T is for To-Go (and 300)

Screenshot 2015-03-31 21.10.53

It’s the bane of every sports parent – the 6:00 game/practice/class that makes it virtually impossible to feed people on a normal schedule. At those times, the lure of the golden arches and its equally unhealthy brethren can loom pretty large.

Well, I decided to compromise on those nights where a family meal is not in the cards. Yes, we eat in the car. But we eat what I was going to serve them anyway.

Granted, this is not my preferred way to deliver the evening meal. But there are nights I just have to admit that I cannot feed my family in one room, at the table, and still get where we have to go.

On these nights, I send my kids to the car where they buckle up, and then I hand them a plate full of food to eat on the way.

It’s not beautiful, but some nights it’s the best I can do. And at least I’m not super-sizing anything.

(Oh, and the 300? Turns out this is my 300th post. Sounds impressive until I realize how long I’ve been blogging and do the math.)

Tomorrow…U is for Underwear

Read the series at A is for About

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Carting your kids to spring sports? This poem’s for you.

Little Leaguer TM
Well, it’s that time of year again – spring league sports. And just as I’m hauling out, dusting off, and tweaking the sports gear, I’m doing the same with my tribute to those of us with bleacher butt.

Here, with a few revisions because I can’t leave well-enough alone, is my:

Ode to a Sports Mom (or Dad)

I log many hours at the wheel of my car,
I drive you to games that are near and are far,
I lend you some comfort when you are in pain,
I sit through your games in the cold, driving rain.

I follow the rules of inscrutable sports,
I pre-treat the stains that you get on your shorts,
I empty the checking account for your fees,
And patch up your pants when you go through the knees.

I moan your despairs and I cheer for your feats,
I vacuum up crud you track in on your cleats,
I sit in the parking lot during your drills,
Bite my tongue during dust-ups and bruises and spills.

I doctor your wounds to avoid their infection,
Then I’m off to the sporting goods store for “protection”,
For all that I do, I merely exhort you,
To remember the numerous ways I “support” you.

______________

So there it is, my song for spring. If you ever feel like singing it and you can’t remember the words, just turn around in your seat on the bleachers and ask – I’m sitting right behind you.

Logo created by Fat Cat Art Studio

An ode to the sports mom (or dad)

I log many hours at the wheel of my car,
I drive you to games that are near and are far,
I lend you some comfort when you are in pain,
I sit through your games in the cold, driving rain.
 
I follow the rules of inscrutable sports,
I pre-treat the stains that you get on your shorts,
I empty the checking account for your fees,
And patch up your pants when you go through the knees.
 
I moan your despairs and I cheer for your feats,
I vacuum up crud you track in on your cleats,
I sit in the parking lot during your drills,
Bite my tongue during dust-ups and bruises and spills.
 
I doctor your wounds to avoid their infection,
Then I’m off to the sporting goods store for “protection”,
For all that I do, I merely exhort you,
To remember the numerous ways I “support” you.