Mid-CenturyModernMoms

Cheerleading -- just another word for drama

There is always drama in cheer.

Let me say that again.

THERE IS ALWAYS DRAMA IN CHEER.

Oh, sorry. Was I yelling?

This year's drama is starting early. After all, the 2009-10 squad started practicing in earnest just weeks ago.

Last week, the teams were set and announced. There will be no frosh-soph team this year; only junior varsity and varsity.

My girl? Varsity all the way. No problem.

However ... with no frosh-soph team, this means that all freshmen -- even those who have never cheered before (it does happen) -- are on JV.

Along with everyone else who didn't make varsity.

Including a couple of juniors.

Are you seeing the glimmer of trauma drama that has erupted in cheerland?

One junior in particular who feel that it is U.N.F.A.I.R. to have to be on JV, instead of on varsity with all her friends.

Now, to be absolutely fair, it is a requirement of all varsity members to have a consistent back handspring.

The specific young lady in question? Does not.

At all.

After two years of gymnastics with the team.

And she is upset with a capital UP. In fact, she AND HER MOTHER demanded a meeting with the coach to plead (argue?) her case and get moved to varsity. (It didn't work, by the way.)

I was horrified by this girl's sense of entitlement but, in my usual calm, collected, let's-make-this-a-life-lesson sort of way, decided to probe the Roo-girl's opinions about these events.

"She needs to suck it up," Roo sneered. "And then get a freakin' back handspring."

Love that kid.

The ABCs of French

Remember this?

I thought perhaps I should update you on how it turned out.

After a semester of languishing in the C range -- anything from C plus to a C minus -- Miss Roo-girl and her trusty French tutor pulled off ...

*insert trumpet fanfare here*

A B MINUS in French!!

Even with the minus, I'll take it. It still counts as a 3.0 in her grade point average, and it doesn't tarnish her freshman year with that C she was so desperately trying to avoid.

So we have taken a break from French for the summer, but Roo already has made it clear that she wants French Tutor Lady to be back in the fall as she tackles year 2.

(Personally, I wanted her to bail on French and take Spanish 1 next year, but she was adamant about finishing what she started. Stubborn little thing!)

But is she resting on her laurels in July?

Nope.

She is taking the summer school accelerated biology class. A full year of bio in a mere 6 weeks. Class from 7:30 to 1:10 four days a week ... followed closely by cheer practice.

We're all looking forward to August.

Except for the part where school starts again at the end of that month.

I know people (old people like me anyway) say that youth is wasted on the young. But actually, I think the young NEED it to survive their school years.

Her schedule is killing her. Frankly, it's killing ME.

Daddy dearest

Yesterday was Father's Day. The day we honor our fathers. The day our children honor theirs. The day we remember that without fathers, we would not be mothers.

In my house, this day can be a little odd.

You see, my daughter's father is dead. He died when she was 3 1/2, and she has very little memory of him.

Quite frankly, this is probably a good thing. He wasn't exactly a stellar example of humankind.

My sons' father is NOT dead, but for all the time they spend with him, he might as well be. If you ask Z-man about his dad, he will arch one eyebrow and say: "Who?"

This makes me sad. Not because I particularly like my ex, but because he made his bed with linens made of broken promises, inflexibility and distrust, and now he is forced to lie in it. Without the love and devotion of his children.

My stepdaughter's father is my husband. She worships the ground he walks on.

In fact, it is precisely this man -- my third husband -- who actually takes the role of father.

For his child ... and for mine.

It is this man who drives carpool for my daughter.

It is this man who rushes to the aid of my sons when their cars malfunction.

It is this man who accompanies me to every cheer competition and football game and graduation.

It is this man who treats my children as his own.

It is this man who my kids mean when they refer to "my parents."

It is this man who my daughter cheerfully wished a happy Father's Day yesterday, knowing that, although he had no part in her conception, he is indeed her dad.

And it is THIS man who stands by my side as we parent OUR children.

I don't know what I'd do without him.

Daddy dearest

Yesterday was Father's Day. The day we honor our fathers. The day our children honor theirs. The day we remember that without fathers, we would not be mothers.

In my house, this day can be a little odd.

You see, my daughter's father is dead. He died when she was 3 1/2, and she has very little memory of him.

Quite frankly, this is probably a good thing. He wasn't exactly a stellar example of humankind.

My sons' father is NOT dead, but for all the time they spend with him, he might as well be. If you ask Z-man about his dad, he will arch one eyebrow and say: "Who?"

This makes me sad. Not because I particularly like my ex, but because he made his bed with linens made of broken promises, inflexibility and distrust, and now he is forced to lie in it. Without the love and devotion of his children.

My stepdaughter's father is my husband. She worships the ground he walks on.

In fact, it is precisely this man -- my third husband -- who actually takes the role of father.

For his child ... and for mine.

It is this man who drives carpool for my daughter.

It is this man who rushes to the aid of my sons when their cars malfunction.

It is this man who accompanies me to every cheer competition and football game and graduation.

It is this man who treats my children as his own.

It is this man who my kids mean when they refer to "my parents."

It is this man who my daughter cheerfully wished a happy Father's Day yesterday, knowing that, although he had no part in her conception, he is indeed her dad.

And it is THIS man who stands by my side as we parent OUR children.

I don't know what I'd do without him.

I love you / I hate you / I'm a teenager

I am the mother of a teenage girl.

You may kill me now.

Mothers of teenage girls know that teenage girls frequently suffer from dissociative identity disorder, otherwise known as multiple personalities. Sometimes they are one person. Sometimes they are another.

This makes a mother's job particularly difficult, especially when one never knows WHICH personality is going to greet you at any given minute.

Observe.

Here is something I am allowed to do:

Talk about her boobs.

Here is something I am NOT allowed to do:

Talk about her boobs.

On any other given day, I am allowed to sing along with the radio in the car.

Except for the days I'm NOT allowed to sing along with the radio in the car.

I am allowed to take her picture.

(Oooh, Mom!! Take my picture in this outfit!)

I am NOT allowed to take her picture.

 (Oh, Mom, you are so ANNOYING!)

"Sit with me ... Noooooo, don't leave yet!"

"Get out, get out, get out!!!" *DOOR SLAM*

Seriously, I think teenage girls must be some kind of punishment for something we moms did in a former life.

Like, uh, when we were teenage girls.

You can learn a lot in 10 months

School is just about to end for the Roo-girl. The horror of my baby becoming a high school sophomore is just beginning to dawn on me.

But it has made me think ... at just how much change there has been since last August when both Roo-girl and Z-man returned to the hallowed halls of academia.

In a mere 10 months, we went from this:

 

First day of school, August 2008

... to this:

Cheer banquet, May 2009

And from this:

 

Moving into the dorm, September 2008

... to this:

Graduation day, May 2009

What's next? For Roo, it's summer school (biology) and more cheer cheer cheer. In the past 10 months, she has matured into a self-assured high school student with decent grades and good friends. Ahead lies new challenges and thoughts of college and beyond.

For Z-man, it's a summer internship at a local restaurant, which we hope will fold itself into a full-time job in the fall (his internship boss has dangled that carrot -- keep your fingers crossed). In the past 10 months, he has put the finishing touches on his culinary skills and fine-tuned his idea of what he wants to do with them (teach).

For me? It's the realization that my babies are growing up ... have GROWN up, and that my time as a mom with children at home is fleeting.

It's been a good year for them both. And the future ... is unlimited.

In which my mouth is given a license to kill (or at least aggravate) -- crossposted

Every once in awhile, I do something that has long-lasting impact on my children.

Ideally, this should be a POSITIVE thing. But it isn't always.

For example, when Z-man (19) was in the first grade, I forgot about the In-n-Out Burger volunteer appreciation lunch.

I was at work. I fully INTENDED to go. I had PAID for my lunch and his.

But when it came to be noon that day, I was deeply involved in something workish.

And I forgot.

He spent the better part of 10 years reminding me about this gross lapse in my mothering skills.

One day, I looked him straight in the eye and said:

"I find it interesting that you remember THAT moment, but conveniently forget to remember the reason I was invited to the volunteer appreciation lunch -- like helping out in the classroom, bringing my guitar in to play for holiday parties, serving school hot lunch, chaperoning field trips -- all while working full time. Need I go on?

"If the worst thing I ever do to you as a mother is forget to go to a volunteer appreciation lunch at school, then I'm doing pretty damned good. So cram it already!"

Funny thing. He never mentioned it again.

Recently, I had one of those watershed moments with my daughter.

The one she believes she will torment me with.

The one she believes will require years of therapy to maybe forgive -- but never to forget.

The one she believes makes me the worst mother in the world.

Ever.

My plan, of course, is to use the same technique I used on Z-man -- only sooner. There is no need for her to have 10 years of ammunition for a slip of the tongue. I hope.

So there I was, minding my own business, reading blogs at 7 a.m.

That's what I do when I get up early in the morning. I play Scrabble online and read blogs.

And the Roo-girl flounced into my room, where I was DEEP in thought about someone else's very important life decisions. Reading. You understand? My brain was engaged in another's world.

And I looked up at my beautiful daughter and spoke the first words that came into my blog-fogged head.

"There's my boy!"

I'm toast, aren't I?

Originally posted at From the Planet of Janet

Snips and snails and puppy dog tails ...

I believe I have discovered one of the secrets of the universe.

Yes. Don't dissuade me. I KNOW that I have.

Observe:

It was time for sports physicals. A fund-raising moment for our school when, for $25 apiece, about 350 kids are herded through the gym for a quick look-see, poked by volunteer doctor parents, leaving with forms filled out for another year of football, basketball, cheer and whatever-all.

It was a 3-hour ordeal tour that saves us from having to book an actual doctor's appointment.

I had, under my care, three cheerleaders -- the Roo-girl and her friends -- in a very very VERY long line.

Did I mention that it was a long line?

Behind us was a group of about six fresh-faced young gentlemen of obvious high character and breeding.

Not.

Now, on my blog, I have been known to report -- verbatim -- some of the nasty talk that my own children have uttered. But even *I* have standards and cannot in good conscience repeat some of the things I heard in that line. (Suffice it to say that the gist of it had to do with stained shirts and body fluids in a color not generally found in nature.)

I looked at Roo with consternation and pulled her close so I could whisper in her ear.

"Do you recognize those boys? Are they incoming freshmen?"

(I was trying to give them the benefit of the doubt: Perhaps they were still in middle school. Next year's freshmen athletes who hadn't figured out how to muzzle their mouths in public yet.)

Roo rolled her eyes.

"No, they're going to be sophomores."

I looked at her in horror. "Those are boys in your class????"

She nodded.

I cringed, realizing that I truly had discovered one of the secrets of the universe, and said:

"I now know why girls prefer to go out with older guys."

She looked at me sadly and nodded again.

Alas, truer words were never spoken.

Wordless Wednesday on a Monday

Because, really? There just isn't anything else to say!

Different

 Next Monday, when you read my post on Mid-Century Modern Moms, I will be different.

You won't be able to tell on the outside.

I'll still look like the same ol' dorky me, wearing business casual to work for the first time.

My hair will still be red and curly. My eyes will still be green.

Since I have gone back to the gym, my hind end might be a little smaller, but basically it will still be MY hind end.

I will still be addicted to Facebook games.

I will still be slightly deaf.

I will still have children who don't edit their mouths when they are around my dinner table.

But yet ... I will not be the same.

By next Monday, I will be the mother of a son with a college degree.

Despite the fact that I have two children in their LATE 20s, I have never had this before.

High school graduates I have. Everyone but Roo-girl (yet) has managed to squeak through high school with varying levels of success.

But college? This has never happened.

By next Monday, Z-man will have earned an A.A. degree in culinary arts, graduating after two grueling years in hell's kitchen. On the dean's list.

And I am proud.

Oh so proud.

More proud than I can express in this inadequate post.