I know parents who can’t wait for summer vacation.
“No more making lunches!” a mom of three rejoiced on the last day of school a few years ago.
“We’re totally sleeping in,” said the mom with twins.
Another mom chimed in with, “No nagging about homework for 2 whole months!”
There were moms who had vacations planned, or had already purchased season passes to Disneyland. They were as giddy as their kids about the end of school.
I was never one of those moms. I dreaded summer vacations. My only child NEVER slept past 6 AM. Baby D was a restless bundle of energy (and if you let it build up it would explode as destructively as possible). Continue reading Summer Vacation or Summer Purgatory (#324)
Compared to Mother’s Day, Father’s Day is pretty recent. It only exists because certain politicians got all whiny about how dads in America were bereft of recognition. Instead of self-soothing with their higher wages, or their ability to assault women with impunity, or their success despite white mediocrity, they demanded their very own holiday.
President Nixon signed Father’s Day into law in 1972. Yes, NIXON, the most corrupt U.S. President until Trump demanded Nixon hold his beer.
Mother’s Day, at best, says “thanks for all the unpaid emotional labor of child-rearing, please have this one day off.” Ironically, it often means more work for a person who is already overworked and underpaid.
Father’s Day? Father’s Day is ridiculous. We live in a damned patriarchy. Every day is Father’s Day. Continue reading Post Father’s Day Post (#323)
I thought that signing up my kid for recreational soccer meant all I’d have to sign up for would be snacks.
That’s how they get you.
AYSO always needed volunteers. They threatened to dissolve multiple teams unless parents agreed to coach. They promised the parents plenty of free training.
I gave Andy a hopeful look.
My husband said, “Hell, no. You’re the one who wanted him to play soccer.”
I caved and agreed to coach Baby D’s U6 team. Continue reading The Reluctant Coach (#292)
Baby D walked when he was 10 months old—for 3 steps. Then he ran everywhere.
“Soccer,” I yelled to Andy as I chased Baby D around the yard with a cheese stick. “As soon as he’s old enough, he’s playing soccer. Maybe that will wear him out.”
Andy yelled back, “But, honey, he doesn’t care about balls.”
This was true. Baby D did not care about sports.
Baby D only liked imaginary games. Continue reading When It Ain’t At All About the Ball (#290)