Soccer Central
If we’re not available, think soccer. If you call, and we’re out, think soccer. If you wonder what we’ve been up to all weekend … yup, soccer.
Soccer has always been important to Kevin, but over the past number of years it’s also become increasingly important to other family members, too. For five years, Kevin coached a group of neighbourhood kids in the park, once a week, spring and summer, weather permitting. Then, last year, a change: the big kids decided to play house league soccer, too; Kevin continued to coach soccer in the park, but the little kids showed minimal interest in participating (which was one of the reasons we’d decided to continue). So, soccer in the park came to its natural end.
Only to be replaced by soccer year-round, apparently.
In the fall, both big kids did soccer skills once a week, and Kevin played on his indoor team. In the winter, AppleApple also went to a goalie skills camp once a week; she hoped to make the U9 rep team as a goalie, which she did, this spring, and that’s when her thrice-weekly practices began. Kevin signed on to coach Albus’s house league team. And the weeks of non-stop soccer continued: often, we’d have only one soccer-free evening.
On Saturday, under a withering sun, Kevin and Albus’s shared season ended, with some disappointment; due to a wet spring, they’d really just started going full tilt. But don’t worry, there’s still plenty of soccer to be had … and imagine our scheduling acrobatics as the little kids show increasing interest in the sport.
*I’m even considering joining a co-ed team with Kevin this winter to get in on the action.*
Forgetting, Remembering
Last week was a hard one for me. Home alone (with the children), I thought, well, I’ll think of it as a holiday. But it didn’t feel like a holiday. It felt like me, home alone with the children, with no writing time. It felt like in one short week, I’d lost the ability to talk coherently to grownups. My patience was thin. My envy of anyone with a job outside the home was thick. Note to all mothers of young children who read this blog and wonder how the heck I do the things that I do: I do those things while other people look after my children. There’s no secret to it, really. When I’m home alone with my children, I can barely string together a sentence without interruption. It’s a recipe for madness, not for insightful thought.
(I write this while one child quizzes me in multiple choice form and we all stare out the window at a man with a hammer breaking apart some copper piping in front of our house — not our piping, but I’m guessing he didn’t come by it honestly; but as I’m sitting in my bathing suit because it’s really really hot, and though the kids have suggested it, I’m not going to approach the man with the hammer to ask what he’s doing on our sidewalk).
Productive? Holiday?
Neither, really. But this morning, I got up early and went to a yoga class: my first in nearly two weeks. A short list for mental survival arrived. I must write this down and remember it, I thought. Why is it so hard to remember the little things that make life better? And then to step out of inertia to do them?
– yoga, for meditation and quiet thought
– writing, journalling
– reading poetry
– friends
And while this week alone with children is not a holiday, and it’s not going to be productive work-wise either, it is time with my children, unstructured together-time. We made an attempt at an adventure this morning. It didn’t really turn out (too many mosquitoes), but everyone enjoyed it. “This really is an adventure!” someone said, as we fled the woods amidst a storm of bugs. This week, I’m going to write a bit more, hang out a bit more, and yoga a bit more. And not try to wish this summer into something it’s not.
Snacktime
The black-raspberry canes in our back yard are enjoying a fruitful season. Which makes for an excellent serve-yourself anytime snack. The very definition of local food. Get ’em while the gettin’s good.
And if you’re of an entrepreneurial spirit, like AppleApple, you’ll spend a good half hour on a Saturday picking a pint of berries to sell to your mother (even better, you’ll employ your younger siblings at one penny per berry picked).
Horse camp
This child has not had a day of hanging around the house doing nothing since school ended two weeks ago. The very next day, we dove directly into our Canada Day camping trip; two days after that, we delivered her and her older brother to a wonderful overnight camp for another week of adventure away from home; from which her dad picked her up super-early last Saturday for a two-hour drive to a two-day soccer tournament (she got car-sick on the way to the tournament, and went on to play three back-to-back games looking not a bit like her usual self; thankfully, all was well by Sunday’s game); and on Monday morning, bright and early, the little kids and I drove her out to the country to the much-anticipated horse camp.
For the week, she got “her own” pony: this sweet brown mare named Lola. She learned how to ride in proper English style, how to hold the reins, and keep her heels lowered in the stirrups, and how to do a rising trot. She also got to ride a horse while it swam in a pond on the farm. How cool is that?
This morning, she said, “Tomorrow, I’ll get to do nothing at all at home.”
“Your brother has his soccer tournament, and we’re all going to go.”
“Well, Sunday, then.”
“He might make it into the semi-finals.”
“Then I kinda hope he doesn’t–“
At which point I stopped her, because that was exactly her brother’s attitude toward her tournament the previous weekend; and because, though I get the sentiment, we’re trying to foster a mutually supportive environment here. Everybody on board, please.
“Okay, well, Monday, then I’ll get to do nothing.”
“Swim lessons,” said her dad.
“So when do I get to do nothing?”
Luckily for her, I’m pretty sure swim lessons don’t start until Tuesday. So she can have a full day to do nothing. And swim lessons aren’t exactly rigorous — it’s our one guaranteed daily activity, biking to the pool and getting to swim. And then she can keep doing nothing for the entire month of August, because this is it: the last planned camp of the summer.
The definition of a perfect summer afternoon
Yesterday: five boys in the back yard, already semi-bored from summer holidaying, looking for fun, finding it spontaneously. Four ten-year-olds welcoming the three-year-old into the group. After the splashing and the snacking, they retreat to the basement. The three-year-old emerges, flushed and sweaty, requesting his shirt off, and races back down again, shouting, “I’m a bad guy now, too!” “Um, what are you doing down there?” “Playing a battling game.” “Okaaaaay …” (As long as no one gets hurt.) (No one gets hurt.) From basement battling to board game in the living-room: Mama eavesdropping on the goofy, happy conversation. Finally, Mama needs to leave to pick up the girls, one at a play date and the other at horse camp. “We can stay home alone.” “Yah, I’ve stayed home alone a lot.” “Me, too.” “It’s okay.” “Right, well. No. Not gonna happen. You’ll have to find another plan.” So, five boys walk down the sidewalk and around the corner — even the three-year-old, who refuses to be left behind — to someone else’s house, to keep on playing. (Mama retrieves the pleased-as-punch three-year-old once they’ve reached their destination; and drives off to horse camp thinking of boys at a not-quite-in-between-age in damp swim suits on a front porch, playing Apples to Apples; and one of those boys is hers).