Dear Madison

Dear Madi, Madison Aileen, MadiBig, Little Miss ~

It's sneaking up on us, Little Miss. The first day of first grade. Supplies are purchased and organized. 'Perfect' first day school dress is ready to go. We will get up and make pancakes and take your picture on the front porch - posed with your book bag. You will have a big smile. You won't be nervous. School is your thing. You, my little girl, are wicked smart. And confident. And Every Thing. 

You make this former first grader very proud.

First grade was my favorite. Mrs. Evans. She looked like one of Charlie's Angels. She did the single most important thing in my life - she taught me how to read. When I was a kid, the first word we learned to read was 'Look!'. There weren't a million learning shows, my parents didn't have a computer with access to learn-to-read websites. It was Mrs. Evans. You will enter first grade with a big advantage. 

I laugh every time you read a couple dozen words, don't know one and flip out that you 'don't know how to read!' I try to patiently explain that you read 25 words before you found one that you didn't know. But, I don't really do 'patient' and neither do you. We'll get through this reading thing. I promise.

You need to do me a favor though MadiBig - you need to keep your head up. Take it from me, Dick and Jane and Mrs. Evans - Look. Look around. Be curious. Keep your silly sense of humor. Ignore me any time I tell you 'not to be silly'. At some point I'll probably tell you to 'act your age' too. I'm sorry. Oh God, am I sorry - in advance. I will do my best to support your growth and your childhood. You have to do your best not to grow up too fast.

When the doctor said, "It's a girl!" I couldn't have been more surprised. I expected two boys. Figured it would be easier. Girls. Girls are tricky business. And, it's not that you're a girl. It's that you're a girl. You're the damnedest thing I've ever seen - running around in your soccer uniform plus tutu.

You're yourself. And, I love that. And, I love you.

Love, 

Mom

The Angels

This is about friends.  Real ones. This is not Chick Lit. These aren’t the friends you’ve had since childhood. These aren’t friends you met at college or the girlfriend of your husband's college roommate. These are the friends you made on your own. Not in Mommy and Me class, not a parent of a kid that is a friend of your kid. This is the real deal. The adults that you as an adult, have chosen. The call you can make in the middle of the night when a parent dies, when there has been an accident or when you just need a shoulder because you’re thisclose to losing it.

I consider myself to be very fortunate. I have a number of friends. Of good friends. I have a lot of what experts call, ‘functional friendships’, meaning that I have school friends, work friends, neighborhood friends and friends that are parents of kids on one of my kids sports teams. These are all good friends to have; everyone needs these friends and friendships. Many of those women are very close friends and would take the 2AM call.

Ready to fight crime. Obviously.

But, The Angels, well, they’re just more than that. They’re my people. My soul mates.  

The name, ‘The Angels’ started off as a bit of a joke. Our post-couple drinks traditional photo pose. A rip-off of Charlie’s Angels. And depending on which of our male friends you talk to we’re either ‘Rob’s Angels’ or ‘Keith’s Angels’. Maybe one day they’ll cage match it out and we’ll have a true winner. I’m hopeful for that scenario but skeptical. We’ve just shortened it to The Angels. And, really there isn’t anything very angelic about us. That’s what makes it funny and us fun.

On the surface it probably doesn’t look like we’d have a lot in common. One from New Jersey, one from California, one that moved a lot for parent job changes and one, me, who moved when her mother remarried and divorced and remarried. We’ve got five kids and six marriages between the four of us. Twelve years separates the youngest from the oldest. For two of us, in an odd twist of fate, our grandmothers were friends. Long before either of us existed. But somehow, we all ended up in the same place at the same time. Because we were supposed to.

Three of us bonded over work and morning walks to Starbucks, late night deadlines and difficult developers.

And our annual Valentine’s Day lunches.

A few years ago there were career shifts and one by one we left the company where three of us met.  Eventually, we all ended up together again - similar jobs, different place. And met our fourth. After over ten years of seeing each other almost every day, I got an offer for a more interesting job, closer to home for more money. And yet, I almost didn’t take it because I wouldn’t see The Angels as much. I told them each individually. And then later that night, alone, I cried.

We’ve bonded over coffee, wine, rum runners (now on the ‘never again’ list) and tattoos. We can communicate fully with an eye brow lift or eyelids closed for just a millisecond too long. Between the four of us we know the words to nearly every song and can have full conversations in lyrics. There have been a number of times where we've intentionally not made eye contact - lest we dissolve into laughter in an important meeting.

Basic words like: sand dollar, soup, asparagus or ovaries can send us into hysterical giggles. The kind where you can’t open your eyes and have to sit down.  Non-angels don’t get the jokes. Sometimes I feel bad about it but other times I’m glad they don’t ‘get it’. Our little private jokes and moments make our little circle special.

We all have friends. We all have best friends; we all have friends that will help us move. This is bigger. These are the friends that will move a body. And be an alibi.

This is loyalty and love mixed, shaken and poured out into a sugar rimmed martini glass.

Make it a double.

Held up. Literally and figuratively.

Footloose

Ah, I've seriously got to stop writing about injuries. Seriously. First step - stop the injuries. I hate to even consider that perhaps I'm getting too old for something... I'm not. Absolutely not. It's just that what my brain tells my body to do, well, it still does, it just does it slower and sort of clumsily...

So, the latest...

Let's start at the beginning, shall we?

The mullet makes you run faster.

I started playing soccer at, I don't know, five or six. Probably one of the many efforts of my mother to 'slim me down'. To her dismay, I turned out to be a big 'ol sturdy girl. I think it horrifies her. To this day.

But, turns out, I liked it. A lot. Played on a co-ed team - 11 boys and me. For a number of years.

Played in high school, played for my dorm team at Idaho, coached little kids for a long time.

Volunteer a lot of hours to the soccer club. Go to pro-games, sing the songs. Be 'that parent' on the sidelines - although, I'm working on that. Really.

A few months ago at a soccer board meeting, a friend mentioned that a group of adults was going to start playing indoor. Oh, I'm in. I'm so in. First game we got beat. Crushed. 8 - nil. Terrible. But, we improved. I took a couple slides on the turf, had some bloody knees. Couple of good collisions. But, so much fun. Getting a goal in your late thirties feels just as good as it did as a kid. Maybe even better.

While the indoor soccer playing has been happening, I've also been running. Anything that is a game or contest, I'm in! The challenge was 100 miles in July. I did that. Plus 10. Noticed on the running app leader board that a good friend beat me by four miles. Threw down a challenge. I'd run more in August. She accepted. Cue karma.

Game on Saturday. I was tired. Kind of moving slow. Warm ups were bad. I wiffed a few easy passes. Ugh.

Now, I often describe myself as sturdy. I am. It doesn't bother me. I'm a tad under 5' 10". My weight is just barely in the 'normal weight' - .02 from 'overweight' on the BMI chart. I am more linebacker than princess. And, I'm okay with it. It comes in handy. Plus, proven fact that tall people make more money. So there's that.

Red headed girl. Giant Amazon. I was small, comparatively. She has the ball. I want the ball. Bad. BAD. I go to take the ball. Collision. She loses her balance. And regains it by putting all of her weight in the middle of my left foot. I didn't even think about it. My knee was twisted in the crazy and I was more worried about that.

I subbed out for a few minutes. Rubbed the knee. Didn't even think about the foot. Played the full second half.

Changed shoes after the game - pulled on the flip-flops. Nothing feels better. Ran an errand at Home Depot. Standing in the lumber area... the foot doesn't feel right. Got home. Iced. Are those toes a bit swollen?

Sunday morning - time to do miles! Must do miles. Foot feels better. Maybe. It really feels like my toes need popped or adjusted. Five miles should do the trick.

About a mile in, I'm starting to think this is a bad idea. Stopped running. Started walking. Slow pace. Running app voice is telling me my pace is slow. Bitch.

Who's fat weird foot is that? Oh, shit.

At about mile four, I'm struggling. I see a friend drive by. She waves. I wave. For a second I think I should call her and ask her to drive me home. But, it's not that bad...

The voice comes up. Pace is 15 minutes a mile. Ugh. I have to shut that crazy bitch up. I run. 200 yards. Maybe less. The pain is too much. And then, like a vision, I see my own car. It honks. It's the husband! Saved! I frantically wave. I'm pointing at the corner and screaming, "Stop!" He turns the corner. I've got my second wind! I run to the corner, limping, my foot is throbbing. He's not there.

And so, now pissed and in pain I slowly limp the last mile. He's sorry, but according to him pointing and screaming 'stop' is the same as a parade wave...

X-ray scheduled for Monday. Severe sprain. Off the foot and on crutches at least two weeks, if I'm well behaved. Friends have started a betting pool. I believe there is a bet for four weeks, two days.

Will not make 115 miles in August. Disappointed. Don't do well with no activity. Foot must be up, iced, no weight. But, I'm determined to be 'well behaved' and kick these crutches to the curb.

I'm just not exactly sure what 'well behaved' looks like. Suggestions appreciated.