Tuesday, June 18, 2013

I came home recently to find the father figure’s wedding ring sitting by the computer. It hurt his hand, he said. I opined that that was a fitting metaphor for marriage in general.  I might have also muttered something about delicate baby princess hands. Because I’m nice like that.

Then it was Friday and I had a list a mile long to prepare for our soccer tournament at the beach. Yes, the beach. So of course the father figure texts me and asks me to bring his wedding ring to him at work.  I gave it to him once, eleven years ago, I understood the deal to be it was his responsibility from here on out. I texted him back, couldn’t he just get it when he came back? Then he called me, and asked me to bring it. I guess he thought that once he slipped into his form fitting, oh so flattering brown uniform, he was completely irresistible to the ladies. All the ladies. Always. Or at least that’s the way he chose to play it that way, casually commenting “Well I figured you would want me to wear it.” Not 45 minutes out of my way wanted you to.

Chasing down a UPS truck to return the driver’s wedding ring strikes me as the story line to a bad soap opera. Which might explain why it factored into my life.

So, soccer in the sand. Fun concept, execution pretty challenging. I observed that a sizeable majority of the teams were local teams, who had also traveled two hours and spent the night so we could all play each other. I’m not sure why we couldn’t dump a couple of tons of sand in a parking lot and call it good. But then how would I learn that X-Man is scared of sand. Like high pitched scream scared, can’t let go of the wagon because the sand will touch my delicate feets scared.

Life is all about claiming the small victories, and in this case it is the fact that while I resemble a poached lobster, my tiny humans do not. Although that did not reassure my mother, who, after seeing me said “Oooh what does the baby look like?” Her lack of confidence in me is disappointing.

It was father’s day, and what father doesn’t want to spend the weekend at the beach, watching soccer and admiring the muscle cars that lined the main street. And be given a card lovingly hand made by Baby. It was a picture of Baby and the father figure complete with cotton ball heads, pipe cleaner arms and legs and eyes and mouths (we had to go to three different stores to find the right colors) and hair. Real hair. That she saved after she brushed her hair and carefully glued to the card. There’s a lot of hair and it sticks out of the card at all angles.

The creativity doesn’t come from me. I know that much. The excess hair, yeah that’s from me. 

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