Yes, I did get up early to watch it. 11.00am your time was 5.00am mine. I set my alarm for 4.40am, because I thought we'd need a bit of time to build up the excitement, and see the Royal Family arriving at the Abbey. Though 20 minutes seemed a rather paltry allocation, when I set the alarm for anything earlier, it did look terribly terribly early. You have to remember this is an ordinary school and work day here. The alarm went off, I turned it off and went back to sleep. Husband woke me at 4.55am, saying "it's time to get up". So much for the build up.
What a lovely do. We do do do's terribly well, we Brits, don't we?
We all snuggled up on the sofa to watch, trying not to be too grumpy. Then it was the usual morning routine, making packed lunches and scooting everyone out the door. I remember on my own wedding morning, driving to the church, past Marks and Spencer, seeing people out shopping, and thinking "how odd! Here am I getting married, and there they are, just a normal Saturday morning in M&S". I don't imagine Kate Middleton thought of us normal folk, making packed lunches and scooting children out the door, but if she had, it would have been the same sort of thing.
Now I'm not a great follower of fashion, but I do have just one comment. Hats are ok on the top of heads. They are ok on the side of heads (the word 'jaunty' is useful for this). They are not ok on the front of heads. Not unless you're carrying a laser gun and you're auditioning for a part as an extra in a sci fi movie. Victoria Beckham and Princesses Eugenie and Beatrice - I'm talking to you.
My favourite moment (well, one of them) was when the American commentary that we were listening to kindly found someone to lip read what William said to Kate's father, just before the service began. It was something along the lines of "just a small family affair, then". Now if that isn't a fine example of British humour, I don't know what is.
Jerusalem. It's a great hymn. "And did those feet, in ancient time, walk upon England's mountains green? And was the holy Lamb of God, on England's pleasant pastures seen?" But at that point, some inner rebellion in me always wants to answer "No, I don't think Jesus ever made it to England". I know. Terribly literal of me. I have no poetry in my soul.
As so often, 7-yo had her own unique take on the occasion.
"So she's going to be the queen now."
"No, she's marrying the prince, so she'll be the princess."
"What? She goes through all this, and she only gets to be the princess?"
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Friday, April 29, 2011
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
Burning the land
I believe that the practice of burning stubble is no longer allowed in England. Here in the US it is still widespread. Stubble, and wild grass. Acres and acres of it, out on the prairie.
At our local nature centre, they’ve been doing it too. Look at this picture.
Before and after. What a striking contrast. On the left is the untouched piece of land, and on the right is where they’ve burnt the old grass. You can see what it looks like a little while after the fire. I watched it, as the ground recovered from blackened nothingness to the beginnings of lush green. It changed literally day by day. It really looks quite verdant and healthy, doesn’t it? But just a very few days before, it had been like this.
I feel like the earth. There I was, minding my own business, and then cancer came, like a fire. I didn’t see it coming, I didn't ask for it, I didn’t want it. Nearly two years ago. It hurt, it destroyed, it ravaged. Pain and loss and fear. That was me, in the second picture: bare soil and blackened stems. I probably didn’t look like that to you, to others, and not even to myself. It’s not very nice to look at, when the earth is like that (click on the picture to see it full size and you'll see what I mean), so I didn’t pause to examine it much and I displayed it even less.
But the truth is that these things, these fires and cancers, if you let them, bring life. They bring growth and newness. They take out some of the dead brush. I don’t want to push the analogy too far. I rather liked myself as I was before, honestly. But I like myself, love myself, a whole lot more now. That top picture, before and after, that’s me (click on it - it's so much better full size). Somehow, in ways I see and I’m sure in ways I don’t see too, I am more full of life, more full of potential, more deeply truly myself, more fully ME, than I have ever been.
.
At our local nature centre, they’ve been doing it too. Look at this picture.
Before and after. What a striking contrast. On the left is the untouched piece of land, and on the right is where they’ve burnt the old grass. You can see what it looks like a little while after the fire. I watched it, as the ground recovered from blackened nothingness to the beginnings of lush green. It changed literally day by day. It really looks quite verdant and healthy, doesn’t it? But just a very few days before, it had been like this.
I feel like the earth. There I was, minding my own business, and then cancer came, like a fire. I didn’t see it coming, I didn't ask for it, I didn’t want it. Nearly two years ago. It hurt, it destroyed, it ravaged. Pain and loss and fear. That was me, in the second picture: bare soil and blackened stems. I probably didn’t look like that to you, to others, and not even to myself. It’s not very nice to look at, when the earth is like that (click on the picture to see it full size and you'll see what I mean), so I didn’t pause to examine it much and I displayed it even less.
But the truth is that these things, these fires and cancers, if you let them, bring life. They bring growth and newness. They take out some of the dead brush. I don’t want to push the analogy too far. I rather liked myself as I was before, honestly. But I like myself, love myself, a whole lot more now. That top picture, before and after, that’s me (click on it - it's so much better full size). Somehow, in ways I see and I’m sure in ways I don’t see too, I am more full of life, more full of potential, more deeply truly myself, more fully ME, than I have ever been.
.
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
The MADs awards 2011
Oh, you lovely, lovely peeps. You've nominated me for the MADs awards 2011. I am in the list of nominees for the categories "Best Writer" and "Most Inspiring".
I didn't actually check ALL the categories, so if you nominated me for my extensive food writing, or my numerous craft ideas, then please do let me know. And if you nominated me as "best small business blog" or "best pregnancy blog", then I strongly suggest you get some new reading glasses.
Thank you, bloggy friends.
.
I didn't actually check ALL the categories, so if you nominated me for my extensive food writing, or my numerous craft ideas, then please do let me know. And if you nominated me as "best small business blog" or "best pregnancy blog", then I strongly suggest you get some new reading glasses.
Thank you, bloggy friends.
.
Monday, April 18, 2011
Tales from the soccer pitch
I had my first experience of attending a girls’ Under 8 soccer match tonight. Husband has been more involved in 7-yo’s soccer exploits to date, and has even got himself appointed Assistant Coach to the team. But tonight he was at a meeting, so it fell to me to take her.
This was a make-up game. No, no… you’re on the wrong track. Not that kind of make-up. Just because it’s girls’ soccer, you’re thinking lipstick and mascara, aren’t you? It was a make-up game because a previous game in the season was cancelled for bad weather. I must admit I have a problem with the whole make-up game thing. I have a problem with the whole competitive league thing. Actually, it really annoys the pants off me. I think, on reflection, that it annoys me more than anything else in my life annoys me, at this point in time. It annoys me as much as it did when I wrote this post about it. I’ve hardly been able to think about it since, because my pants just fly off in annoyance if I do. Which is why the whole 7-yo soccer operation has been Husband’s responsibility. He keeps his pants on much better.
Anyway, tonight there was a make-up game, and I went along to watch. And my heart totally melted, and my pants stayed right on, because I tell ya, four-a-side soccer played by seven-year-old girls, is stomach-mushingly adorable. I’m going to give you the highlights.
1) 7-yo’s team all sport a purple clip-on hair braid. I have no idea why. Team identity or something.
2) 7-yo was discussing her soccer career with me in the car on the way, and declared she didn’t really know whether she was better at defence or soffence, and what did I think. I said I thought it was too early to say, but soffence sounded like it might be her thing. (And then I had to spoil it by saying that most people pronounce it ‘offence’ – I hate that part of being a mum.)
3) At half-time, our coach told the team “now remember, we switch ends, so show me which goal we’re aiming at from now on”, and the two players who were concentrating pointed to the wrong goal. The other two were engrossed in a conversation about their snack and drink. (This is the kind of thing that feeds my resistance to the whole idea of a competitive league.)
4) The score was 1-1. A third goal was scored by the opposition, but no-one knew whether it counted or not. One of their team had fallen over and had a sore finger. She was showing it to the ref, when one of the other players ran up to the goal with the ball and scored. No-one knew whether the ref had stopped play for the examination of the sore finger, or not. No ruling was made at the time, and so when it came to the end of the game, no-one knew what the final score was. (Are you beginning to share my reservations about the whole competitive league thing?)
5) The goalie on the other team, in a bored moment, twizzled her foot around in the goal netting and got stuck, and had to be untangled.
6) There was a lovely moment when I saw 7-yo skipping down the outfield. It brought a whole new meaning to fancy footwork.
7) 7-yo missed a crucial half minute or so, somewhere in the second half, because she was undoing her pony tail, taking her hairband off, and removing the purple braid. I could tell that she spent the next few minutes trying out the best running action for making her loosened hair swing from side to side. Luckily, there was no evidence that this distraction had any adverse impact on her soccer skills or the outcome of the game.
I was really proud of my sons, who came along to watch the game and cheer 7-yo on. I thanked them and told them I was proud, at which 7-yo pointed out that she had often been to watch their games. She’s right, of course. Over the years she has been lugged along to many matches, with a backpack full of Polly Pockets and colouring books, and has sat patiently on the sidelines or in the car if it’s cold or windy.The difference is, she doesn’t have the choice on these occasions; the boys do. Such is the lot of the youngest sibling. 10-yo entered into the spirit of the game, and called out instructions which, in the context, were decidedly ambitious: “pass the ball, pass the ball!” 13-yo has inherited more of his mother’s laconic detachment as a spectator, but understands the value of encouragement, and told 7-yo “good job” in an understated kind of way at half-time.
Ah, see how all my annoyance has drifted away. Maybe I could get myself nominated Assistant Assistant Coach. Or Snack Manager. Or Team Nurse. I think I’m going to need an excuse to go along to a few more of these matches. Do you think they have seven-year-old soccer in heaven?
.
This was a make-up game. No, no… you’re on the wrong track. Not that kind of make-up. Just because it’s girls’ soccer, you’re thinking lipstick and mascara, aren’t you? It was a make-up game because a previous game in the season was cancelled for bad weather. I must admit I have a problem with the whole make-up game thing. I have a problem with the whole competitive league thing. Actually, it really annoys the pants off me. I think, on reflection, that it annoys me more than anything else in my life annoys me, at this point in time. It annoys me as much as it did when I wrote this post about it. I’ve hardly been able to think about it since, because my pants just fly off in annoyance if I do. Which is why the whole 7-yo soccer operation has been Husband’s responsibility. He keeps his pants on much better.
Anyway, tonight there was a make-up game, and I went along to watch. And my heart totally melted, and my pants stayed right on, because I tell ya, four-a-side soccer played by seven-year-old girls, is stomach-mushingly adorable. I’m going to give you the highlights.
1) 7-yo’s team all sport a purple clip-on hair braid. I have no idea why. Team identity or something.
2) 7-yo was discussing her soccer career with me in the car on the way, and declared she didn’t really know whether she was better at defence or soffence, and what did I think. I said I thought it was too early to say, but soffence sounded like it might be her thing. (And then I had to spoil it by saying that most people pronounce it ‘offence’ – I hate that part of being a mum.)
3) At half-time, our coach told the team “now remember, we switch ends, so show me which goal we’re aiming at from now on”, and the two players who were concentrating pointed to the wrong goal. The other two were engrossed in a conversation about their snack and drink. (This is the kind of thing that feeds my resistance to the whole idea of a competitive league.)
4) The score was 1-1. A third goal was scored by the opposition, but no-one knew whether it counted or not. One of their team had fallen over and had a sore finger. She was showing it to the ref, when one of the other players ran up to the goal with the ball and scored. No-one knew whether the ref had stopped play for the examination of the sore finger, or not. No ruling was made at the time, and so when it came to the end of the game, no-one knew what the final score was. (Are you beginning to share my reservations about the whole competitive league thing?)
5) The goalie on the other team, in a bored moment, twizzled her foot around in the goal netting and got stuck, and had to be untangled.
6) There was a lovely moment when I saw 7-yo skipping down the outfield. It brought a whole new meaning to fancy footwork.
7) 7-yo missed a crucial half minute or so, somewhere in the second half, because she was undoing her pony tail, taking her hairband off, and removing the purple braid. I could tell that she spent the next few minutes trying out the best running action for making her loosened hair swing from side to side. Luckily, there was no evidence that this distraction had any adverse impact on her soccer skills or the outcome of the game.
I was really proud of my sons, who came along to watch the game and cheer 7-yo on. I thanked them and told them I was proud, at which 7-yo pointed out that she had often been to watch their games. She’s right, of course. Over the years she has been lugged along to many matches, with a backpack full of Polly Pockets and colouring books, and has sat patiently on the sidelines or in the car if it’s cold or windy.The difference is, she doesn’t have the choice on these occasions; the boys do. Such is the lot of the youngest sibling. 10-yo entered into the spirit of the game, and called out instructions which, in the context, were decidedly ambitious: “pass the ball, pass the ball!” 13-yo has inherited more of his mother’s laconic detachment as a spectator, but understands the value of encouragement, and told 7-yo “good job” in an understated kind of way at half-time.
Ah, see how all my annoyance has drifted away. Maybe I could get myself nominated Assistant Assistant Coach. Or Snack Manager. Or Team Nurse. I think I’m going to need an excuse to go along to a few more of these matches. Do you think they have seven-year-old soccer in heaven?
.
Friday, April 8, 2011
A boy with a heart
Since we're on the subject of 10-yo, I'll tell you about the big event of his day today. Fourth grade were having their first taste of dissection. Oops. Unfortunate turn of phrase.
I've had the note home, with the permission slip to be signed. We've had the conversation about where they get the hearts from (dissection number 1 is a cow's heart, dissection number 2 is going to be a cow's eye). We've had the discussion about whether the cows died naturally or by other means. This led to a discussion about animal rights, in which 7-yo declared that she just doesn't think about the fact that meat comes from animals when she eats it, so she feels like a vegetarian, even though she isn't one. "I do FEEL like a vegetarian." Hm. Not sure you can really be an honorary vegetarian, but it'll do for today. She IS only just 7...
Anyway, in the car on the way home from school, 10-yo was showing me how big a cow's heart is. "This big... no, maybe a bit smaller... this big... well, perhaps a bit smaller... um... this big" (during which he moved his hands from about 2 feet apart to a size that still looked to me unbelievably large for a cow's heart, but this IS America where everything is big, so after we'd exchanged a mutual "seriously?" "yup, seriously", I agreed that wow, a cow's heart is pretty big. (Not that my son is prone to exaggeration.)
10-yo told me that he had felt a bit sick while he was waiting for his turn, but thought he would feel better once he was actually doing the dissection himself. "And I was right. I did feel ok when I was using the scissors." This child has good intuitions. He may be right in his next observation too.
"I don't know why they make you wear gloves and goggles. The gloves were really hot, and I can't see the point of the goggles. Perhaps they thought they'd make us feel scientific."
Gloves, yes, I can see the reasoning behind that. But goggles? Seriously? So that you don't get a squirt of cow's blood in your eye? Or in case of over-enthusiastic scissor use by your class-mate? (In which case, why not goggles for art projects?) Yup. I'll go with 10-yo's "make us feel scientific" insight.
.
I've had the note home, with the permission slip to be signed. We've had the conversation about where they get the hearts from (dissection number 1 is a cow's heart, dissection number 2 is going to be a cow's eye). We've had the discussion about whether the cows died naturally or by other means. This led to a discussion about animal rights, in which 7-yo declared that she just doesn't think about the fact that meat comes from animals when she eats it, so she feels like a vegetarian, even though she isn't one. "I do FEEL like a vegetarian." Hm. Not sure you can really be an honorary vegetarian, but it'll do for today. She IS only just 7...
Anyway, in the car on the way home from school, 10-yo was showing me how big a cow's heart is. "This big... no, maybe a bit smaller... this big... well, perhaps a bit smaller... um... this big" (during which he moved his hands from about 2 feet apart to a size that still looked to me unbelievably large for a cow's heart, but this IS America where everything is big, so after we'd exchanged a mutual "seriously?" "yup, seriously", I agreed that wow, a cow's heart is pretty big. (Not that my son is prone to exaggeration.)
10-yo told me that he had felt a bit sick while he was waiting for his turn, but thought he would feel better once he was actually doing the dissection himself. "And I was right. I did feel ok when I was using the scissors." This child has good intuitions. He may be right in his next observation too.
"I don't know why they make you wear gloves and goggles. The gloves were really hot, and I can't see the point of the goggles. Perhaps they thought they'd make us feel scientific."
Gloves, yes, I can see the reasoning behind that. But goggles? Seriously? So that you don't get a squirt of cow's blood in your eye? Or in case of over-enthusiastic scissor use by your class-mate? (In which case, why not goggles for art projects?) Yup. I'll go with 10-yo's "make us feel scientific" insight.
.
Thursday, April 7, 2011
Dirty laundry
Having children is such a rich experience. You watch them grow, mature, become their own people. You give them roots; you give them wings. That is your endeavour. You do your best in the daily muddle, hoping they are learning the skills and wisdom to find their way in life. You look at the World, and your maternal heart clenches a little. Are you preparing them for it adequately? And then, the occasional glorious moment comes when they demonstrate that, yes, they can handle what comes their way. They are more than up to the task. Watch out, World.
This was one such moment.
I was having a round-up of the kids’ clothes – as you do. In 10-yo’s side of the bedroom he shares with 7-yo, there was something of a heap, which I gathered up. I opened the bottom drawer of the chest of drawers, to put some of the heap away. The drawer was full, not of folded clothes in a neat stack, but of a jumble of clothes, much like the one I was holding, scrunched up, and jammed down. I took out the jumble, to find that it was a pile of dirty, not clean, clothes, including several items of smelly underwear.
I looked over at 10-yo, lying on his bed, rapt in his book, oblivious to the laundry concerns of his mother.
“10-yo, these clothes in your chest of drawers. I think they’re dirty. I think they should have gone into the laundry basket.”
With his grinning face alight with an expression that said “I know you’re going to think this is funny and not be cross with me”, he replied,
“Last time I put a whole pile of clothes in the laundry basket at the same time, you got mad at me.”
“So you’re hiding dirty clothes in your clean clothes drawer, and you’re going to sneak them into the laundry basket little by little?”
With a beatific smile,
“Yes! Exactly!”
[Now, just to set the record straight here. He’s referring to the times when I send the kids down to the basement to tidy up. The basements here tend to become the kids’ areas. I don’t know how other people manage their basements, but I hardly go down to ours. I let the kids do what they like down there, and then from time to time, I call a tidy-up day, and I make them put the basement back to rights. By that stage it has become a fearsome task, but as I point out to my little Herculeses, they are lucky I don’t make them tidy up every night. On these occasions, out from the basement emerges a whole pile of sweaters and assorted clothes. And if I don’t intercept quickly enough, that whole pile of sweaters, which are perfectly clean - worn once, discarded in the heat of an air hockey match, and left on the basement floor - are dumped into the laundry basket, with a clean dressing gown or two for good measure, and perhaps a clean blanket. And yes, when that happens, I have been known to have a small rant the next day about washing a big load of sweaters which weren’t dirty when they reached the laundry basket, but having had a damp towel crammed on top of them overnight, now do need washing after all.]
He knows me so well. He knows that I do, indeed, think it is funny to store your dirty underwear and sneak it out bit by bit into the laundry, like the British prisoners of war digging a tunnel, and dropping the loose earth out onto the compound, handful by handful, through holes in their trouser pockets, evading the notice of the German guards. He is right: I’m not going to be cross. He knows I am amused by the intention behind the deed, and am not, when all is said and done, terribly worried about smelly small boy underwear. He knows he got away with it, when the conversation ends in a laugh, not a lecture about cleanliness. As I leave the bedroom, he probably allows himself another grin, before returning to the world of Fablehaven.
He’s a couple of steps ahead of me already. He beats me at chess easily, and even laughs sometimes when I move a piece, saying “Really, Mum? Seriously?” before mercilessly denying me the opportunity to change my mind, and switching that piece with one of his own, removing it off the board. He's just proved his ability to dodge a maternal laundry rant. He can handle a mother. Oh yes, he’s a couple of steps ahead.
But he’s not ahead of me in everything. He doesn’t know how I’ve stored away this conversation. How I, too, am grinning as I go downstairs. How I laugh inside myself at the World, and know that he will make his way through it very well. Yes, in some things he’s a couple of steps ahead of me. I came across the dirty laundry pile today, and a few weeks ago I found a secret stash of Twizzlers. What other secrets lie hidden throughout the house? What other things make him grin in secret triumph as he goes to bed with his Fablehaven friends? But aha, for the mother’s secrets that meanwhile are making me grin in secret triumph too!
.
This was one such moment.
I was having a round-up of the kids’ clothes – as you do. In 10-yo’s side of the bedroom he shares with 7-yo, there was something of a heap, which I gathered up. I opened the bottom drawer of the chest of drawers, to put some of the heap away. The drawer was full, not of folded clothes in a neat stack, but of a jumble of clothes, much like the one I was holding, scrunched up, and jammed down. I took out the jumble, to find that it was a pile of dirty, not clean, clothes, including several items of smelly underwear.
I looked over at 10-yo, lying on his bed, rapt in his book, oblivious to the laundry concerns of his mother.
“10-yo, these clothes in your chest of drawers. I think they’re dirty. I think they should have gone into the laundry basket.”
With his grinning face alight with an expression that said “I know you’re going to think this is funny and not be cross with me”, he replied,
“Last time I put a whole pile of clothes in the laundry basket at the same time, you got mad at me.”
“So you’re hiding dirty clothes in your clean clothes drawer, and you’re going to sneak them into the laundry basket little by little?”
With a beatific smile,
“Yes! Exactly!”
[Now, just to set the record straight here. He’s referring to the times when I send the kids down to the basement to tidy up. The basements here tend to become the kids’ areas. I don’t know how other people manage their basements, but I hardly go down to ours. I let the kids do what they like down there, and then from time to time, I call a tidy-up day, and I make them put the basement back to rights. By that stage it has become a fearsome task, but as I point out to my little Herculeses, they are lucky I don’t make them tidy up every night. On these occasions, out from the basement emerges a whole pile of sweaters and assorted clothes. And if I don’t intercept quickly enough, that whole pile of sweaters, which are perfectly clean - worn once, discarded in the heat of an air hockey match, and left on the basement floor - are dumped into the laundry basket, with a clean dressing gown or two for good measure, and perhaps a clean blanket. And yes, when that happens, I have been known to have a small rant the next day about washing a big load of sweaters which weren’t dirty when they reached the laundry basket, but having had a damp towel crammed on top of them overnight, now do need washing after all.]
He knows me so well. He knows that I do, indeed, think it is funny to store your dirty underwear and sneak it out bit by bit into the laundry, like the British prisoners of war digging a tunnel, and dropping the loose earth out onto the compound, handful by handful, through holes in their trouser pockets, evading the notice of the German guards. He is right: I’m not going to be cross. He knows I am amused by the intention behind the deed, and am not, when all is said and done, terribly worried about smelly small boy underwear. He knows he got away with it, when the conversation ends in a laugh, not a lecture about cleanliness. As I leave the bedroom, he probably allows himself another grin, before returning to the world of Fablehaven.
He’s a couple of steps ahead of me already. He beats me at chess easily, and even laughs sometimes when I move a piece, saying “Really, Mum? Seriously?” before mercilessly denying me the opportunity to change my mind, and switching that piece with one of his own, removing it off the board. He's just proved his ability to dodge a maternal laundry rant. He can handle a mother. Oh yes, he’s a couple of steps ahead.
But he’s not ahead of me in everything. He doesn’t know how I’ve stored away this conversation. How I, too, am grinning as I go downstairs. How I laugh inside myself at the World, and know that he will make his way through it very well. Yes, in some things he’s a couple of steps ahead of me. I came across the dirty laundry pile today, and a few weeks ago I found a secret stash of Twizzlers. What other secrets lie hidden throughout the house? What other things make him grin in secret triumph as he goes to bed with his Fablehaven friends? But aha, for the mother’s secrets that meanwhile are making me grin in secret triumph too!
.
Friday, April 1, 2011
Cuteness abounds
Well, I’ve seen some cute things in my life. I’ve seen my own newborn babies, (funny how your own are so gorgeous, whereas other peoples'...). I’ve seen baby rabbits, and ducklings. Our next door neighbour has just got a 9-week old puppy. That’s fairly darn cute. It’s a cockerpoo (cocker spaniel poodle cross). Is that just in America that they come up with these clever cross-breed names, or are they doing that in England too?
Anyway, what else have I seen that’s cute? Nativity plays - I’ve watched a few of those. Once my two boys, aged about 1 and 4, fell asleep arm in arm. Naked toddlers wearing wellies - they’re pretty cute. Small children trying to say long words: hospital, or ridiculous, for example. Small children using grown up words for body parts. Kids wearing brand-new school uniform on their first day. Baby socks. The first unbelievably small sleepsuits that my babies wore when they were born (which, yes, I’ve kept). Their early scrawly sentences, written in mixed lower and upper case letters, with illustrations of gangly people with smiley faces.
Yup. It’s fair to say that I’ve witnessed plenty of cute things in my life. I’ve even embraced the word ‘cute’, and use it instead of the word ‘sweet’. But… nothing prepared me for seeing a 7 year old girl in soccer gear. My 7 year old girl in soccer gear. Yes, 7-yo has taken up soccer, and as if soccer shorts aren’t cute enough on a 7 year old bottom, she also wears knee-high socks, diminutive shin pads, and petite cleats. ('Cleats' translates as 'soccer boots', or I’d better say 'football boots', else someone will correct me). Pink and black cleats! Heaven. Even for someone like me, who so staunchly resists the infiltration of pink into all aspects of a girl’s life.
It was that opening sentence “Well, I’ve seen some cute things in my life” that first made me see myself as a country singer. By the time I’d got to the end of that paragraph, I was imagining Iota on a high stool, legs crossed, strumming her guitar wistfully, crooning into a microphone, in a smoky bar in a small cowboy town some place. I was trying out rhyme schemes with ‘cute’ (‘my guitar is my lute’, ‘I also play the flute’, ‘I have a pet newt’, ‘I’m in my birthday suit’), and before I knew it, I’d written a ballad.
A Ballad to my Daughter Playing Soccer
Well m' neighbor’s just got hisself a small cockerpoo
His front lawn is covered with a load of doo-doo
That mutt is so adorable, half poodle half cocker,
But the puppy ain’t a patch on my li’l girl playing soccer.
I’ve been to Hardy’s birthplace, a-down there in Dorset,
I’ll think of a rhyme here, though I might have to force it,
Twee cottage with a thatched roof, twee door with cute knocker
But no, nothing near so cute as my gal playing soccer.
A thing of beauty’s a joy forever, said ol’ Johnnie Keats
He was thinking of m’ daughter, in her size 2 pink cleats.
I’ll be standing on the sidelines, ‘mongst fat moms and thin dads,
Watching her run by, in her sweet li’l shin pads.
In your soccer clothes, My Honey-pie, you look awful purty
And I’ll take out an opponent if she tackles you dirty,
If I were an Aussie, I’d sure say you were beaut
But I’m here in America, so I’ll just call you cute.
I’m off to Starbucks right now, for my tall decaf mocha*
I hope I don’t end my days in Davy Jones’s locker
Ah’m just an ol’ sentimental and somewhat agin’ rocker
Who died of a cute attack, when her daughter dressed for soccer.
* I know, I know. Mocha and soccer don't rhyme, unless you have a British accent. How about 'So please don't be a scoffer, and please don't be a mocker'? Happy now?
Anyway, what else have I seen that’s cute? Nativity plays - I’ve watched a few of those. Once my two boys, aged about 1 and 4, fell asleep arm in arm. Naked toddlers wearing wellies - they’re pretty cute. Small children trying to say long words: hospital, or ridiculous, for example. Small children using grown up words for body parts. Kids wearing brand-new school uniform on their first day. Baby socks. The first unbelievably small sleepsuits that my babies wore when they were born (which, yes, I’ve kept). Their early scrawly sentences, written in mixed lower and upper case letters, with illustrations of gangly people with smiley faces.
Yup. It’s fair to say that I’ve witnessed plenty of cute things in my life. I’ve even embraced the word ‘cute’, and use it instead of the word ‘sweet’. But… nothing prepared me for seeing a 7 year old girl in soccer gear. My 7 year old girl in soccer gear. Yes, 7-yo has taken up soccer, and as if soccer shorts aren’t cute enough on a 7 year old bottom, she also wears knee-high socks, diminutive shin pads, and petite cleats. ('Cleats' translates as 'soccer boots', or I’d better say 'football boots', else someone will correct me). Pink and black cleats! Heaven. Even for someone like me, who so staunchly resists the infiltration of pink into all aspects of a girl’s life.
It was that opening sentence “Well, I’ve seen some cute things in my life” that first made me see myself as a country singer. By the time I’d got to the end of that paragraph, I was imagining Iota on a high stool, legs crossed, strumming her guitar wistfully, crooning into a microphone, in a smoky bar in a small cowboy town some place. I was trying out rhyme schemes with ‘cute’ (‘my guitar is my lute’, ‘I also play the flute’, ‘I have a pet newt’, ‘I’m in my birthday suit’), and before I knew it, I’d written a ballad.
A Ballad to my Daughter Playing Soccer
Well m' neighbor’s just got hisself a small cockerpoo
His front lawn is covered with a load of doo-doo
That mutt is so adorable, half poodle half cocker,
But the puppy ain’t a patch on my li’l girl playing soccer.
I’ve been to Hardy’s birthplace, a-down there in Dorset,
I’ll think of a rhyme here, though I might have to force it,
Twee cottage with a thatched roof, twee door with cute knocker
But no, nothing near so cute as my gal playing soccer.
A thing of beauty’s a joy forever, said ol’ Johnnie Keats
He was thinking of m’ daughter, in her size 2 pink cleats.
I’ll be standing on the sidelines, ‘mongst fat moms and thin dads,
Watching her run by, in her sweet li’l shin pads.
In your soccer clothes, My Honey-pie, you look awful purty
And I’ll take out an opponent if she tackles you dirty,
If I were an Aussie, I’d sure say you were beaut
But I’m here in America, so I’ll just call you cute.
I’m off to Starbucks right now, for my tall decaf mocha*
I hope I don’t end my days in Davy Jones’s locker
Ah’m just an ol’ sentimental and somewhat agin’ rocker
Who died of a cute attack, when her daughter dressed for soccer.
* I know, I know. Mocha and soccer don't rhyme, unless you have a British accent. How about 'So please don't be a scoffer, and please don't be a mocker'? Happy now?
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