Soccer has started

It's time for fall soccer. The 3 oldest are playing this year. Connor, 8, learned to bounce the ball on his knee. He's enthusiastic and works hard on the field. He drips sweat. His adherence to rules makes him an excellent goalie (he thinks "stand behind this line and don't let the ball hit the net" is a rule). Nobody has EVER scored with him in net.
Skye, 7, puts her hair up, ties her cleats in a double-knot and walks on to the field with authority. She is a natural. All the coaches want her on their team. She enjoys soccer, a lot, but her passion is dance. Still, she is confident and energetic on the field with surprising skill. It's a good sport for her.
Trew is 3, and small for his age. His xxs shin gaurds cover his knees. His cleats are an adorable size 8.5. Aside from the unfortunate patch of hair he trimmed by himself he is the cutest thing EVER walking toward the field.
Note that I said "toward" the field, not "onto" it. At the entrace he melted into a puddle. I picked him up, but he went "limp noodle" on me. I had the baby strapped on my back in a Mei Tai baby carrier (yay for me because I was about to need both arms). I scooped up Trew-Puddle and walked onto the field with him. I introduced him to the coach. He closed his eyes and lay on the ground. I explained that Trew felt he couldn't come out and play soccer because....... he never played before so he doesn't know how. The coach was great. My son was not.
I left him playing dead on the field and went to the bleachers. The other mothers nodded and smiled, one was holding her sobbing soccer star. A girl on the field was shrieking for her mommy- but her mommy hadn't stayed to watch. He'll get up soon, he'll want to kick the ball I figured. But that's not exactly how it went.
He started to army crawl, on his belly, pulling with his elbows. Shuffle shuffle shuffle freeze. Look around carefully, no guards, shuffle shuffle shuffle freeze. All the way off the field. I hugged him and carried him back out there. They were lining up to kick into the net. I lined up. A baby on my back, a boy on my hip, and one in the oven. My- uh his- turn came up. "Kick the ball sweetie" he dropped into a puddle again. I hoist him up. "OK! my turn!" I give a little kick. "now its your turn" I move him marionette-style up to the ball. I put his foot right at the ball. I use my foot to kick his foot into the ball. Oh goodie. This is gonna be FUN don'tcha think? And so it goes, until I score a goal with my puppet.
Back in line. The second time he kicked it. And the 3rd too. But as soon as he scored he hit the dirt and had to be carried away. You know what? Thats not really actually my favorite way to spend a Saturday if you can believe it.
"ok get up Trew. Mommy has to go sit with the other mommies now." he didn't get up. "mommies don't belong on the field" I say.
"well" he says, uncovering one eye "daddies do. Daddies get to be on the field and be helpers" He's right. There are dads on every field. Its cheap soccer and they are ALWAYS understaffed so they run around dragging daddy-assistants onto the field. "so." he says "give me dad then"
Hey there's a REASON it takes 2 to make a baby. Yes indeedy I do believe it IS daddy's turn. I head over to Connor and Skye's field to collect the dad. What in the WORLD? They've got MY husband out on the field helping to coach! He doesn't even know how to PLAY soccer. Great, just great. I find a man and say "hey I need your help" his response isn't in English and thats the only language I speak, so I move on. I find another dad.
"hi! I really need you" (blank stare, mild fear) "yeah sorry, look, see the guy out there with the blue hat? yeah I need him. His son is on the 3yr olds field and won't stand up unless daddy comes to save him. So you have to go take his place for a few minutes" (confusion, more fear)
"umm I can't..." he starts
"oh I know, look they do this every year. They just grab men and drag them out there. My husband doesn't know ANYTHING about soccer. Seriously, I'm surprised his kids aren't playing catch out there. Just go out and tell him 'your 3yr old needs you' and then tell the kids 'kick the ball' a lot. You'll be fine" (his wife is GLARING at me, I have never felt such hatred from a stranger before)
So Sucker-Pop heads out and Chris comes off the field. We get to Trews field and he is MISSING. He army crawled off again. Mother of the sobber is detaining him for us. He's sitting on a parking curb in full pout. Chris stands him up and jogs onto the field with him. Chris had him kicking the ball (although barely) so I left to watch my other kids. Chris lasted 15 minutes. Then he and Trew came to watch the last 10 minutes with me.
"I was his friend, I was his dad, I made it sound exciting, I bribed, I threatened, he's just DONE for today"
Oh well, I'm sure he'll do better on Wednesday. RIGHT?

5 Weird Things

Nicki from Bringing Home Baby tagged me with the challenge to write 5 weird things about me. So, here goes: in no particular order:

1. My dream car. Weird part one is that I have already owned it. Part 2 is that it was broken nearly as often as it ran. Part 3 it was my first car. Part 4 I bought it with my own money that I earned babysitting (no cushy allowances in MY childhood!)when I was 14 (and I bought it in Georgia, while we were visiting my grandpa and my dad had me drive it all the way back to Michigan myself). My husband Chris says only men have dream cars. Only men love their first car (or any car). Hmph. Clearly he never met my car. It was a 1972 SuperBeetle convertible, the last year they made the super beetle. My Bug was beautiful. It wasn't dented or rusted or anything. It was a lovely Periwinkle color. Not everyone adored their box of crayola 64's so the world at large called it "purple" or "light purply-blue" but it was exactly, perfectly, periwinkle.When I was 15-almost-16 and getting ready to be the *legal* driver of my car I added magenta (hot-pink to the crayon haters) polka dots the size of paper plates and magenta rims to the wheels. There was a hole in the floorboard, so I cut the bottom out of a trash can and duct taped the trash can in place over the hole. I added a sticker "thank you for not littering" Yeah. THAT was a CAR! When I am old and no longer driving so many people around I positively ACHE to own a periwinkle bug with magenta dots (oh! You can use poster paints and put little holiday touches on the dots! You can turn them into ornaments at Christmas, eggs at Easter, pink pumpkins for Halloween! cakes on your birthday! ask me how I know).

#2. Peanutbutter sandwiches. Its not the peanutbutter part, its the OTHER slice of bread. Lovingly slathered in Hellman's Mayo. MMMMMMM. But I know this is weird. I know there ARE other pb-&-mayo eaters, but we are a rare breed. The rest of the world doesn't simply "not eat that" they are horrified by the thought. Tell a non-eater about it and they will feel sick for days. I know this. So when I married I gave them up. The non-eaters would never ever kiss someone who ate a pb-&-mayo sandwich. A year and a half into my marriage Chris was rummaging in the kitchen late at night. I was in bed, but barely. Hmmm, a snack, I wonder if it's anything good? I went to investigate. He looked SO guilty when I saw him. "what's that?" I asked. "Uhh peanutbutter?" he said. And then I saw it- pb and WHITE OOZE! No wonder I loved this man! He's an eater too! And we have bred MORE eaters :)

#3. my hair. I started greying in my teens. I covered it with dye in many interesting shades. If you dye your hair plum the greys stay a rosy pink. I'm going natural. 90% of my greys are concentrated in a cluster in the front, on the side on which I part my hair. I look like EVERY Evil Villianess Disney has penned. Just call me Cruella.

#4. The thing with pets. Oh sure LOTS of people have pets. I grew up, and still live, right outside Detroit. Not right outside meaning 20 minutes away, right outside meaning super-easy walking distance some years, literally within a stones-throw other years. Not remotely rural. But we had pets. My parents had a dog. They let us have a goldfish. A 5-cent feeder fish. Our fish NEVER died. They grew and grew until they looked like Koi and then the pet store wouldn't take them "uhh orange carp? no thanks" and we had to free them in the lake. But we liked animals. We rescued baby birds (one KMart- all he said was "cheap cheap"- kept flying back to us). We resued 4 baby squirrels when their mother became roadkill. Then we had pet ducks. Ritz and Keebler (they make good quackers dontcha know), Chitter, and then Dinner (everyone loves a duck Dinner). There were frogs, turtles, hampsters (beware: they eat their young and if they get full they just kill a few and stuff them under the newspaper where they turn green), the usual suspects. After my parents divorced my mom let us get a cat (we had one named Peeve, our own pet peeve he was so cute). But then I was on my own. I had a box turtle, I got him a 90 gallon tank. Then I thought, why not add a friend? Turtles stay on the ground so I added a gecko to the top half of the tank (adorable cartoonish lizards that stick to glass, walls, ceilings, etc). The gecko kept hitching rides on the turtles shell though and making the turtle neurotic. So we got another tank. And started adding more geckoes. And breeding them. It was fun and I was GOOD at it. I have had a hedgehog, toads, tadpoles, skinks, etc too. Currently we have a dog, cat, Dust the bunny, a couple hermit crabs, tadpoles (Sue NaFrog and Ben A. Tadpole), frogs, fish, bearded dragon, and a leopard gecko.

#5. My tattoo. You can't tell by my flashy car, but I was fairly quiet and shy in my youth. I wasn't a stand-out gal at all. So its a little weird that I have a tattoo at all. But I was 19, it was Good Friday, and I spent it at a trailer park tattoo party (of course!). I was persuaded to get a tatt (see blog title). But what to get? I decided on a gecko. MY gecko. I went home and got a picture of my little momma gecko, the one who laid an impossible number of healthy egg clutches. Inside my hip bone, in a space that could be covered even by many bikinis, I got my tatt. I was 90lbs then, so it was cute. Baby #1 added the fat that made it no longer fun to show off the tatt. Baby #2 added a stretch mark through the tail. Baby #3 added a c/section scar right through the head. So now I have a Frankengecko. Sigh.

I'm tagging Squid.

And now, about the blog

You'll notice my blog addy is "she-made-me-do-it" and the title is "succumbing to peer pressure". I like to write. Its fun. I like to pretend I'm a funny girl. But most days what I am is busy, tired, or uninspired. Not really the qualities of a good blogger right? So I never started a blog. Until today. But it's not my fault. It's hers.
So if you like it, thank Nicki. If you hate it, blame Nicki.

More About the Mice

it was suggested I borrow a good mouser. It was suggested I NOT since, well, mousers leave behind: dead mushy wet MICE. And I do not like mice.
Either way, let me clarify: I KNOW the perils of a mouser. Oh, do I know them.
We tend to get 1-2 mice every fall. My cat WAS a mouser. Before he got to be 13 and infinately cranky.
I know all about mice eaten and then coughed up like hairballs at the bathroom doorway. I was very very heavy with child (aren’t I always? It was Trew that time). I got up. To pee. Again. On my way into the bathroom I stepped in cat-yak. Nice. I lifted my foot, there stuck to my sock (oh thank the gods it was winter and I had on socks) was….. a mouse face. Oh yes, face-of-mouse on my foot. Protruding nose and all.
I don’t “do” dead and so from the age of 2 my eldest son (who at the time could not speak and barely fed himself) understood “throw it away” and cleaned up the kitty-deposits. He even flushed his own fish at the tender age of three. I am truly a bad mom no?
There were mice in the closet once... um I think... anyway I HEARD them (and that makes them real RIGHT?) So I heard them, just the tiniest squeaking. But I do not like mice. So I sat bolt upright. Heart racing. Sweating. I was pregnant (thats a shock eh? It was Lochlan that time) What should I do? RUN! But ohhh theres my almost 2 year old beside me in the bed. I shouldn't wake him. But I can't feed him to the mice can I? No no that won't do. Pondering the dilemma I peer over the side of the bed. At this point I am SURE I actually SAW a furball rush past and into the closet. The tiny squeaking stopped. As a nursing mom I concluded that the noise HAD to be a baby and the hairball HAD to be real and the mama mouse. She must have nursed her baby and that's what made it quiet.
Well, there went all my options. I mean I HAD to leave the room now right? Yes well, but not by walking on the FLOOR. No. Because MICE walk there dontcha know. Right so. clearly, thats out of the question. This leaves walking along the nightstand and jumping to safety. Yes, well, you see my nightstand is untouched by the likes of FlyLady. What I mean is, like all other flat surfaces in this house its piled high with books and papers and lego bits and a lost sock and... you get the picture. So I had to scoop up Trew and walk on the 2” of unused nightstand space, while carrying a sleeping baby and then LEAP as far as I could and RUN to the livingroom. Or waddle fast, which is what I tend to do in the latter half of my pregnancies. Then I snatched the cat and tossed him into my bedroom and slammed the door and wedged a towel under it.
Chris thought THAT was a tad extreme too. Really. Are there other ways to deal with a mouse in the house? I think not.
I think I am exponentially Unlucky in micey matters

Of Mice and Men

I hate to confess this. But here it is. Like an estimated 95% of U.S. households, we have pests. Not the kids, we LIKE the kids.
I mean smaller pests. With fur. And a passion for cheese. Or so I’m told- ours prefer the dog and cat food. In fact, ours have developed a favorite pastime… the little daredevils. They scurry up to the cat food, it’s a divided rectangular dish. Our cat drops food in his water which is gross, so we only fill one side and make him share the dogs water. The mice sit in the empty side after they eat their fill and………. Defecate. Any normal cat worth its weight in hairballs would shrivel up and DIE of the humiliation. My old fat cat is supremely unaffected.
Evidence of small furry things not housed in cages gives me the willies. One year we were infested. There was mouse poo in my OVEN, right in my PANS. Can you imagine? I didn’t sleep for days. Turned out that drama and trauma was a HOAX. Oh yeah. My husband and some dropping-shaped thistle for the bird feeder had themselves a gigglefest. Thanks Chris. However, this year the joke’s on him. The mice got wind of his pranks and decided to see what he’d do with a REAL mouse dropping.
It turns out he is about as impressed as the cat. “hmm. Mice.”
I am pregnant. I pee a lot. I have to get out of bed to do this. AT NIGHT. When mice scurry. And it is dark. Every baby sock in my path? A toe biting mouse for sure. So I sleep with a flashlight. Still creeped out. Every sound? Baby-gnawing rodent teeth on their way to chew on my offspring.
After much whining Chris launched his great mouse-evicting plan: put away the pet food at night.
The result? A gnawed oatmeal box. Nice. Now they’re after MY food. I suggested leaving the cat food out. Its cheap and that freeloading hairball factory DESERVES the insult. He calls himself a CAT. Sheesh.
But no. Chris has another idea. We heard a sound one night. It woke Chris up (he was on the couch). The dog and cat were unperturbed. He ran to look and SAW the mouse run to its hole. So we have the hole. Common sense tells me to seal the hole and call it a day.
My husband and I have different brands of “common sense”. HIS common sense said “go spend $20 on traps and bait but DO NOT buy any sealant”. So that’s what he did. He baited them under the house. He laid traps in the laundry room/pet food room/pantry/ multi-purpose space where the mice merrily play.
We caught mouse number one in less than hour. During the DAY. Oh the screaming horror of this life. Mice that crap in cat bowls by day are one scary menace if you ask me! Chris says I am a bit dramatic and perhaps my pregnant hormones are getting the better of me. The heartless oaf.
Mouse number 2 came a few short hours later. Chris said “they come in 3’s. We’ll have the last one by morning” I have no clue from whence this wisdom comes, but it’s not in any google search *I’ve* ever conducted.
It was another 36 hours before we caught “the last one” and it was AFTER we caught that one that the ramen noodles became scurry-snacks.
“seal the hole, Chris, PLEASE” I begged. “oh NO I can’t do that, I’m still trapping them” he says. His primal urge to hunt reduced to baiting traps. His childish glee at their gory demise. "Oh PLEASE seal the hole. Seal them out and trap/bait to your hearts content under the house. But keep these beasts OUT of my home!"
But no. That’s not a satisfactory answer in his world. He must trap them until the trap stops springing. THEN he can seal the hole.
So I suggested a semicircle of traps around the entrance. The only way in to my house is over the traps. Its perfect. He scoffs “oh PLEASE! They’re not STUPID! They won’t come IN then!”
Well, yes.. isn’t that the point? To evict them? To give them a choice? Stay out or die? Aren’t we trying to FREE ourselves from their tyranny? Apparently not. Apparently that’s MY silly goal. The real plan is to lure them IN where can Chris can slaughter them. Lovely.
*I* can’t seal the hole, 2 feet away from it is a corpse. My brave son checks the trap for me, because if its occupied mama can’t do the laundry. Today I can’t do the laundry. Chris says this is utterly ridiculous.
I think I’m moving out.