Finally! Three weeks in to soccer season, and we had our first practice tonight. It was cold by Austin standards, but otherwise Scout wouldn't have been able to sport her sweet pink athletic jacket.
We aren't used to this "trapped indoors all day" weather around here. Scout's soccer game yesterday was cancelled; Catcher's lacrosse game today was cancelled. Although our friends suffering under the real arctic blasts of this winter would scoff at us being such wusses, we've got the cabin fever. The weather, by the way, has been approximately 36 degrees with a constant drizzle the past two--or possibly three, I've lost count--days. I know it doesn't compete with all those sub-zero temperatures and blizzards going on around the country, but 36 degrees is about 32 degrees below our average highs this time of year. So it all evens out.
This afternoon I was all out of my tricks for how to keep these crazies entertained, so they came up with a game of their own: Ninja School. It took place on the sofa and involved innovative wrestling moves, but there were more laughs than tears (until Scout fell off the sofa and bonked her head...but that's another story).
Tillie didn't enroll in Ninja School, but when she discovered the land of lawlessness taking over the house, she took the opportunity to run a few laps back and forth on the sofa.
These three in the kitchen while having a snack this afternoon (I was in the living room reading)...
Catcher: Did you tell Mom?
Scout: Tell Mom what?
Catcher: That we watched a show.*
Catcher: Don't tell her.
*I can only assume this secretive "watching of a show" took place while I went to the Target this morning and left Alex home alone with the children.
Come on, people. I'm not that bad.
Today it was finally Tillie's turn to take the stage during her first open house at the Dougherty Arts School. The theme this month was the circus, so naturally the class was a bunch of clowns. Alex and I brought big sister Scout along to the performance so she could cheer on her little sib (while quietly critiquing the class in her mind, I'm sure). Tillie was over it by the time we made it to the music portion of the performance, but overall she was a pretty happy clown and not creepy at all (or maybe just a little creepy).
See these three adorable, law-abiding, sweet children enjoying a Sunday morning reading together in bed? Well let me tell you a story about a cold Tuesday afternoon with this triumvirate...
We live in Austin. And because we live in Austin, it was only a matter of time until we gave into the pressure of the self-proclaimed "live music capital of the world" and forced our children into learning musical instruments--everyone here plays a guitar or the drums or the piano or is some kind of indy musician. Thus, we finally purchased a digital piano and lessons for the children are imminent. I know Scout is all in, but I want to make sure Catcher understands the dedication it takes to practice (practice, practice), so we're going to start slow with a music camp this summer.
This brings me to yesterday afternoon. It was cold and drizzly, so I figured a trip to the library was the perfect afternoon outing on our one day during the week not dedicated to soccer, ballet or lacrosse. First, however, we would stop by the music place (I'm not naming it for fear of incriminating myself, as you'll see) to sign up for camp.
I told the children before entering that they had to be respectful and couldn't start banging around on the pianos. If they had listened then I wouldn't have a story to tell. Instead, I have a story about two children [your guess] wrestling on the floor under a grand piano with the grand price tag of $40,000. I also have a story about a little girl [guess again], whose face is painted like a clown from preschool earlier that morning, who began screaming hysterically with tears and snot running down her face when she heard we would not be going to the library due to our insane behavior at the music store. Then there was the angry six year-old who took off running out of the store and hid behind a trashcan outside upon hearing the same news.
Yes, there were others present for this episode. There was a mom who maybe felt my pain (but not in the way where I got a shred of sympathy from her). She gave me a "girl, you crazy" look and nervous laugh while she and her well-behaved twelve year-old son tried to move away from my psychopath bolting out the door. She whispered "We'll come back" to the gentleman behind the counter who was trying his best not to be totally freaked out while outlining the various camps available. He turned to me in an "I feel sorry for you but not really because I also think you're crazy and could you please get your children away from the freaking $40,000 grand piano" kind of way. Oh, and he also followed Catcher out the door and said hesitantly--as in I'm scared this kid might knife me--and without any sort of authority to him "You should come back inside." I was still tending to the snotty, screaming three year-old with clown makeup running down her face and the four year-old banging on every piano--didn't I say don't bang on the pianos?--that I didn't have the energy to chase Catcher. I knew he wouldn't go far. He's too first-child sensible for that.
After gathering my belongings and casually blaming their behavior "on the weather," I left with my tail tucked between my legs. The guy behind the counter charged my card for the camp deposit after we left, though, so I guess we'll be allowed. Or else we'll have to find another studio that all my friends recommend.
Today was the day that I woke up and couldn't stand looking at my stringy, scruffy hair for one more day! I always do this (and it often results in a serious chopping of the locks). I don't know when I reached the point in my life where things that used to be relaxing--like haircuts and pedicures--have become chores. I guess because my free time away from the children is so infrequent and valuable that I would rather spend it at the grocery store, where I can squeeze my avocados in peace, than sitting in chair at the salon. P.S. I hate the grocery store.
But back to the cut...another funny thing about haircuts and me is that I frequently end up looking like some 80s rock star. There was Pat Benatar in college (horrific!) and, more recently, Joan Jett (meh.). And to be clear, I'm not talking about the rock star when she (or he) was totally cool in the 80s, but the later version of the washed-up, aging star who's trying to hold onto the glory days and the glory hair. I get a definite Bret Michaels circa "Rock of Love" vibe from my new 'do. I just need to slap on a bandana and call it a day.
Remember when I promised to write about all the technical blah blah surrounding the Rock Star Photo Booth for the preschool music festival? Well...I kind of changed my mind. The pictures from this year turned out less than the spectacular image I had in my head. I'm my own worst critic, and since I'm not particularly proud of the final product, I don't feel like waxing poetic about lighting and apertures and all that jazz. You didn't really feel like reading about it anyway, right? In the meantime, enjoy two photos that turned out okay from that afternoon: