“I do! I played soccer in high school!”
“Like I said, neither one of us knows anything about soccer.”
“Well, they’re only six years old, and they don’t even use a goalie. The coordinator says all we have to do is teach them to run up and down the field while kicking the ball.”
Sold.
Once Perry realized it wasn’t so much coaching as it was herding, he was ready to make the soccer coach commitment. I e-mailed the guy back and told him we would “STEP UP.” Then I turned to Perry and said, “Oh, by the way, I’m not going to be here for the first game, so you’re on your own.” Sucker.
By the time we had our first practice, Perry was like a soccer coaching pro even though he refused when I asked if he wanted me to buy him some royal-blue coaching shorts and an air horn while I was at the Academy. But he did have orange cones and everything. So while his Old Navy cargo shorts didn’t scream coach, the presence of orange cones totally made up for it.
I just knew Caroline was going to be thrilled we were coaching her team, and I couldn’t wait to tell her when I picked her up from school on Monday. “Guess what?” I said. “Daddy and I are going to coach your soccer team!”
“Are y’all going to be the only coaches?”
“Yes. We’re the only coaches.”
“Well, that might be a little embarrassing.”
Perfect. You’re not even fourteen yet, kid. You don’t know embarrassing.
But she changed her tune when I told her she could pick our team name, and she immediately wanted to christen us the Rainbow Unicorns. I told her that, while it was an awesome team name, it might be a little hard for our fans to cheer “Go Rainbow Unicorns!” Rumor has it that’s why more professional men’s teams don’t use the name.
So we became the Rainbows.
And then we were the Cheetah Girls.
And then we were the Magic.
In just one season, we had more names than Prince. But Caroline had found a sport she really enjoyed, and I tried not to let the pressure get to me when other parents started talking about academic scholarships and Olympic gold medals.
How about we teach them how to spell cereal before we decide it’s time to put their photo on the outside of the Wheaties box?
Chapter 25
Adorable Cookie Salesperson in Polyester
The school year hadn’t even started yet when I received an e-mail asking if I was interested in signing Caroline up to be part of a Brownie troop.
No. No, I am not.
But if I said that, it would be like admitting I hate puppies and boxes of fried chicken with a side of mashed potatoes. Possibly even the United States of America and democracy. Even though technically the United States is a republic. Since Caroline was only going into first grade, I wanted to remain in the category of non-ostracized society (my lack of service within the PTO already had us on the brink), so my response was vague.
(I could write an entire book on the PTO and all the ways they are masters in guilt warfare and will work you to the bone if they sense the slightest bit of weakness.)
(My best advice to you before your child enters elementary school? Learn to say no. Especially if it involves anything that ends in the words -a-thon.)
I replied, “I’m not sure if we can commit to another activity, and I certainly wouldn’t have time [or a sufficient amount of Xanax] to lead the Brownie troop, but keep me posted and we’ll see if it works out!” (I thought the exclamation point was a nice touch. It conveys that I’m excited about the possibility! Yet noncommittal!)
My strategy was twofold: if they were simply looking for some sucker to be the leader, they’d know I was nobody’s patsy. And if additional messages made me suspect they might be the type of Brownie troop that would engage in questionable behaviors like camping in the actual outdoors or helping save the environment, then I’d have the heads-up to let them know our schedule was completely packed with other things and we were just sick about having to turn down the Brownies.
Time went by, school started, and I never heard another word. Just when I started to get a complex about why Caroline and I weren’t good enough for Brownie Troop 3009, I received a phone call informing me we were in.
My celebration was short lived once I realized they used the phrase, “Congratulations, you’re in our Brownie troop.” Had there been some sort of secret Brownie rush I didn’t know about? Had they checked our credentials and evaluated the sturdiness of Caroline’s legs to see if she would be able to walk a mile to sell Samoas?
(And by Samoas, I mean the popular Girl Scout cookie, not the people.)
(Although now that I think about it, I believe they are referred to as Samoans. Whatever the case, they’re lovely people and they also make a delicious cookie.)
There was an introductory meeting for the mothers of potential Brownies, so I decided I should attend and get a little more information about the troop. I had no idea this meeting would involve more than sipping a cup of coffee and eating a pastry but instead would require completing an enormous file folder of paperwork. Apparently being part of the Girl Scouts of America is similar to entering the CIA but with more background checks.
I sat there trying to come up with excuses for why I needed to leave, the first being my silent suffering from an extreme case of carpal tunnel syndrome, but I couldn’t pull off a graceful exit. Plus, I couldn’t help but think that Caroline might really enjoy being a Brownie since there was a day back in 1977 when I proudly wore the brown uniform.
And when I say “wore the brown uniform,” I feel I should clarify I’m referring to my own tenure as a Brownie, not my career as a UPS driver. Not that I ever was a UPS driver, but there was a day when I wondered if I could make a living driving one of those big, brown trucks. I call that day the day I made a 13 on an exam in my intercultural communications class.
My affiliation with the Brownies lasted for only one school year. We met once a month at the neighborhood clubhouse. I looked forward to our meetings not only because we got to tie-dye shirts and paint ceramic turkeys but also because I got to carpool with my friend Jodi, and her mom drove one of those sweet wood-paneled station wagons with the seat that faced backward. That car made me face up to the deprivation of my childhood and all the unfairness that comes with having a mom who preferred to drive a Buick LeSabre, otherwise known as the Blue Sedan of No Fun, complete with Jimmy Swaggart eight-track tapes for our listening enjoyment.
To this day I can’t sit on a velour seat without feeling the judgment and condemnation of passing up a tearful altar call set to piano music.
I had spent my year in Brownies making bird feeders from pinecones and making faces at the cars behind us while I rode in the back of Mrs. Jones’s station wagon. Everything was fine until the day a fellow carpool member took it upon herself to inform us that there was no Santa Claus. From that day on I wanted nothing more to do with Brownies. Obviously they were all a bunch of liars because how could you doubt the validity of a man who wears a red suit and comes down your chimney once a year while he leaves his flying reindeer parked on your roof? What else would you like to tell me isn’t real? The tooth fairy? Sonny and Cher’s marriage? Donny Osmond’s ability to see me through the TV?
But I didn’t want my tainted experience to keep Caroline from being a Brownie if it was something she really wanted to do. So that night I asked, “Do you want to join a Brownie troop?”
“What are Brownies?”
“Well, it’s a group of girls who wear these brown vests and do crafts and sing songs.”
(And tell people that Santa Claus isn’t real.)
“Okay.”
How could I say no to that passionate response? I turned in all the paperwork, and we officially became part of Troop 3009.
Then I received an e-mail from the troop leader explaining we’d need to go to the Girl Scout headquarters to purchase our uniform, which is really an insult to uniforms everywhere, because since when does a brown ve
st made out of poly-blend constitute a uniform? What happened to the beanie and the shorts that would put you in therapy?
But I bought the vest and the numbers and a few obligatory patches that were all sold under the guise of being iron-ons because the Girl Scouts of America are shrewd and know their little troops of cookie pushers would be decimated if mothers realized they’d actually have to sew on the patches. (And, no, I didn’t sew on the patches. That’s what safety pins and superglue are for. How am I going to have time to pluck my eyebrows if I’m taking remedial sewing courses to show me how to sew on Brownie patches?)
One of the qualities that sold me on joining this particular Brownie troop was the promise that it would be a low-maintenance troop. We’d meet the first Friday of every month, and two mothers would take turns hosting the meeting. The first meeting went fine. It was what a Brownie meeting should be, which is to say that the girls made bracelets out of empty toilet paper rolls and ribbon, drank some Capri Suns, and had a few cookies. Perfect. Low maintenance, just as promised.
But then came the next meeting.
It was billed as a focus on promoting a healthy lifestyle. And honestly, I’m not opposed to a healthy lifestyle, as long as no one expects me to eat a carrot. What you choose to put in your digestive tract is your own personal business, so please don’t judge me for my love of Mrs. Baird’s Cinnamon Rolls and Tater Tots.
We arrived at the meeting, and I immediately knew I was in over my head when I saw fourteen yoga mats formed in a semicircle. And worse, upon closer inspection, I discovered they were each personally monogrammed. On every mat there were little hot-pink boxes that resembled Chinese takeout containers filled with some assortment of dried snack mix. What the actual heck? Was this a Brownie meeting or an episode of The Martha Stewart Show?
The mom in charge of the meeting asked the girls to sit on their yoga mats and watch while she put on a yoga demonstration. Sure, it was impressive that she could balance her entire body weight on her head, but it didn’t really seem like the best move to teach to a group of impressionable, uncoordinated first graders whose parents might not want to spend a fortune in chiropractic treatments. I’m also not sure that the original yoga gurus intended for their meditative poses to be performed while listening to Miley Cyrus belt out “Party in the USA.”
After the yoga demonstration was over, the host mothers filled the girls in on the importance of dental hygiene. It should have been no surprise that each girl received her very own light-up toothbrush that blinks for the amount of time you should brush your teeth. We took home more parting gifts than a contestant on The Price Is Right.
Actually, that’s not true, because I am a master of The Price Is Right. All those years of watching Plinko and that little mountain climber game at Me-Ma and Pa-Pa’s house totally paid off. I have no doubt that, if given the chance, I could win a new car. I’d like to believe that I could also win the Showcase Showdown, but so much of it boils down to the luck of spinning the big wheel as opposed to pure skill. And for all I know, the entire format of The Price Is Right is totally different now that Drew Carey has taken over. I quit watching when Bob Barker left, because he totally made that whole show. “Don’t forget to spay and neuter your pets!”
At the conclusion of the dental lesson came a lecture on the dangers of smoking. It was your standard surgeon general talk: smoking is bad. It will kill you. It makes your teeth yellow. People who smoke might go to hell or, worse, drive an El Camino. The usual. But right as the discussion was winding down, I saw Caroline’s hand pop up in the air. The mom in charge said, “Caroline, do you have a question?”
“No. But I just wanted to say that all my mom’s cousins smoke.”
(And some of them have been known to drive El Caminos.)
Perfect. Between that admission and the fact I wasn’t planning to offer any monogrammed take-home items at the Brownie meeting I would eventually have to host, I felt sure we had just relegated ourselves to Troop 3653, also known as the White Trash Brownies.
But let’s be honest. The Brownies weren’t going to kick us out due to some smoking cousins. Sure, those other moms might have been horrified by the smoking revelation, but they needed every warm body they could get to push those cookies. Those Thin Mints don’t sell themselves.
Actually, that’s not true. Those cookies totally sell themselves. I think they might contain some sort of addictive substance.
Much like cigarettes.
As it turned out, we didn’t get kicked out of Brownies even though I ended up having to pay thirty-six dollars out of my own pocket because we had a cookie deficit. (I’m sure it wasn’t due to any stress-eating of the Do-si-dos as we walked door to door.)
Caroline and I were on the way to our last meeting of the school year when she said, “Mama, there has got to be something more fun to do than Brownies.”
Preach it, sister.
Not to mention that no one ever got a college scholarship or ended up on a box of Wheaties for their ability to paint ceramic turkeys.
We’re sticking to soccer. Or swimming. Or maybe volleyball.
Olympics 2020? I have a good feeling about you.
Chapter 26
Caroline, the Witch, & the Wardrobe
This isn’t a documented statistic, but I believe when women find out they’re going to have a baby girl, at least 98 percent of them envision a wardrobe full of smocked dresses and bows. And, yes, it’s heavenly to dress up your daughter like she’s your own personal baby doll for the first three years of her life. Then you wake up one day and, with no warning, she suddenly has an opinion. An opinion that usually involves a plaid purple skirt with an orange-and-green-striped shirt and royal-blue knee socks.
It’s a look I like to call hobo chic.
Which, frankly, is probably an insult to hobos everywhere.
I should have known I was in trouble when Caroline’s preschool teachers informed me she walked in every morning, promptly handed them the bows from her hair, and said, “No, thank you.” But I was in denial and continued to buy darling outfits that actually matched for years before I finally accepted it was a lost cause.
Khalil Gibran offers these insights about children:
You may give them your love but not your thoughts,
For they have their own thoughts.
You may house their bodies but not their souls,
For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow, which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.
You may strive to be like them, but seek not to make them like you.
Yes. All of that. And I would add that you can’t pick out their clothes once they decide Gap tights with a bear on the bottom aren’t really the style statement they want to make.
Once Caroline began kindergarten, I discovered through a lot of trial and error that the most pain-free way to get her dressed in the morning was to offer three wardrobe options for the day. I’d walk through the kitchen on the way to the living room, holding the offerings I’d procured from her closet, and whisper to Perry, “I’m going in. Say a prayer for me.” And he’d look at me as if he wanted to tell me I was the bravest woman he’d ever met. Either that or he was wondering why I was talking to him while he was looking at bargain-priced ammo online.
Most days Caroline sized up the three choices, made some editorial changes to the suggested accessories, and ultimately wore one of the outfits. But then there were the other days. The days she dismissed all my choices with a wave of her hand and said, “None of those!” in a tone that indicated she couldn’t believe I didn’t have the supernatural ability to sense that she was so over leggings right now even though she loved them yesterday.
Then one day as I made my way back to the living room, holding three different outfits on hangers, the absurdity of the situation dawned on me. And it only took three years.
Suddenly I felt very much like Mary Boleyn. Except without the affair with a power-hungry king and the corsets. I had become Caroline’s very own la
dy-in-waiting. I picked out her clothes, I fixed her hair, and I made sure she had everything she needed before she walked out the door.
And I didn’t mind doing any of these things. I’m a mom. It’s what I do.
But on that particular morning, as I humbly offered the three outfits carefully chosen from her closet, Caroline looked at me and said, “The problem is you and I don’t have the same taste. I don’t like any of these choices.”
I might have become slightly unhinged. Don’t mess with a woman who has just slaved over a dry bowl of Lucky Charms and cut the crusts off a ham-and-cheese sandwich.
“Well, if you don’t like what I’ve picked out, then you can go look in your closet and choose your own outfit. It doesn’t matter to me.”
It was true. Yes, there was a time when I desperately wanted her to wear certain outfits with matching bows in her hair and all the right accessories. But that was before I was worn down by life and decided to settle for anything that didn’t make her look like a contestant on Toddlers & Tiaras or a Bratz doll.
So she walked into her room, and I waited to see what she would choose. And I waited.
And I waited.
After ten minutes passed, I walked in to find her twirling around in front of her mirror. Still wearing her pajamas. And a tiara.
I was a donkey on the edge.
“Why aren’t you dressed? We have to leave in two minutes!”
“I don’t know what I want to wear.”
I made a few more suggestions that she greeted with, “Or what else?” And I desperately wished that I could do something simpler, like broker a deal for peace in the Middle East.
Finally Perry came in to intervene and told her to put on a shirt with a pair of jeans. He might have also told me I needed to settle down. I can’t remember because I had to put my head between my knees to keep from blacking out.
After the madness of the morning, I decided Mary Boleyn needed to come up with a better solution. Our mornings had become increasingly filled with wardrobe drama, and I’d even been tempted to homeschool just so we could stay in our pajamas.
Sparkly Green Earrings Page 15