I thought that tonight was going to be a decent night to get in a good update. As exhausting as it may be, I like going to errrrry single sporting event that these kids of mine are in. With three in soccer and one playing football, this generally means that on every night Monday-Friday, we’re attending one or more game. How we manage to split two parents among three or four games is a mystery. We do it, but I don’t know how. It’s like laundry. I don’t know how the hell a tsunami of laundry just *poof* appears, but it does. It’s black magic. (<—Ho, it really is black magic (but not the evil, chicken feathers kind) because we’re black and…nevermind.)
Needless to say, the kids have been keeping us running. Tonight my sensible husband said, “Jaiden is the only one with a game tonight, and it’s an away game. It will be after 9 before we get home. Kyra doesn’t want to go, and Jordan and Kaelyn don’t need to stay out that late. You should stay home with them.”
Um, yeah. Twist my flarkin’ arm.
“YES!” I thought to myself. In this rare moment in which I had no papers to grade, no Aiming Low posts to write or edit, and no psycho soccer/football mom duties to attend to, I thought for sure I’d get to sit and write something a bit more eloquent than a babbling stream of consciousness. I did a self-congratulatory moonwalk…
…and bumped right into Jordan, who was standing there holding project guidelines for a poster about a Native American tribe of his choosing.
“Hey, Mom–howzabout you help me with my Inuit project tonight? It’s not due until Thursday, but I have Gifted on Thursday, so I want to do extra work on it tonight so that I can turn it in a day early on Wednesday. And I won’t have too much time to work on it tomorrow because we have soccer games, so it only makes sense to do most of it tonight.”
There are sinews called Procrastination and Mediocrity that run down the back of my neck, and they pinged with the halfassishness that makes me the laid-back gangsta that I am. I fought back with the Bone of Parental Responsibility and congratulated my 9-year-old on his foresight and motivation because at his age, I would have scraped a chunk of ice from the deep freezer, slammed it down on the desk and said, “Inuits made igloos out of that,” and called it a day.
So, it’s Jordan’s fault why you have to be subjected to this poor excuse of a post. Something is better than nothing, right? Besides, I know you’ve missed me, haven’t you? It’s okay; you can admit it.
I have made a commitment to myself to devote at least three hours a week to writing here in my own space. At some point in time this week, I’ll tell you all about how I’ve just bitten off another chunk of crazy, and I’ll do a major Minion update. Most of what little life I do have is what part I play in theirs. This is not to minimize how ballsome it is to be their mom, but it is a note on how I realized this weekend that the only thing I do for myself that doesn’t involve being a mom or wife or teacher is my writing here and on Aiming Low. I mean, really–I don’t even get to poop in peace.
Speaking of Aiming Low, one thing that I am doing all by myself is attending the Non-Conference next week. I can’t even begin to describe how excited I am about this. Aside from the fact that it’s my first blogging conference, I’m going to be a speaker/roundtable leader. I finally get to meet writers (and Aiming Low co-writers) whom I’ve long-admired. Even though I’ll be there like a boss with a nifty “staff” badge, I’m totally going to be that slack-jawed, awestruck geek who casts sideways, furtive glances at people like Anissa Mayhew while saying dorky nonsense like, “I can’t believe she’s real.” I will fight the urge to reach out and pet her hair to be sure that I’m not dreaming. (See? Dorky.)
The best part? I’m rooming with Dresden. She has assured me that despite my aversion of not using my own toilet to do anything more than peeing, I should be perfectly comfortable to drop deuces without 1) concentration-breaking bangs on the door, and 2) the compulsion to wither from embarrassment.
She’s promised to bring matches , and I’m bringing a can of air freshener. Hopefully, we’ll avoid blowing ourselves up and burning down the whole resort.
I designed some blogger business cards to make myself feel more badass and less dork.
Why, yes – the back of my biz cards do have a membership card. Want to be an official member of my posse? Do one of the following to give me a message with your snail mail address, and I’ll send you one:
If you’ve already given yourself a gangsta name, send that, too. If you don’t, I’ll give you one. Word.
So tell – what’s good in your ‘hood, lately?