Subourbon Mom

Sadness Brownies and other Spring Quotes

As many of you know, spring is an especially crazy time of year in our house: sports seasons wind down (“Has anyone seen soccer my jerseys? They were due yesterday…”) and start up simultaneously (“What do you mean none of your riding pants fit?”); prom (“A new dress is going to cost How Much???”) and general hormonal mayhem ensue (“I’m going to put all my projects off until I stress-cry”); and preschoolers finally start losing it with each other (Teacher: “Why did you poke him?” Child: “I don’t like him anymore.”).

So, my apologies for not posting for a while. I haven’t started stress crying yet, but it’s only because I don’t have time. Even now, you’re only going to get what I like to call a window post—I’m just going to give you a peek through the window of my life, so you can see what I’ve been hearing over the last couple of weeks…

Daughter #2: “Mom, if you hadn’t married Dad, we’d be ugly.”


Daughter #2:  “I’m going to make sadness brownies.”   A week later: “I’m going to make sickness brownies.”


Daughter #1 (driving) to Daughter #2 (behind her in the back seat): “Stop pressing on my seatbelt with your toes!”

Daughter #2: “You can feel that?”

Daughter#1: “Yes. It’s pressing into my ovaries!”


Me to Daughters: “The dishwasher makes things smell because you don’t rinse your dishes. Eggs turn into cement of you just throw the plate in the sink.”

Daughter #1: “Well, why did Dad get that dishwasher?”

Me: “It’s super-quiet and has a delay setting.”

Daughter #1: “It’s super-quiet because it’s not cleaning anything.”


Next post….”Underwear and how many pairs women supposedly have” (working title)…seriously, that’s the next one…enjoy your week beneath the fine powder of pollen.


My Heart Wears Soccer Shorts
April 25, 2013, 11:36 am
Filed under: Exercise, Middle Age, Parenting, Sports | Tags: , , , , , , , , , ,

There’s the old saying that you shouldn’t wear your heart on your sleeve.  There’s another one that says teens wear their hearts on InstaGram (#need40likes). My heart has been running around in either a pair of soccer shorts or a pair of horseback riding breeches for the last several years, and in diapers and training pants before that.

A year or so ago, I watched from across the soccer field as Daughter #1 desperately tried to suck in air during an asthma attack. It was a terrible feeling, knowing what was happening, but unable to help. My heart was lying on that field, and there was nothing I could do to make her stop being scared or keep her from hurting.  Now, we know to watch for the telltale signs, and even her coaches say, “Go take a puff so you can get back in here.” But this past weekend, after the pollen cloud descended upon us that could have come straight out of a Stephen King movie (think “The Fog”), I listened to Daughter #1 reach a new height of coughing and hacking. After a couple of long nights, we went to the local kids’ Doc-in-a-Box.

When Daughter #1 asked why she still had to go to the pediatric doctor, I said, “I think it’s cleaner, and we’ve probably had most of the germs floating around in there anyway.”

Daughter #1 was not thrilled with that explanation.

Her opinion sank even farther as we walked in and stood in the full waiting room, watching toddlers and preschoolers run around with green noses and tired parents clutching smeared wads of tissues and half-eaten bags of Cheerios.

“I’ll stand,” she muttered.

Only at the end of the visit did I manage to find the “hanitizer” as someone called it.

While we waited to be seen, I theorized to myself what a brilliant business model these places are. They perpetuate their business by opening on off-hours (when most kids do stupid things like shove raisins up their noses); they charge outrageously (I assume to attract doctors willing to work off-hours) and parents are willing to pay in order to get some relief for their child; and they are such a Petri dish of fluid, germs and general grossness that you are bound to return in a few days with new symptoms.

Four prescriptions and one breathing treatment later, I was marveling at the wonder that is better living through chemistry.

Last week, my heart was on the soccer field again, racing around in the form of Daughter #2. A fearless goalie, she took a hard shot to the face with a few minutes left in the game. Her head snapped back and she dropped like a stone.  By the time I got on the field she was up and saying she was fine. In fact, she made two more saves, wiping away a nosebleed in between. But something wasn’t right. She was shifting from foot to foot and looking “off.”

After the game, she was evaluated by her trainer, who said she could have a concussion (using the proper disclaimer that he isn’t a doctor). The evaluation was disturbing: Daughter #2 answered everything in a monotone, had little balance, was dizzy, and couldn’t repeat numbers back. She didn’t remember the hit. Again, there was nothing I could do except watch and trust in the people there to help. The next day, feeling like there had to be something I could do, I took her to the eye doctor to make sure it was ok (it was). Beyond that, there was nothing to do but rest and wait.

No “better living through chemistry” with this one.

Anyway, we got through the weekend, everyone is coherent, breathing normally, and getting back on track.

Everyone except me.

Last night I couldn’t sleep, lying in bed with my heart racing and every muscle tensed like I was walking on a tightrope.

It took me a while, but I finally realized that my heart had been so busy running around the soccer fields, getting banged up and bruised, that it didn’t know what to do when it could finally settle back inside where it belonged, if only for the night. In the morning it would be outside again, racing toward the goal, fending off balls, riding horses, walking to and from class, or even driving to work (Hubby has a piece out there, too).

So I did what any mom having an anxiety attack at 2:00AM would do—I grabbed a couple of PMS pills (the symptoms are eerily similar) and read my book until my heart relaxed enough for me to fall asleep.

No one told me that parents wear their hearts on their children. (They also didn’t tell me that children can take their diapers off and play with their own poo, but that’s another story.) Would I have done anything differently had I known? Of course not; but now I know where the phrase “mother’s little helper” comes from. For some of us it’s pills, for some it’s meditation, and for others it’s prayer. For the rest, it’s probably that great anesthetizer of the southern masses, bourbon.

PS–this is in no way a solicitation of parental advice. I’m a firm believer in making my own mistakes, which are as many as the chiggers Hubby attracts every summer.

Soccer Season Is the Reason
November 27, 2012, 2:29 am
Filed under: Exercise, Parenting, Sports | Tags: , , , , , , , ,

It’s the end of soccer season, at least the outdoor variety. Thanksgiving is over, and with it our three-day respite from two-hour practices, smelly cleats and hairbands strewn about the house. So, to honor the occasion, I wrote this poem to let Daughters #1 & 2 know that I GET IT. I just can’t help being their biggest (and loudest) cheerleader. If they’ve learned nothing from living with me all these years, it’s that I do everything with enthusiasm (just look at the circle of food around my plate when we go to a nice restaurant—waiters LOVE me).

A Soccer Player’s Prayer

I huddle in the corner, away from other players.
Please, don’t cheer for me, I think, please answer a soccer prayer.
I’m not afraid of getting hurt when the ball is kicked my way.
I’d love to score the winning goal and brag I saved the day.

But there’s one thing I can’t stand—it has me quaking in my cleats.
I shake inside my shin guards, the laces tremble on my feet.
What was that? Did someone call my name?
I’d know that voice on any field. Oh no! My mom is here—she came!

I break into a clammy sweat whenever she looks my way.
Please don’t pass it to me, she’ll just yell while I’m trying to play.

The ball whizzes past me as she plunks down her chair.
Someone trips on my frozen toes while I can only stop and stare.
How will I live it down? Oh, the Horror, oh the shame!
How can I prevent her from screaming out my name?

I hate it when she does that–it’s obnoxious, rude and loud.
It’s humiliating and debilitating, and it bugs the soccer crowd.
But how do I tell her? It will only make her sad.
After all, she loves to watch me, though her screaming makes me mad.

So I slouch here on the sideline, desperate to disappear.
Maybe someday she’ll stop her shouting, and like a normal mom, just cheer.

Someday, girls, your mom might just make it through “Silent Saturday….”

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