(Disclaimer: I actually stole this post from my other blog; I’m busy today. Sue me.)
I attended my first soccer game. Ever.
My ten year old was playing.
It was his first soccer game, also.
Lest you feel bad that you weren’t invited, rest assured that had he recognized anyone else on the sidelines, he probably would have walked home in his cleats. Nothing personal; he just does not consider being soundly whipped to be a real social occasion.
Someone pulled him out near the break–halftime?–whatever you call that interval where the kids are supposed to be catching their breath but really they are just playing soccer still, but off the field and with more balls, and the parents sit on the sidelines and shiver and wish someone would just get the game going again. Anyway. They must have told him that a defender can actually leave the immediate goal area, because during the second half he started to resemble more than an additional goal post.
I just want to let you know that I left all my books in the van. Nor did I sit and gab with any of the other parents huddled on the sidelines.
I actually watched the game. Kudos to moi.
But when I came home and had read with the kids, it was really, really dark by the time I went outside for my walk–not to mention threatening rain–and so I rode the elliptical that is gathering dust in my neighbor’s garage until there was sweat pooling in my socks.
(Eww. I know you wanted to know that.)
Point being: who should be waiting for me when I was done, but the three legged dog!! I kid you not. He was sitting on the back step, waiting. He growled. I growled. He ran away.
I am woman, hear me roar.
(Oh, and to all you voxers out there–I did add you all to some readomatic or blogsurfer or something, but you still aren’t showing up unless I go into the guts of this thing; I know I’ve seen blogrolls on the sides of these things before. Still getting there…)