Tonight, I close the book on a decade of parenting. Baba’s missing a few teeth, quite a bit of hair—do red heads shed extra or something—and an appendix. She can read and is potty trained, so I’m considering the last ten years an acceptable success.

About four years ago, Baba decided that she was done with soccer. I, attempting to be a responsible parent, told her that she needed to finish out the season, and then she could be done. By the end of the season, she was back loving soccer. As a result, she spent her tenth birthday at a five hour soccer camp put on by the local professional soccer team. She also requested soccer ball birthday cake. I spent the day regretting my attempt to be a responsible parent.

I don’t really mind the soccer camp. Except that it’s three days, and it’s far enough from the house that I don’t want to spend the gas driving back and forth. And I will be carting Mac and X-Man around for five hours, including to the doctor’s office, where they’re watching me for high blood pressure—it’s like they don’t even pay attention to my life or something—so it’s not like I’m even getting a break. Although, I shouldn’t complain today, the boys were with the father figure. X-Man discovered how to make it out the front door, and that includes flipping the deadbolt, and Mac summersaulted into the printer and broke it. So maybe hauling them about the county isn’t such a bad idea.

Then there’s the soccer ball cake. I had an image in my mind. And I pointedly avoided Pintrest. Pintrest makes me want to kill myself. Well actually, Pintrest makes me want to cook a week’s worth of healthy crockpot meals for my family, then kill myself.  There’s only so much leeway you have when the request is a vanilla cake with key lime frosting. And I couldn’t really remember the pattern on a soccer ball. Fortunately, I can still impress a ten year old. I’m going to be so lost when they actually expect things from me. And Oreos make an acceptable soccer ball.

She’s now ten, which means I have to do the things I’ve been putting off.  Apparently, as my mother in law informed me recently, Italians tend to mature faster than say….Irish folk. So there are issues that need to be addressed, lessons that need to be taught. And I’m back to cooking crockpot meals and hoping to sleep through the next decade. While discussing these issues with the father figure, who was desperately trying to fall asleep or pass away himself rather than face the reality, the issue of makeup came up. Or rather, I, attempting to be a good mother, asked the father figure for his thoughts on makeup. The conversation went something like this:

“When do you think they should start wearing makeup?”

“They don’t need make up!!!”

“Yes, they don’t need it right now, but they’ll want to wear it someday.”

“They wear nail polish, what else do they want? Baba can’t put anything on her skin, it’s too perfect.”

“True, but they’ll probably want cover up at some point.”

“I never broke out as a teenager.”

“Oh really, that’s what you’re going with. I didn’t need make up so no make up for you!”

“Why do they want anything other than nail polish.”

“I didn’t say they did, I’m saying that they will someday. I’m thinking fourteen, high school.”

“That sounds good. But only for special occasions and they can’t wear it outside of the house.”

“Yeah, I don’t think telling your home schooled daughters that they only get to wear makeup on special occasions at school is going to be what they’re looking for.”

“I don’t want them wearing it around boys. Ever.”

I think this upcoming decade is going to be way more rugged. Probably more grey hairs involved. I’m kinda looking forward to watching father figure hoe this row. But I’m mean like that.