January 17, Saturday
I have gotten so far behind in recording the events of our lives that I am overwhelmed by the prospect. So I thought I would just start small and record a thing or two and not let perfect be the enemy of good (and I will claim that little saying despite the fact that I can only wish in my wildest dreams that perfectionism was the root of my problems (rather than laziness, disorganization and self-loathing (and others-loathing*)).
I had a church basketball game tonight. I am terrible but I do try, which sort of makes everything a bit more comic-tragic for me and my team than I am comfortable with. My lack of skill and size combined with my innocent hopes of active participation creates a scene in which I look like I am playing against people exuding powerful force-fields that knock me to the ground when I get within a few inches.
Andrew, too young to experience proper shame at my outbursts, which is how I will characterize what it is that my body does when trying to play basketball . . . or dance/do anything rhythmical, enjoys these games immensely. He gets really into the spirit of them and wants to wear a shirt with numbers of it. A team shirt, as he calls it. Tonight, he wore a threadbare white tee shirt that read Hawaii 85, as in 1985, as in the trip to Hawaii my parents took in 1985 when they left my sister and me with a woman who had to find us every day wandering the sidewalks of her neighborhood as we tried to find our school, which was at the end of the sidewalk about a quarter mile (but out of sight, to be fair) and whose food I consistently refused to eat until she burst into tears and said that I would die before my parents returned. Andrew looked like we had found him in a ditch on our way to the church. But he was happy and I have reached the stage of motherhood where that is really all that matters to me anymore (mostly).
Why all the photos of Richard Marx? Of all the things to remember about this day (the library book denied me because I offered my husband's drivers license rather than a real card, the Donut Lunch, the nap listening to sad short stories on Brig's ipod while he enjoyed making brownies with Andrew, the heap of laundry I will hide in the basement rather than sort tonight and Andrew's joy at the monster truck duvet), I mostly want to remember that that is what Andrew's hair looked like all day long.
*this could mean you and probably has!
6 comments:
So glad you got out to play! Andrew's enthusiasm and innocence is wonderful! Love you all, Momo
You are hilarous... and the best part is that I don't think you are trying to be funny. You have a way of writing and expressing yourself that just make me laugh. The richard marx pictures say it all. I absolutely love reading your blog because it is so real life. I love it.
I totally laughed at your self-loathing, and then laughed harder at your others-loathing. I will be flattered if you have ever loathed me. The opposite of love is not hate; it's indifference. Anyway, I bet you are totally cute playing bball. Little girls always are. It's us big, gangly baboons who look like freaks out there.
I hear you on trying to keep blogs updated. I think mine is about a month old at this point, ho hum.
I am glad you updated though, I always enjoy reading your posts! As one small (though not as small) girl who played bball to another, I have one piece of advice: mouth protection. And how great to see Mr. Marx again, he's one of those guys I just tend to forget about, even with that incredible, Hold Onto the Night song.
I laughed so hard at your basketball descriptions. That's how I would be, if I played!
I'm sitting in a quiet building on campus after reading those posts I had to work very hard to stifle my laughs. I love your sense of humor... you might be the funniest person I know, after Brigham of course
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