Team Benchwarmer

I never played soccer when I was a kid.

I know, I know. What kid didn't play soccer? Well, me. The kid who was tall and gangly and afraid of the ball. I was that kid. I still am. When you lack hand-eye coordination and don't like things being thrown or kicked at you, you're pretty limited in the sports you can play. And if you don't care about winning or losing or being part of a team, maybe you're doing everyone a favor by staying on the sidelines.

7th grade me showed a serious lapse in good judgement by signing up for basketball, which was really just a precursor for all of the judgement lapses that would soon hallmark my teenage years. Anyway. It didn't take long for me, or the coach for that matter, to realize that I had no business being out there on that basketball court. I'm not sure why my teammates didn't hire out a hitman to bust up my kneecaps or at least vote me off the team, which really would have been the humane thing to do. Instead I played. Well, I "played" if by "playing" you mean that I shuffled up and down the court and ducked/cringed whenever the ball came near me.

Alas, no valuable life lesson was learned and in the spring I volunteered to be on the softball team. That was much less humiliating since I could just strike out quickly and return to the bench. I think- my memory of middle school grows mercifully hazier as the years pass- that we may have even won some sort of championship, no thanks to me, of course.

And then I married Brent. A real soccer guy. He knows and loves the game and I'll never forget the first time I saw him play indoor soccer because he is an actual athlete, who becomes a completely different person when he steps onto the field. Soccer Brent is super aggressive and loud and smells much worse than Regular Brent.

Now I recognize that same intensity and drive in Jack. He flies up and down that field. His eye never leaves the ball. And even though you don't technically keep score in first grade soccer, he wants so badly to win.



It's not about winning and losing when you play first grade soccer. You're supposed to learn about being part of a team and practicing good sportsmanship and all that feel-good stuff that gives kids like me false hope about their athletic futures. Jack will sit patiently through the team-building exercises and play Red Rover over and over and over again, but all he really wants to do is play soccer.

I'll never have that drive. I'll never feel that competitive intensity that pushes you to play to win. But I will have the sidelines.

Being the working parent means you sometimes feel disconnected from your kids' schools. I worried about that in the beginning, especially since we live across town from our school. Would I get to know the other parents? Would I feel like I belonged?

I've spent the last month watching Brent out on the field in coach mode while Sawyer runs with the other little brothers and sisters who will probably be on his soccer teams someday. I've been a big contributor to the official sideline chatter. I've shared shared snacks and blankets and cheered for kids who we'll know for at least the next 11 years. And while I've watched Jack's circle of friends expanding, I've made new friends of my own.

The last soccer game of the season was a relief, no more evening practices that leave us sitting down to a rushed dinner at 7, no hustle out the door to make a 9am Saturday game. But I have to admit that it's also a bit of a letdown. I have learned to love the game, too.

But only from the sidelines.

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Non Sequitur

1. Thanks to Pandora's Halloween Party station, Sawyer had his first exposure to Michael Jackson's "Thriller." This kid loves to dance and, let's face it, who doesn't want to dance like a zombie while decorating the house for Halloween? Not me. 

It turns out (this will NOT surprise some of you) that I was actually better at doing the Thriller dance before I watched the YouTube instructional video. Whatevs. Choreography is not for everyone.

2. Why don't more adults throw themselves birthday parties? Grown up parties are so much more fun than kid parties. No gift bags, no pinatas, just booze and a lotta cake.

3. I live in fear that people refer to these two as the "Ross boys" as in "Stay away from those Ross boys." So when they manage to play together without throttling each other, it's a photo worthy experience.

4. My rough and tumble, toothless, dirty kneed boy wanted more than anything to go to the ballet. He cleans up nicely, don't you think?

5. And then there was the sun.

6. A half day at my school meant an afternoon of volunteering in Jack's first grade class. I dropped Sawyer off at preschool on my way and was reminded that we never submitted our family photo for the "Special Friends" book. Damn.

So over the three day weekend I was determined to get a picture of the five of us. How hard could it be? People do this all the time.

We should have gone to Sears.

7. Brent and I collaborated on a ridiculously awesome pizza. Chevre, garlic, red onions, and pineapple. We ate the whole thing, just the two of us. I regret nothing.

8. Apple picking is a lot easier than blueberry picking. 50 pounds in thirty minutes. Hell yeah.

9. Obvi too busy to come up with any substantial blogging material. C'est la vie. I've got applesauce to make. And awkward family photos to take. Happy fall!

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Hello, LA!

When my cousin Brady announced he was getting married in LA in September, I felt really bad that I wouldn't be able to make it. Then I thought about it, called my brother, and decided that there was NO WAY I was missing this wedding.

We left last Thursday. Nick, Clementine, and I didn't make it very far before TSA pulled me out of the line and accosted me about combustible reside on my hands. I had nothing to hide and so I waited patiently, Clementine squirming in the Ergo and Nick surrendering his toothpaste to the officials, while they patted down the suspect in front of me. My pat down was fine, except that I'd taken my belt off to go through the metal detectors and so my pants fell off in front of my brother. So that was awesome.

Making it through airport security felt like an accomplishment and so we grabbed a couple of beers at the pub near our gate. This vacation was off to an auspicious start, I thought when suddenly we heard "Final boarding call for passengers Mitchell and Ross." I'd like to tell you that this was the only time we nearly missed our flight on this trip, but that would be a lie, so instead I'll just say that I think Nick and I both learned a valuable lesson: airport pubs are a time vortex.

Once we got on the plane we made a game plan: we both wanted to cram as much vacation as possible into the next four days.

Day one: Surfing at Venice Beach.

As we were walking along in search of a surf shop, I started joking around about seeing a celebrity. My brother has this awesome dumb luck, so I just knew that we'd see someone famous because that's the kind of stuff that happens when Nick is around.

We passed Muscle Beach and saw a crowd gathered. "Aha, here we go!" I said to Nick. It was Tom Arnold. Weak.

"Well, he was married to Roseanne Barr," Nick tried to make the best of it. We continued on to the surfing beach to check out the waves. Nick decided it was worth it to rent a board and so we turned around and walked back toward Muscle Beach.

"You know, a lot of celebrities got their start right here," Nick began spouting trivia, as Nick does in these situations. "Arnold Schwarzenegger..." And no sooner had the words escaped his lips then we heard a distinct voice being amplified over the crowd at Muscle Beach. Was it? Could it be? Holy shit, it was Arnold! The Terminator!

We squeezed through fences and elbowed our way through the crowd. We scaled bleachers and slipped into reserved sections, Arnold's voice mocking us all the while. "I'm not leaving until I see his face," I informed Nick and the two other tourists who'd joined us in our quest. Nick's height afforded him an advantage and at last he spied him. On my tippiest of toes, Clementine sleeping obliviously on my front, I craned my neck through a sea of iPhones and saw him for myself. Arnold effing Schwarzenegger! He was wearing a lot of make up. I think he was selling vitamin supplements.

Celebrity sighting accomplished, we spent the afternoon on the beach. It was all very Baywatch, minus the sun and the David Hasslehoff. Really though, that would have been too much So Cal for me.

Nick and I made several observations while in Southern California: first of all, 80's music sounds better when you are in LA. I'm not sure why this is, but trust me. The music of Phil Collins is alive and well in Southern California. Who knew?

Secondly, navigating the city is easy. If you just remember to take the 210 to the 134, you're golden. It always works, no matter what your destination is.

In-N-Out Burger really is as awesome as they say it is. Even for a vegetarian. I am still thinking about that chocolate milkshake.

My brother resembles Macklemore. This discovery was made, unfortunately, 48 hours after I'd commented on how homely Macklemore looks on the cover of Rolling Stone.

Clementine is a friend-maker and a tourist attraction. On the Hollywood strip I was stopped by a tourist who wanted her picture taken with Clementine. I didn't even ask for a tip.

We picked my cousins Dave and Emily up from the airport the night before the wedding. They are earthy Oregonian types and Nick and I wondered how to show them a good time in LA. I was a little surprised (and secretly thrilled) when they said they wanted to go to Hollywood.

The wedding was that afternoon in a crazy nice house (Vince Vaughn lives two doors down). Clementine slept through most of the ceremony, woke up for dinner and a bite of cupcake, and then crashed back out for the rest of the evening.

I wore a dress that my grandma Helen made and wore to my aunt Jacie's wedding in 1979.

Love to be with my cousins so much. All evening we were referred to as the Oregon Connection, and I think it's pretty safe to say that our family owned that dance floor. The ceiling definitely could not hold us.

I am so, so glad that I did not miss this wedding.

We stayed with my dad's brother, Uncle Winston. This meant that Nick and I spent time with both sides of our family and it was an efficient vacation as far as seeing relatives is concerned.

"I've grown quite fond of this one," Uncle Winston said of Clementine as we were getting ready to leave. I only wish we could have spent another couple of days.

We decided to cram in one last trip to Hollywood with my cousin Lauren and her daughter Audrey. It was a brilliant Sunday morning and it was clear that our original plan to visit Griffith Park Observatory to see the Hollywood sign was shared by half the population of Los Angeles.

As we drove further along the winding canyon road in search of a parking spot, I remembered the Nick Mitchell dumb luck. "We are going to see that sign," I assured Lauren, who had never seen it before. Both kids were crying in the backseat at this point.

We flagged down a local who told us just where to go, and after only two wrong turns and some helpful advice from a guy on a horse, we arrived.

It was truly painful to pack up our gear and get on the plane to come home. Never in my life have I gone from YOLO to FML so quickly. It didn't help that we'd left the brightest blue California sky and were returning to cold, rainy Eugene.

Maybe that's why we nearly missed our connecting flight out of Portland. I am still not sure how you miss the boarding call when you are standing so close to the gate, but oh well.

I knew we'd get on the plane just fine. That Nick Mitchell dumb luck never lets you down.

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Learning Curve

I have had three profound realizations this week:
1. Sixth graders cry. A lot.
2. First grade teachers have really (ridiculously?) high homework expectations.
3. It is probably too early for me to start the countdown to summer vacation.

Sigh.

It was a long week. I'm not gonna lie, this transition from 8th to 6th grade has been a real shock to the senses. Yes, they are eager. Yes, they are cute. But I'm not sure that eager and cute is what I'm looking for in my students. After teaching 8th graders for the past 8 years, I'd come to love the dejected, cynical, teen-angst fueled apathy that is the typical thirteen-year-old.

Is that weird?

The sixth graders wiggle so much they slide right out of their seats. They use wide-ruled notebook paper and write REALLY BIG. They call me "Teacher" and draw me pictures. They need bandaids at inopportune moments. There are at least ten hands in the air every time we make a transition. They go to the bathroom ALL THE TIME. They want to talk about their pets during the middle of instruction. They sharpen their pencils EVERY SINGLE TIME I am talking.

I am quickly learning that waxing philosophical about hyperbole and the difference between metaphor and simile is pointless when no one can remember to put their name on their paper.

But the worst is when they cry. And the tears were flowing in my class last week. I'm not sure if it was the stress of writing a personal narrative or just your run of the mill new school anxiety, or- god forbid- were they crying because of me?! It was really pretty awful.

And there were tears at home, too. Jack's first grade teacher sent home a laundry list of homework tasks for him (us) to complete each week. I had to read the email instructions three times to make sure I had it all straight, and when I sat down with Jack to explain it to him he pretty much lost his shit. He was okay with the spelling words and the handwriting practice and the reading logs, but when it came to the French passage that he's supposed to be able to read aloud by Friday, he was at a loss.

"I can't read this!" he wailed. I encouraged him to try and discovered that, in fact, he was right. He couldn't do it.

So we put it away and read some Magic Treehouse and he went to bed while I wondered what to do. Should I force him to practice buck-up-little-soldier style? Should I email his teacher?

The next day I set the homework folder out on the table. He practiced his handwriting and read through his spelling words after breakfast. "Do you want to try reading the story again?" I asked gingerly.

He did. And so slowly, painfully, he labored his way through the story. His little brow was furrowed in concentration and his fists were clenched. I could hear the hint of a sob catching in the back of his throat. The French was butchered and his comprehension sucked, but we made to the end. "Awesome job!" I exclaimed. "Très bien!"

"It's so hard. I hate this," he said.
"I know it is," I replied. "Learning something new is a lot of work and I'm really proud of you for trying so hard. I promise it will get easier."

And then I realized that I am also learning something new, and sometimes it's hard and sometimes it sucks, but it will get easier. Lesson learned from my six year old. True story.

Photo credit to Jack.

 Buck up little soldiers. That's my motto for all of us this year. I think we're gonna be alright.

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