So Long, Soccer Saturdays

I cannot in any honesty say that I will miss you.

I love my children, and this season has shown us that two of the younger ones have some serious soccer skillz, but I think that the time of games and practices ended just in time. I have a strong sense that one more game, at 9:00 a.m. on Saturday morning would have put me over the edge, and I would have arrived, pulled in a little red wagon by my children, laughing maniacally, pulling my hair and swigging from a flask.

(Here is where Mr. Crib Chick would wryly ask how that's any different from a normal Saturday.)

My apologies, loyal readers (if I have any left), for the long spate between entries. I've been busy, thankfully, with deadlines and trying to make sure my children don't leave home unable to read or tie their shoes.

And I've discovered that in my case, at least, "Work at Home Mom" is somewhat of a misnomer. I am based at home, yes, but it's almost impossible to work from here, exclusively.

Once upon a time, we had a home office. And I used it. But then, in a fit of graciousness, we transformed it into a bedroom for "Peep" #1, the oldest girl.

So now, the home computer sits in the living room. You can imagine how this works when you have five children, with no sense of boundaries or personal space. I mean, yes, I have a laptop, but even then I can only go into the bedroom, where the arguments and whining and pleas for food are still audible.

Thusly, the library and Panera become my "home office". Panera is no good for my waistline ("Hurrah! I reached 1200 words! I'll reward myself with a chocolate pastry!"), and the library is no good for my relationship with my fellow man. ("How many surly teenagers can fill a small town library at any given time?").

Yet...it all gets done. Somehow. With only a minor number of meltdowns.

North and South

Okay, I'm not talking about the Patrick Swayze miniseries, here, or even the totally awesome BBC adaptation of the Elizabeth Gaskell novel, but rather a commentary on my mixed marriage. You see, Mr. Crib Chick spent most of his childhood in rural Minnesota, and I was raised in the great state of Oklahoma.

North and South.

There are many ways in which our union has exhibited its fundamental differences, but one of the most visible is the naming of children.

Mr. Crib Chick's criteria for a Good Child Name:

Does it forestall mockery from other children? Can it easily follow the title of Mr./Ms. President? Is it a tribute to the memory of upstanding family members past?

The Crib Chick's criteria for a Good Child Name:

Can it be yelled in one breath? Specifically, is it less than three syllables total, with the middle name preferably only one of those syllables? ("Jo", "Ann", "Bob", etc.)

Does it roll off of the tongue when hissed in a grocery store? Does it honor a NASCAR driver, or Biblical figure?

Okay...I kid. A bit.

But it's only one of the ways that our mixed North/South marriage shows its differences.

Another way is speech patterns.

Mr. Crib Chick is slow of speech and therefore has a decided disadvantage when it comes argument time. I know that many of you have the idea that Southerners have a slow molasses drawl, but remember...I'm from the Southwest. Which is different. We don't have a drawl, we have a twang. And a "twang" is the same sound that a bow makes when it shoots an arrow.

Think Boomhauer, vs. Scarlett O'Hara. (From the Wikipedia article about Boomhauer, one of the regulars on King of the Hill: "Boomhauer’s speech patterns are nearly incomprehensible to the untrained audience and serve as a recurring theme. He mumbles and invariably uses the words "dang ol’" as an all-purpose adjective, sometimes several times in a single sentence. He uses the phrases "I tell ya what" and "man" frequently.")

All of which I find quite useful in the Making of Points. (Mr. Crib Chick simply finds it confusing. After all, we're talking about the man who needed me to TRANSLATE for him once, when watching The Good Old Boys. True story.)

And yet, we make it work.

One of our children has a one-syllable middle name, thanks to my ceaseless advocacy. (Another has a one-syllable middle nickname, thanks to my ceaseless cunning.) Others have handles that can be screamed into the backseat of the car, and hold Christian names that would serve them well should they become our country's Commander in Chief.

An exercise in compromise. That's what it is.

Inspiring, ain't it?