Last Thread of SoccerMomDom

there she goes

Last week Alex the Eldest took off for Denver to begin her life. Degree in hand, she'll be working at a swanky restaurant and freelancing her way into a journalism career. These are exciting times for her as Doug and I navigate our new parental role. Doug seemed to understand his responsibilities immediately. First things first: Get her off our car insurance. I felt a bit more unclear of my role. Could I still advise her how to dress? (As if she'd listen.) Should we be there to help her assemble her new IKEA furniture? Do we send all of her belongings to the new address? Or should we leave those few remnants of her youth to allow us some tearful nostalgic binges? These are important questions.

This week Cole the Youngest turned 18. In theory, he's an adult. In theory. He continues to live his life according to principles posited from the Marvel Universe. (Not the worst thing... "with great power comes great responsibility...") The only thing that really concerns me about Cole's age is the draft requirement. And getting into college. And sports injuries. And his focus on girls. Okay, so there are a few things that make me as nervous as a cup of coffee. Luckily for Cole, Alex is 600 miles away, so I can really help him through just about any matter in his life that I think he needs help with. Also, luckily for

Making a cupcake/college decision.
I don't dare show the actual video.

Cole, his father won't always let me do that. Damn, my hubby's too wise at times.

Doug and I had our 25th wedding anniversary this week. We didn't have to worry about the kids throwing us a silver-themed party. They hardly remembered to text! That's okay. I clearly remember the self-absorption of a young adult. Trying to understand your place in the world. Blending your skill with your passions. Narrowing down your passions! And of course, getting paid.

Cole's just really getting his feet wet in this way. He has a year to figure out where he wants to go to college and what he wants to major in. My purpose is clear here.  (Get into U of Iowa and become a doctor! Duh!) But what about my 22-year-old? I'm actually beginning to realize Alex still needs me. I've fielded a few amusing calls. She's a smart girl, but the W4 has her befuddled. And she's already lost her debit card once. And what pharmacy can she use? And her box spring will definitely not fit in the new place. I love it. Sure, the issues seem kind of trivial. But every time I see Alex's name pop up on my phone, I feel a wave of happiness. My time as a soccer mom might be fading, but my time as just a good ole' mom, always here, is as vivid as ever.

Running with Color

Last winter Alex and I decided we would run a 5k together after she graduated college. It was something to keep us motivated to work out. Admittedly, it was a psychological goal for me. When I turned 40, I began to talk myself down from exercising so much. "I'm getting too old to run! It's probably too hard on my joints!" Now, that I've just recently turned 50, I think differently. "I'm not too old to run! I better keep running while I still can!" So, it was on.

I registered us for the Omaha Color Run to be held the last weekend in July. The timing seemed perfect. Alex would need to be moved out of her apartment by then and was hopefully home for a few weeks before she began her real life with a job and all. And as it turned out, everything was unfolding just as planned.

Ready?

I was off work this last weekend in July. We moved Al home on Wednesday. It gave us a few days to do a little training together before our big weekend! I was excited. While I've been running (on and off) for nearly my entire adult life, I've never run in a race before. It's not something I had the confidence to do. My running friends are probably giggling at this, thinking "how cute... a 5k is hardly a race." And my family is probably thinking "when has she ever lacked confidence?" Well, I have my insecurities just like the rest of us. Especially when it comes to anything halfway athletic. Luckily, running takes very little hand-eye coordination. I've only wiped out a few times in my life.

Back to my Color Run story.

We were all set to go. The night before the run, our family went out to eat with my parents.  It was the perfect way to spend the night before a race: eating carbs and getting home early with mealtime beginning promptly at 6:30 PM.

When we got home, I glanced at the dining room table with a smile. Our gear was laid out: t-shirts, headbands, runner badges, tattoos... We'd need to arise early to get to DT Omaha before the 8:00 AM starting time. But I didn't care! I was ready to run!

Then I get a text from my friend Amy asking what we were doing tonight. I told her we had decided to turn in early because of the race. She asked where we were running since the Omaha Color Run had been that morning.

Wha????

Here's the thing about being on vacation: calendar days don't really mean much. When I received an email about the Color Run festivities beginning on Friday night (without paying attention to the actual date), I thought, "Wow! Some people make this an event for the whole weekend!"

I re-read Amy's text. She screenshot the information.

We had missed it.

My heart sank to my calloused feet. I was so bummed. My family laughed. I detected a hint of relief from Alex who wasn't thrilled to arise at the break of dawn. But I couldn't laugh. I didn't even care that I had wasted our registration fee. I just wanted to run in it.

So, we watched a dumb movie, and I tried not to pout – coaching myself that it really wasn't a big deal at all. I knew that it wasn't. But I was still kind of sad.

This morning I woke up at 7:30. The day I thought Alex and I would be getting sprayed by paint and laughing it up. I put the vision out of my head. Then I told my husband I was going to run a 5k. Today. Of course, he thought I was nuts, but he supported me anyway.

I put on my Color Run t-shirt. I applied my happy tattoos. (HAPP, actually. My Y didn't stick.) I pulled back my short hair with the cute tie-dyed headband. Doug dropped me off on the flattest highway around. And off I went.

Ready!

There was no party nor paint. The only music blaring was my playlist of 10,000 Maniacs and One Republic. It was actually... nice.

• Clouds created a shroud over the sun to prevent me from having heat stroke.
• I saw my first goldfinch of the summer.
• The leaves on the trees breezed about, as if to wave me on.
• I was hardly attacked by red-winged black birds.
• I saw my favorite purple wildflower. The color is so brilliant and neon-ish, it looks like a cartoon sketch.
• Two geese glided around the sky without shitting on me, and their companionship reminded me how lucky I am to have my spouse.
• I met the eyes of a beautiful, young deer who crossed my path, encouraging me to keep up my pace.

Finally, I approached our town with its grand steeple. I received that all important notification from my watch: 3 miles. I ran a little farther. Then I looked again: 3.12 miles. Just a fuzz past a 5k.
                                       I had crossed the finish line! 

Right on cue, my hubby pulled on to the corner of the Highway 191 in my support vehicle – with a water for me in tow. (Isn't he the best?) We rode back on the mule with the wind drying off my sweat as I showed Doug the awful pics I took on my jog. He asked if I was still disappointed about missing the event. I really wasn't. Adrenaline erases negativity. And I'm certain my scenery was more beautiful than DT Omaha. 

As it turned out, it was the best color run I ever missed.

Now that's color.

Look closely. A deer. A steeple.

For Pet's Sake: A Story of Percy and Quinn

This weekend we took off for the Iowa Games to catch our boy play just a little more soccer. No, we really don't get tired of it. You might hear my husband sigh and complain about going, but don't believe it for one second. That's all pretend. We both love it. Watching talented youth with all of their energy is uplifting as heck. And, there's beer to be had after those games.

Whenever we leave for a short weekend away, we need to decide what to do with our pets. I'm usually all for boarding. Doug, the true-blue farm kid, doesn't believe in this philosophy. He's of the camp that animals can stay at home and be checked by the neighbor. I usually fret over this decision. On one hand, the animals like staying at home. On the other hand, what if a storm comes up? On one hand, there's less hair in the car when we don't transport them. On the other hand, Quinn might get eaten by a coyote. It usually comes down to whether there's rain in the forecast and how long we decide to stay away. Since we were only going to be gone one night and the weather appeared amenable, we decided to let them stay home and sleep under the stars... on their honor. We made implicit instructions: no parties while we're gone. Grandpa Ron will be checking on you!

Well. As usual, we left in a flurry – running in and out of the house seventeen times to ensure we had everything. Sunscreen. Allergy pills. Beer. Water. Snacks. Beer. And, oh yes, soccer gear. Finally, we were off to Ames. I always have this bit of anxiety when we leave for trips. I'm certain we've forgotten something. And that something is so unique that it could never, ever be purchased at a Target store. #irrational #neurotic_mom

Waiting for an ear-scratching.

By the time evening came, we had our first pet report:

Percy is good. Can't find cat. 

A good report! Our cat only appears when its hungry or needs its belly scratched. It's the dog I mostly worry about. On top of his over-domestication (guilty!), you see, our dog was just recently diagnosed with diabetes. It seemed overnight, our chubby terrier gained new nicknames: Slimdawg and Skeletor. The poor thing receives insulin shots twice a day and can no longer partake in ice cream. Thus, the worry over our dog rivals the worry over our kids. Just kidding. Sort of.

The next day as we were getting ready for the games, we received a call from Grandpa Ron. No Percy. No Quinn. He called out to them and looked everywhere. We told him not to worry. He was probably under the deck. His hearing was failing too, after all. But after I hung up with my father, I had a pit in my stomach. Maybe his time had come. And I hadn't really said a proper good-bye to him... all those stupid trips in and out of the house!

But we had some games to watch. I said a prayer that our animals were not suffering and flipped to soccer mom mode. But it wasn't far from my mind.When the weather switched and the clouds grew dark during the last game, I began to internally berate myself. Even if our pets were safe and sound, now they'd be caught in a storm. I should've boarded them.

The last game was finally called due to lightning. Our boys got second place. (They should've gotten first, but that's a story for another time.) I was ready to get on the road. We took off in the rain. I buried my head in a book and tried to push back the dread that perhaps we had lost our beloved little barker.

Two and a half hours later, we pulled into our driveway. The rain had stopped by then. But there was no one to greet us. My heart was sinking just as Cole said, "There he is!"

Our little Percy came prancing out, bright-eyed and muddy as hell. Hallelujah! The pang zipped out of my heart. I hopped out of the truck to hug the rain-soaked dog, not caring about the stink he was gifting my hands. I glanced around for the cat whose usual ploy was to lurk on the ledge. But there was no Quinn. I began a futile call for the cat who doesn't like to be commanded to come. And then the most amazing thing happened. Doug opened the door to the house. And the cat rushed outside. Quinn had decided to stay at the Hotel Kramer for the night. I had to laugh. I couldn't even be upset. Our cat and dog were alive! That's all that mattered... for the next couple of minutes, at least. Then I realized something. The cat most certainly had a party in our house. We'd have mess. Kitty mess.

Messes. Schmesses. My joy over our pets made up for any poop or pee left to clean. Besides, we have Cole for that duty. Good boy, Cole.

It's always naptime for these ole dogs.

50 Awesome Things About Turning 50

If you would've asked me at the age of 20 how I pictured myself at age 50, I probably would've said, "Who cares? I'll be old by then."

So, I didn't really make a list of 50 awesome things. I'm sorry. I tried, but then realized most of my ideas centered around the ability to afford things. It seemed a little shallow – as shallow as a 20-year-old! So, I shifted my thoughts and decided to make a list of blessings. But that just seemed like boasting about how perfect and great and talented and smart and beautiful our kids are. No one wants to hear that. So, I decided to nix the list and jot a few observations over this past weekend as I pondered this milestone that I share with Woodstock and Man on the Moon and The Gap.

Observations:

Look at that train.

• The shock of turning 50 can be softened by preparing for it early – like the day you turn 46. I distinctly remember saying "I'm almost 50" back then. It seemed to lessen the blow of actually turning fifty, until, of course, the smart ass in the room points out that I'm now half a century.
• At this age, nothing can be too boring. Boring is actually preferred. Doug and I visited Kenefick Park this weekend. It's a park which features two old Union Pacific locomotives. Yes, we did this upon our own volition. For years, I've been wanting Doug to throw me a surprise party. Somewhere along the line, this wish dissolved. I'd take our visit to the museum any day over a drinking binge. Almost any day.
• No matter their age, our kids have the ability to lift my heart with just the tiniest of efforts. Like a passing comment:"At least you're not turning sixty, Mom. That would really suck." Or, a text that says your long lost daughter can meet you for lunch after all. Or a heartfelt embrace between the kids showing their love for each other. They do like each other! (Those moments really made my heart sing.)
• My mother makes the best potato salad ever. We invited my parents over for steaks this weekend. I knew they'd bring me my birthday gift, but I was most excited about her potato salad. It's that good. It's a little sour, a little sweet and has the perfect texture – not one bit mushy nor overly mustardy like most potato salads I endure. Every mother has that specialty item – the thing they make better than anyone else and their kids will never forget it. Every mother, that is, except for me. I asked my kids what I make that they absolutely love. Nothing came to mind. This, I realize, is something I should work on.
• I will never, ever, ever grow tired of The Cheesecake Factory. Doug and I ate fantastic Indian food this weekend. (He hardly broke out into a sweat after eating a chili pepper!) But with the delicious naan and dashing company (Doug), it wasn't the same as sitting down at a Cheesecake Factory and breaking bread together as a family– as we have many times and happily repeated the ritual on my birthday. By the time we order cheesecake, it isn't so much about wanting dessert. It's about extending our time together as we catch up on each others' lives. Okay, that's not entirely true. It's very much about wanting dessert. And catching up on each others' lives.

My younger self might be surprised to learn that I still have goals and dreams at the ripe, old age of fifty. They're just different than those of the 20-year-old. Instead of dreaming about having a big house, a fancy convertible, and taking posh vacations, I dream about helping my family, writing inspiring books, and taking posh vacations. And by posh, I'm talking really fancy railroad museums. 

My husband worked especially hard to spoil me to the point of guilt this weekend. He watched the RBG documentary and talked feminism with me. He took me any place I wanted including a "SheRocks" concert which reminded me of my long ago dream of becoming a rock star. (Now, that's an actual recurring nightmare I have.) He bought me that gas fire pit I've been wanting. (Thank goodness, because Cole has plans for this.) Best of all, he drove me to Des Moines so our family could spend the day together – and eat Cheesecake Factory. But after receiving so much attention from my husband, my parents, the kids, my coworkers and friends, I've realized something. I'd much rather give attention than receive it. I never would've believed that as a 20-year-old. Perhaps that sentiment is the truest gift age can bring.

Pure love.

A Salute to Crazy Soccer Parents

So, I cleaned out the back of my Traverse last week. I put away four coats, two sweatshirts, one pair of mittens, two sets of gloves, two stocking caps and two baseball caps. The high school soccer season has come to an end. Not only will groceries fit in my car, but we'll "have our lives back" as parents like to say, but don't really mean.

What parent would deny the joy of "game night"? Knowing we'll likely be dining on extra salty popcorn and pizza and Tootsie pops. Knowing our kids will be competing their hearts out while insane parents coach from the bleachers. Knowing we'll endure the brutalist of cold not to miss one second of the game in case that almighty goal is scored.

There are basically two types of soccer parents. There's the certified crazy. These people have been told their kids have talent – usually when the kid was six-years-old and consistently score nine goals against a goalie who was smart enough to step aside when the herd approached. But no matter the age, the word talent almost immediately translates to likeliness of college scholarships and thoughts of playing in the MLS. These parents:

1. will ask their child if they have practiced enough if they don't score a hat trick. 
2. will grunt about a missed passed.
3. will tear the referees a new one if their kid falls on the ground, as soccer players often do.
4. will try really hard not to talk about their own kid. Too much.
5. will never, ever really understand offsides.

Most of us fall within this category. (I'm sure there a a few parents ranting, "I understand offsides!" My apologies.) But there is a small sub-set of soccer parents are are just plain cool. They never seem to get angry or upset. They offer only positive encouragement to every player on the team that no one can hear because of their mild demeanor. These are typically the grandparents. 

All kidding aside, there are two things all parents have in common: the love for our kids and a need for connection. We want our kids to perform well, because it will obviously make them happy. But as Doug often says, what Cole will remember most about soccer are the bus trips or the chatter in the huddles or the movie nights with his team. It's a similar notion for the parents. It won't be that one goal or interception. It will be the sharing of the salty popcorn. It will be the cool pics Denise took. It will be the stories of our boys' unbearably, aromatic cleats and lost jerseys. It will be the hugs we shared after a PK shootout.

We all seek camaraderie. I'll miss it. Not as much as I'll miss my son when he graduates next year, but I'll miss every single parent. Crazy or not.

In my Traverse, there still are four blankets, two stadium chairs and two soccer chairs. Summer league has started. Cole has mentioned more than a few times, we don't have to attend. We know we don't have to. But we kinda want to. We crazies need to connect.

Slides, Bikes and Elephants

Alex graduated from the University of Iowa two weeks ago. It was a joyous, tear-filled event that poured buckets of pride over me and her father. Not only did she graduate from my favorite college in the whole wide world, and majored in a demanding field which I hold close to my heart, but she graduated holding a compass: a compass facing her true north. Today, she's in India. Well, maybe the compass was facing east.

The first time she mentioned this trip, my heart dropped out of my chest. Aren't you a journalist now, Alex? Don't you know that women get raped and murdered there? That was my knee-jerk maternal reaction. Anytime our kids tell us they're going to do something, anything, with an inkling of risk, my optimistic brain turns very dark. Obviously.

Alex was always a cautious little girl.

Once when my sisters-in-law and I took our kids to the park, I had to coax her to have fun. My nephew had gone down the slide at least ten times. Alex sat at the top, contemplating whether it was really safe to go down. I stood at the bottom, trying to convince her she'd be okay. I promised I would catch her. She'd watched Mitch go down with no notable injuries. She was still skeptical. Eventually, she scooted her way down – not the most fun way to enjoy a slide, but she did it. Then she did it again, with a little less scooting and a little more sliding.

Teaching Alex to ride a bike a few years later had a similar theme. I can't remember exactly how old she was, but everyone else her age had mastered it. Finally, Doug took over. I simply couldn't convince her that she'd be okay – even if she did fall. It was one of those times our kids needed someone who was a little less patient and a little more militant. Even with Doug in command, Alex was still tentative. "Dad, you promise you won't let go?" I think Doug was sneaky in his response. He said something like, "I won't let you get hurt." Reluctantly, she let him push her off. And, of course, he let go. For the next few seconds she had no idea he wasn't holding on to her. When she checked behind to see if he was still there, she wrecked. And despite not having one scratch from the fall, she was furious. "You let go!" While she wouldn't admit it (not even to this day), we suspected a bit of pride in the accomplishment.

Now, she's off to India to help a journalist friend with a story. I have no doubt her curious nature will always lead her to some interesting adventures. And while my heartburn has set in while she's across the world, I have no regrets of convincing our cautious little daughter to take some risks. I'm quite proud of it, actually. She's come a long way from slides and bicycles. Now, she searching for an elephant. Literally. She literally wants to ride an elephant.

I hope she does.

Ghosts of Easter Past

It's Easter Sunday. It's that day when Jesus rises again to remind us that winter is over and the living win.

So, why do I feel so beaten? Let me dissect the weekend.

Good Friday
The day began with a college visit. It's an exciting time for our son who is exploring his options. When a friend asked if we wanted to go, we couldn't say no. The particular college happens to be on Cole's short list. In theory, it was a good day. We were with good friends touring a pretty campus with knowledgeable and enthusiastic tour guides. The only problem? Cole really liked it. He really liked Iowa State University. The interstate rival of my alma mater. Don't get me wrong. I'm very happy he's beginning to narrow his choices. Very happy. But I won't deny the inner turmoil I feel when I imagine him wearing red and gold.

Holy Saturday
Saturday was lovely and warm. I spent the day with the boys prepping for guests since it was my turn to host for the holiday. By all accounts, it was a nice evening with good laughs, good stories, and good food. I hardly had time to think of Cole's impending college choice.

Throwback Easter. 10 years ago.

But there was something else niggling at me.

The absence of our eldest.

Easter Sunday
It's the first Easter in 22 years that we haven't been seen Alex. No longer are the days of hiding eggs and bribing the kids to wear the cute outfits I bought for them. As a matter of fact, I hardly flinched when Cole came upstairs this morning wearing a maroon winter sweater and shorts for church. There was no reason for us to fight over clothing this year.

Messy bun. My go-to hairstyle for Al.

As always, church was good. But afterwards, the boys kept asking me what was wrong. I was uncharacteristically quiet. I said I was tired. Had a headache. Had an ear ache. I wasn't lying. But I wasn't completely telling the truth either. I was being a baby. I wanted our entire family to be together. And I wanted the kids to be little again.

In other words, I was glum for no good reason. How could I be glum when my son is actually thinking about his future and my daughter couldn't make it home because she needed to cover shifts and focus on the last of her college projects? This is why you raise kids, right?

So dapper in a springlike tie.

The boys and I ended up trekking to The Cheesecake Factory and Barnes and Nobles. Doug and Cole have a way of making me laugh even when I don't want to. (Farts, mainly.) We also ended up taking a detour and saw flood damaged areas which punched me in the gut and made me realize I TRULY have nothing to be glum about. Once we got home, we checked cows and saw four adorable calves nuzzling each other. Then we watched HGTV and dreamt about future vacation homes that hopefully would involve a truckload of grandkids.

As I was writing this post I received a call from... wait for it... Alex Kramer! My glum was dissolving anyway, but hearing her enthusiastic voice that's really too busy to chat filled the little hole that had been needling my heart.

Hallelujah! I say now. Winter is over. Flowers are poking through the ground. The kids are dipping their toes into fresh waters. What better day than Easter to encourage these kids to live their lives with hope and love? As Matthew says in his gospel:

"Let your life shine before others." - Matthew 5:16.

Alex and Cole: Let your life shine. Don't let your mother hold you back.