Rah, Rah, Sis, Boom, Bah!

Meet my girls. They are my pride and joy and my biggest headache all wrapped into one. They please me, tease me, but most often test me. They are...my cheerleaders.

The first year I took this job, it was a real wake-up call. So THIS is what my teenaged-girl will act like? I looked at myself as a mother-in-training, getting ready for my own little girl to grow up. Expect the best, but prepare for the worst. I kind of live by that motto, come to think of it.

Now, in my third year, I'm over the honeymoon stage and riding the wave of football cheerleading. I enjoy the time I spend with the girls, and I have to admit I've learned a lot from them. I could probably win a trivia contest on teen lingo (especially if my competition didn't include parents of teens or anyone younger than 40). I've learned about high school fashions and re-learned about romance (I have been married for 15 years, after all). They have taught me dirty jokes, nasty songs, secret handshakes, makeup techniques and hair styling. I have learned to always be prepared (extra bobby pins, safety pins, tampons, spankies, socks, tissue--for the tears;there are always tears--and band-aids). They have taught me SO many ways to avoid working that I believe I have expert status now. They have taught me to see life through young eyes again. For that, I thank them.

So here's to a good season girls! We can be strong, united, and awesome!

You Should Be Dancin', Yeah!

The saddest comment of my summer was when someone said to me, "Do you remember when the cute little ones were ours?"

We were at a dance recital watching our little angels, and the 3 and 4-year-olds were on stage. It really doesn't matter what they do; their cuteness steals the show. Dance? What dance? One of the little girls kept adjusting her dress so that at least one of her tiny nipples peaked out at all times. "It should be off your shoulders," her mom said. She was just following directions.

Another group dressed as bunnies and stomped/hopped their way around the stage. Those were the days.

My daughter was, as always, perfect. I didn't see her miss a step. My mommy radar couldn't take my eyes off of her. What a doll.

But she and her friends have certainly grown since that first year. They used to color as they waited in the dressing room. This time, they pretended to be "dead dolls" lying all over the floor, making all of the little girls nervous. Times, they are a changin'.

Mem'ries.... It's Pretty Dark in the Corners of My Mind

When I was a kid, I got so irritated by all of the old folks who talked about the "good old days." What about NOW? Afterall, they had ME now. How good could it have been when I wasn't around, anyway?

Well, obviously I've grown up a little and finally come to realize the world doesn't revolve around me (now it's my kids who know the world revolves around them....pay backs, I realize). In fact, I've grown nostalgiac in recent years. I've even been known to talk about the "good old days" from time to time.

Memories, for me, are odd. Some people can remember places and times at any prompt..."Oh, yeah, in 1982 I was just finishing...." yeah, whatever. It's not like that for me. I remember a few names, and some places, but mostly my memory bank suffers from a lack of funds. I wish I could blame it on drugs or alcohol, but the truth is I think I just wasn't paying attention.

Sometimes a memory will come flying at me out of nowhere. It hits me up side the head: I remember something from my past with such clarity that I get a little flustered. This past weekend, we had a family reunion, and my aunt and I were talking about a trip we took when I was a kid. All of a sudden, I was 6 years old again, waking my aunt and stumbling through the dark to the outhouse to pee. The whole trip bubbled up to the surface, but only vaguely. But that one midnight event was as clear as if I were standing there.

I guess the whole reunion was like that: bam! whack! hiya! Three-second memories slapped me silly. Of course, my memory is so bad that now, a week later, I can only remember the one.

Cooking 101

Today, in an unanticipated RAK (random act of kindness) Emily offered to make Easy Mac for her little brother. If there's one thing I've learned about sibling relationships, it's that mom definitely should not intrude in RAK's; it is too easy to disrupt the fragile dynamic at play during these rare occurances.

I felt like an adventurer on safari, and being careful not to spook, I watched from a distance. I saw Emily with the tools: bowl ("no, honey, that's not big enough"), measuring cup, microwave. She had it under control. I wouldn't have been a proper mom if I hadn't offered, "Don't touch the bowl when it's done--it will be super hot!"

I continued to make the grown-up lunch while the two of them moved to the microwave, and the light shown on their little faces as they watched the turntable go round. "Yummmm, it smells like popcorn!" Maybe that should have been my first hint, but I really wasn't paying attention: I had a good three and a half minutes until that microwave beeped and the potential for an argument began again. Then Em said, "Ewww, it's turning brown!" Uh oh. I flung the door open to find that Em had missed one key ingredient: the water.

"Did you read the package?"

"Yes. I got excited and forgot the water."

"Of course. Mac and cheese does that to me, too. Toss that in the garbage and try again."

And so, the second try was successful. Matt enjoyed his mac and cheese all the more because it was made by his older sister. And I have the memory...that and the smell that just will not leave my kitchen.

Waiting to Inhale

I was in my early twenties when I first thought, "This must be what dying feels like. I'm going to die." I didn't die, obviously, and not only am I fine, but I walked away from the experience a mere 10 minutes later. Still, it was one of those moments that you never forget, no matter how hard you try.

I was a novice waterskier, skiing behind my dad's boat on a board wide enough to float a small cooler. And what I lacked in talent, I made up for in style...wrecking style, that is. I went down hard, right into the wake and expelled all of the air from my lungs with such brute force that they decided not to work for a staggering 1o seconds or so. It's a frightening thing, not being able to breathe. And like so many things in life (really, I need to make a list), it's one of those things that no one ever tells you until after it happens. ("Oh, yea (ha, ha), if you hit the wake like that, it can knock all the air clean out of your lungs. You'll be OK in a minute.") Gee, thanks.

Well, I did survive and however stupidly, continued to ski until it became not a hobby but more of an obsession. I have had many wrecks that make that first one pale in comparison. Of course, it's that first time that you never forget.

Ryan now has a brand new ACL (carved from his own hamstring) all because of our mutual obsession. While I haven't done quite that much damage, there have been times when I had to be hauled into the boat rather than climbing in under my own power. Today was one of those days.

Ryan calls it a "cingular" (think little orange guy with arms and legs spread wide) because when you have a great wreck, well, that's what you look like. I didn't think this one was a "cingular"; it was more like the back of my head and the back of my legs decided to have an emergency meeting. The result was me moaning and crying...first because I had no oxygen and couldn't convince my lungs that taking it in again was a good idea, and second because my back felt like it had been run through a pasta machine.

And here I sit. Still moaning and unwilling to do anything that makes me hurt (which is just about everything except type). I can't take a deep breath; I'm pretty sure there's some rib damage. So, what am I thinking?

I wonder how long it will take before my back feels good enough to ski again? I know, I know. I deserve it.