Sunday Sweetness

Sunday mornings: laying in bed, snuggled into my pillows, waking to the aroma of coffee brewing, sifting into my sleeping senses.

Kurt is carefully planning our usual Sunday feast and working quietly in the kitchen while the sun's morning rays are beckoning me to wake.

Our cats, Buckaroo and Hollister are yawning and stretching at my feet while our Boxers are in the kitchen (no doubt) intoxicated by the scent of pancakes and sausage.

I wake up, brush my teeth and wash my face. I pull my hair back into a haphazard bun and head into the kitchen. I pass Cameron in the front room playing a video game. I know without having to ask that he has been up for sometime. He has learned to be patient on the weekends. I am thankful he doesn't insist on waking us up at the crack of dawn. My weekdays begin at 5:30 so it's nice that on weekends I can sleep until 8:30.

The teenagers are still in slumber, but I know both Allie and Marshall will be awake soon, lured out of sleep by their dad's famous Sunday Breakfast.

I love these mornings. They are quiet and peaceful.

Soon we'll be getting ready for the soccer game and behaving in our normal soccer hooligan fashion along the sidelines, cheering for Allison and her team. I look forward to those moments too.

The girls are older now and watching them play thrills me and makes me proud. I don't coach anymore but I can throw down one hell of a cheer when they score! The girls love it - even if they grin in embarrassment. Once I didn't do my cheer after a goal and instead of celebrating with one another they turned to me and yelled, "Where's our cheer??!" I love those girls.

I am going to surely go through withdrawls when Allison starts high school this fall. No more attending practices, no more raising my eyebrow when Isabella utters profanity on the field, no more holding their cell phones and making sure they have their water bottles, no more comforting them when they are injured or have a bad day.



I'll no longer be on the side lines encouraging them as they run past heading for the goal; I'll be 50ft away sitting on a bleacher.

Ugh. I'm going to hate that, But for now, I am going to cheer the loudest and still be there to call them by their full names when their little smart mouths start running.

I do love those girls.

another clue

I was reading through my FB homepage this morning and stopped at my dad's. It was a story he was sharing about his first vehicle. A 1965 VW bus painted red and white with a peace sign on the rear and both sides, and Budweiser curtains hanging up. The seats had been removed to accommodate his Suzuki 100 dirt bike that he rode while he lived in Kansas.

Three things:
1.) never knew what my dad's first car was. Isn't that supposed to be a major topic of conversation amongst dads and teens (girls and boys) when getting around driving age?
2.) didn't know my dad lived in Kansas. When - was he born there? Shit - I don't even know WHERE he was born.
3.) didn't know my dad was a Hippie that rode a dirt bike. All I knew was he enlisted into the Army and went to Vietnam (which I know nothing about either).

I can't explain the feelings that up welled within me. It was like sharing a moment -a moment meant for fathers and daughters only; a moment that was meant for me at 15 years old.

I wanted to post a reply that hurt him as much as I was hurting in that instant. I wanted him to feel the hole inside that I felt. I wanted to make that sadness fill up with revengeful sarcasm.

Those moments passed years ago and they are gone.

I have no real point to this - just a moment passed that I missed.

Happy Easter

Easter is coming faster that I would have liked. Another holiday to hurry and up and wait for.

It never fails... every year I have the best intentions to get all the shopping done on time and sit back, relax, and wait for the moments to come. However, that would just be too damn easy for my mindset.

I find myself at 11 o'clock at night, rolling my eyes at the back of some idiot's head in the checkout line, because they are exchanging recipes with the cashier, all the while the eggs in my cart all but seem to have incubated and hatched. I should be more patient, but honestly, it is a bit rude not to take into consideration that procrastinators (such as myself) are on borrowed time.

I think there should be time limits at checkout lines. If you can't get it right the first time, you have to go to the end of the line. In fact, I'll take it further. They should have a line set up special for those that A): cannot count past 10 items, and B): have screaming children throwing themselves into a limp mess on the floor, faces so red you wonder how long it will be before they pass out.
I do feel for these moms and dads. I am a mom so I know, that like C4, a child can blow - leaving you there, shell shocked, with waves of embarrassment radiating off of you like radon.

I had that happen to me once - and only once. Cameron was 10 months old. Instead of finishing my transaction. I simply took him in my arms, took my purse, and walked out of the store (of course only to realize I left my car keys dangling in the cart I had abandoned). That was a fun day.

I end up smiling warily and shuffle forward, secretly wishing 42inch tires and an obnoxious air horn were mounted on my shopping cart.

I get home, go to my closet and proceed to stuff eggs with chewy gelatin byproducts. As I am filling the eggs my mind begins to roam, as it usually does when I am doing mindless tasks.

I can't for the life of me figure out who in the Hell would have thought it a great idea to make a jelly bean that tasted like buttered popcorn. I love popcorn - and the more butter the better, but in a jelly bean? That's just wrong. I snicker and tell myself that must be what the Easter Bunny brings all the bad little girls and boys.

After my legs are fairly numb from sitting cross legged for so long, meticulously placing even numbers into each egg (because Lord help me if one gets more than the other) I stretch out and take in the Easter carnage laying on my closet floor.

I gather all of the empty bags and plastic wrappers to throw them away. I have to shove them to the bottom of the garbage so the kids won't notice the Easter Bunny has used their local Wal Mart to do their Easter shopping, and because Cameron has learned to look through to see if I have thrown any of his things away. Let me clarify. I don't throw his toys away - that would be heartless. I throw out things such as trucks with three wheels, or broken crayons. For whatever reason, he - like his father - cannot get rid of anything.

I place the baskets neatly on the dining room table and wait for the morning to come. That moment, the moment where they come from their rooms, grinning and giggling, in a full run to see what goodies were delivered during the night, is what makes it all worth it.