I can't tell you how many times during the day this thought will flit through my head: "Oh, THAT is funny. I should blog about that." But the thought quickly scampers away, and by the time all of the children are in bed (this is abut 10:30 or 11pm lately. The older four are down by nineish; and then Sylvie, who is a happy, content, sleepy little girl throughout the day, decides it's time to party like it's 1999), I don't even know what my NAME is, let alone what I should blog about.
And, for those of you whom we pass on the street and who marvel at the number of kids we have, don't be impressed. The kids are a piece of cake. It is all the HOUSEWORK that is the killer. The laundry, the snacks, the meals, the crumbs. And the chauffeuring. If I read any more about a hands-on Hollywood mom, I will impale myself with a nose syringe. I would be the awesome cheerleading playground Mom too if I had a chef and a full time housekeeper.
Speaking of hands on, or off, I continue to be the worst soccer mom in the world. Most moms are creating intricate, gaudy trophies for the "Halloween Cup" or "Christmas Cup," or angling the coach for playing time for their kids (why? They'll just get tired! See, I told you I suck!), I am sneaking my kids out of practice early because I cannot take being a HANDS ON MOM to the three little ones on the sidelines for ninety minutes. And now Rory has been chosen for an indoor team that has practice on Friday nights from 6 to 7pm. (Coached by a lithe, gorgeous black man named Simba. Simba makes you want to sell your home and move to Ghana to follow their national soccer team. For all I know, of course, Simba was born in Oklahoma City.)
WHAT?!! Friday night practice? Haven't you heard of MARGARITA NIGHT, you soccer nutcases? Where families meet for dinner at a cheap Mexican joint, the kids scream, and mummy and daddy slurp down margaritas? NO? Where are your PRIORITIES! Even PVT, a devout fan and longtime player/goalie who has just recently sacrificed the use of an entire finger to the game (a save gone terribly awry), thinks this is a bit much.
So hopefully we will get away with missing a few practices. Because I can only give up so much of my life to soccer.
And in more totally unrelated flotsam, it is Ugg season again. UGH. I have blogged about my hatred of Uggs before, since it leads to scenarios like these:
Terrifying. But! Look at these:
That boot on the left, my friends? That is an UGG. Can you believe it? It's actually rather attractive!
But I'm not wearing it. Just in case it's a fluke.