I just got an email from my b-i-l Brett about the brilliant soccer play of his daughter Lucy. It's such a great story, it deserves wider readership. Here it is, totally without permission:
"She scored a great goal the other day. The goalie caught one of her shots and then proceeded to put the ball on the corner of the box to kick it. Everyone backed off and waited. For those who know soccer, you know that when the goalie catches an in-bounds shot, he can throw it, kick it, roll it, whatever, but he doesn't set it up for a kick unless it goes out of bounds. As the goalie backed up to kick the ball, Lucy (the only player on the field that even moved) ran in and just killed a shot into the bottom corner of the net. There was complete silence. The ref retrieved the ball and said to Lucy in a mad voice, "what the heck do you think you're doing?"
Lucy glanced at me, her confidence wavering. Then it hit me. That was a goal! She had just made one of the most heads up plays I've ever seen in a soccer game. Then it hit her coach, who yelled at the ref. "hey! thats a goal!" The ref thought for a moment, and blew his whistle. "Goal!" he yelled. Then he apologized to Lucy and they won the game."
Tuesday, March 28, 2006
Wednesday, March 22, 2006
With Tim, Anything is Possible
This week we had an extremely rare Monday night FHE. For whatever reason, the kids had decided that they NEEDED to go to the dollar store to blow some fresh earnings on pathetically cheap plastic junk. I hate the dollar store. It’s the ultimate Wal-Mart—buying purely for the pathological joy of buying—of seeing, coveting, and owning a thing. Everyone who shops there, even my kids, knows that the thing they are buying is just a 3-D image etched in plastic. They might as well buy a picture of a gun as the thing they do buy at the dollar store. They always cry, though. They know it won’t work, they know it will break, but they still cry when it does. Watching a kid waste his money is not pleasant, but watching him waste it at the dollar store is something else. The dollar store is the ugly underbelly of our consumption mad society.
So it seemed a bit ironic to ME that Tom decided to dissuade the kids from wasting their money by teaching them an FHE lesson about…Warren Buffett. Tom owned a candy store when he was little. He made a killing off the neighborhood kids. Those of you who have discussed politics recently with him probably have the mistaken belief that he’s a left coast socialist. No way. He’s a die-hard capitalist, and like any good capitalist, after the lesson he carted off his eager-to-spend offspring and let them buy junk food for resale—at school.
When I found out about this plan, I tried hard to stop it. I pointed out that the Bellingham School District has just adopted a draconian nutrition policy which makes it a felony to be in possession of a Twinkie on school grounds. I pointed out that even if Tom is an unreconstructed capitalist, the schools are hotbeds of socialism, and any type of activity for profit (except, of course, the book fair) is strictly forbidden. I warned the kids that they would get sent to the principal’s office and threatened Tom that he would have to take the disciplinary calls. They all looked at me with amusement and told me not to be so paranoid.
Tim took his lollipops in his lunch box. He planned to sell them for 50 cents a pop. As he later told me, lots of kids (!) were interested, but none had thought to bring cash to school. Finally, he found a taker who actually had a quarter on him. They were just doing the deal when the lunchroom duty swept down and carted Tim off to…the Principal’s office. Tim was sanguine, though. “Well, I just thought I’d try it, and then if I couldn’t do it, the Principal would tell me, and I would stop. Mom, can I take some lollipops to Cub Scouts?”
I have to share some other Tim events:
Last week, while praying, he uttered the phrase, “Bless me to believe in my religion…(inaudible mumble)…” After he finished I asked him what “Mumble, mumble, mumble” was. He looked at me regretfully and said, “Because sometimes I doubt it.” I gave him a hug and asked him to tell me what things he wondered about. “Well, Mom,” he said, “Sometimes I think, what happens if there isn’t anything after we die? Maybe that’s just IT. Or maybe we keep coming back again and again as other people.” We went on to have an interesting conversation, but I thought, THAT’S the problem with Primary!!! They’re playing matching games while Tim is wondering about reincarnation!
My other recent favorite: Nigel had a friend, Amanda, over on Saturday and they found a old box of accordion fold computer paper someone had given me. While I was out of the room (five minutes, I swear, five minutes!) Amanda pulled the ENTIRE box of paper out and created a huge pile in the game room. Nigel, my obsessive-compulsive child, was standing by the door wringing his hands when I came back. In great distress he started crying, “I’m sorry, Mommy! I’m sorry, Mommy. We made a big mess! I’m sorry, Mommy.” I asked the boys to help me clean it up. Tim looked at the mess, looked at me, and then said, “Mom, this mess is almost bigger than my love for you.”
So it seemed a bit ironic to ME that Tom decided to dissuade the kids from wasting their money by teaching them an FHE lesson about…Warren Buffett. Tom owned a candy store when he was little. He made a killing off the neighborhood kids. Those of you who have discussed politics recently with him probably have the mistaken belief that he’s a left coast socialist. No way. He’s a die-hard capitalist, and like any good capitalist, after the lesson he carted off his eager-to-spend offspring and let them buy junk food for resale—at school.
When I found out about this plan, I tried hard to stop it. I pointed out that the Bellingham School District has just adopted a draconian nutrition policy which makes it a felony to be in possession of a Twinkie on school grounds. I pointed out that even if Tom is an unreconstructed capitalist, the schools are hotbeds of socialism, and any type of activity for profit (except, of course, the book fair) is strictly forbidden. I warned the kids that they would get sent to the principal’s office and threatened Tom that he would have to take the disciplinary calls. They all looked at me with amusement and told me not to be so paranoid.
Tim took his lollipops in his lunch box. He planned to sell them for 50 cents a pop. As he later told me, lots of kids (!) were interested, but none had thought to bring cash to school. Finally, he found a taker who actually had a quarter on him. They were just doing the deal when the lunchroom duty swept down and carted Tim off to…the Principal’s office. Tim was sanguine, though. “Well, I just thought I’d try it, and then if I couldn’t do it, the Principal would tell me, and I would stop. Mom, can I take some lollipops to Cub Scouts?”
I have to share some other Tim events:
Last week, while praying, he uttered the phrase, “Bless me to believe in my religion…(inaudible mumble)…” After he finished I asked him what “Mumble, mumble, mumble” was. He looked at me regretfully and said, “Because sometimes I doubt it.” I gave him a hug and asked him to tell me what things he wondered about. “Well, Mom,” he said, “Sometimes I think, what happens if there isn’t anything after we die? Maybe that’s just IT. Or maybe we keep coming back again and again as other people.” We went on to have an interesting conversation, but I thought, THAT’S the problem with Primary!!! They’re playing matching games while Tim is wondering about reincarnation!
My other recent favorite: Nigel had a friend, Amanda, over on Saturday and they found a old box of accordion fold computer paper someone had given me. While I was out of the room (five minutes, I swear, five minutes!) Amanda pulled the ENTIRE box of paper out and created a huge pile in the game room. Nigel, my obsessive-compulsive child, was standing by the door wringing his hands when I came back. In great distress he started crying, “I’m sorry, Mommy! I’m sorry, Mommy. We made a big mess! I’m sorry, Mommy.” I asked the boys to help me clean it up. Tim looked at the mess, looked at me, and then said, “Mom, this mess is almost bigger than my love for you.”
Wednesday, March 15, 2006
A Friend in Need
Tonight I got the worst possible request for service a Bishopric can deliver. They ask you for this when they’re pretty sure you’ll say yes to anything. I won’t dignify it by saying it’s a calling. I definitely won’t be set apart, and even the Bishopric will probably be avoiding me for a few weeks. It isn’t a calling, and I’m pretty sure that I wasn’t summoned in by inspiration.
No, it was desperation, and go ahead and put on your smugly pitying looks, all you who can at least pray for comfort in your time of trial. I’m the Friends of Scouting Campaign Coordinator. No, I’m not kidding. It’s like someone taped a “Kick Me” sign to my back last week in church. The (VERY!) tactful bishopric member involved later said to Tom, “I think Julia might have grimaced a bit.” Actually, my entire face scrunched up into a mute scream of agony while Tom tactfully nudged my ankle with his toe in his classic “Bear up and do not say idiotic things” manner.
SIDEBAR. I hate it when he does this. It is usually a real effort to prevent myself from turning to him and yelling “WHAT ARE YOU TRYING TO SAY?!?!!” I usually relieve my irritation by amplifying the behavior he’s trying to stop with his tactful nudges.
To a crescendo of said tactful nudges, I recklessly admitted my loathing for campaign drives in general and FOS in particular, cast aspersions on the cadre of people currently working as “Professional Scouters,” grumbled about the high overhead of the BSA, and proposed that perhaps the church should leave Scouting.
The kindly bishopric member reflectively listened to all I said; admired my willingness to say yes to any job, no matter how difficult; promised a supply of envelopes and labels; and sent me off to tomorrow night’s kickoff and rally at the Stake Center.
Bryan, I’m working. Really. You can take the pins out of the voodoo doll, especially the one stabbed through my back. Please? I can’t take much more.
No, it was desperation, and go ahead and put on your smugly pitying looks, all you who can at least pray for comfort in your time of trial. I’m the Friends of Scouting Campaign Coordinator. No, I’m not kidding. It’s like someone taped a “Kick Me” sign to my back last week in church. The (VERY!) tactful bishopric member involved later said to Tom, “I think Julia might have grimaced a bit.” Actually, my entire face scrunched up into a mute scream of agony while Tom tactfully nudged my ankle with his toe in his classic “Bear up and do not say idiotic things” manner.
SIDEBAR. I hate it when he does this. It is usually a real effort to prevent myself from turning to him and yelling “WHAT ARE YOU TRYING TO SAY?!?!!” I usually relieve my irritation by amplifying the behavior he’s trying to stop with his tactful nudges.
To a crescendo of said tactful nudges, I recklessly admitted my loathing for campaign drives in general and FOS in particular, cast aspersions on the cadre of people currently working as “Professional Scouters,” grumbled about the high overhead of the BSA, and proposed that perhaps the church should leave Scouting.
The kindly bishopric member reflectively listened to all I said; admired my willingness to say yes to any job, no matter how difficult; promised a supply of envelopes and labels; and sent me off to tomorrow night’s kickoff and rally at the Stake Center.
Bryan, I’m working. Really. You can take the pins out of the voodoo doll, especially the one stabbed through my back. Please? I can’t take much more.
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