice so no family dinner tonight.  Instead everyone grabs something for himself, and we jump back into the car.

We finally catch up while we see the Brewers win before we all fall into bed exhausted.  I remember I forgot to read.

This morning driving to an early appointment John calls minutes after I’ve left home.

“Mom, I can’t find the butter.”

I rub my forehead.

“I forgot to write it on the grocery list,” I explain to him. “We are out of butter.”

“I already made toast!” he says.  “How can we be out of butter?”

I can honestly answer, “I don’t know.”

I say this realizing that was one of the main reasons I went to the grocery store, and should have been the top thing on my list.

All I can do is shake my head and drive…or roll really, as I am catapulted between the knobby pegs and sucked into the pitfalls of life inside a pinball machine where you travel a lot of miles but never really get anywhere. 

But I do have butter on my list.