Blogless, therefore Soccer stuff

Well, shoot, I'm blogless today.

Hubster nixed the blog I had planned--it will just be delayed by a few weeks. By then I'll be able to embellish a little bit and hopefully be able to add pics along with my blatherings. Heehehe. I'm excited.

Last night we had to drive across town for the kiddo's soccer practice. The practice fields were PACKED and since coach was late we had poachers on our field. The kids didn't have the entire field to practice on, which was the whole point of moving practice in the first place. Parked cars were jammed on both sides of the street and the traffic was heavy AND fast. We almost saw a little kid get hit. Dad was crossing the street--a car had slowed down for him--and when the car accelerated, a little kid popped out from behind the car to follow the dad. Luckily, the car had just started accelerating and wasn't going too fast and braked in time.

Did the Dad pull the kid aside and rip him a new one?

No. He just kept walking and expected his kid to keep up.

What is wrong with this world?

If my kid had done that--almost got herself killed, that is--I would have grabbed her, hugged her and then ripped her a new one for not being right next to me when we crossed the street!!

I just don't get it.

I talked to my mom about raising kids a couple of days ago. Mom's almost 88 and still lives in the house she bought in 1973-the house I grew up in. She still sharp as a tack, works out three days a week and gets her nails done every week. Mom raised nine of us, I'm the youngest. The house was always neat, not necessarily clean, but neat. And we were poor, dirt poor, I remember getting a can of deodorant for a Christmas present one year. Yeah, we were that poor.

But Mom trained us well. We all finished college, some of us with advance degrees of Master's and PhD's, and none of us felt we were, or are, entitled to anything else from her. She did her job. She raised independent children.

That is my goal with my kiddo. And the training starts early, like when they are old enough to walk. I refused to pick up after my kid. Oh, I'd help her pick up, but not any longer. I'm NOT her maid.

Fast forward six years: my kiddo cleans her room and bathroom, she takes care of her contact lenses, and dries and styles her own hair, can make her own breakfast, but usually suckers me into it (I'm usually coffee deprived, what can I say?), she can make her own ramen and Mac-n-cheese. For an eight year old, she's a pretty good kid.

Well, I really can't segue this into writing, so I'll just sign off. . .
because I have to make someone's lunch for school. :-)
Write on!