Aug
… you can bitch, moan, grouse and whine about it, rue the decision to go out in spite of the raging sinus infection festering behind your cheeks, or you can make fajitas.
My girl’s soccer club has two 10-year old teams. Their coach had arranged for both teams to head over to the Peach State to play sort of a mini-tournament against another club. We each play one of their teams, and the winners of the first games would stick around and play each other. The bonus in all of this, since we were bringing two teams, is that the out-of-towners would have healthy-sized cheering squads along the sidelines.
When we arrived, it was a pleasant, overcast breezy day. As we waited to get started, it rained a little and made it a bit sticky and humid, but not horrible. Then, we started wondering where the other teams where. All we saw were the boys who were currently playing and a group of really big girls.
Turns out the other coach decided to bring his 14 year olds, instead.
WTF? I’m sorry. What? The? Fuck? As the coaches tried to work something out, I was thinking, there is NO WAY our 5th graders should be playing against high-school girls. Someone is going to get hurt!
Of course, my girlie girl walked up to me and said that she “wanted them to BRING IT!” because she wasn’t scared and it would be a good challenge for them. (This is the same kid who is afraid of rain.)
Well, we drove all this way, we need to do something.
So. They shortened the field, our coach approved a group of the oppositions’ smaller sized players, and they hit it.
Aaaaaaannnnnnnnd, the skies opened up.
And, by raining, I mean buckets. We were drenched, in spite of the umbrella. Doesn’t this look like great big fun?
So, they ran, and played, and it wasn’t too horribly awful. It was fun to see the little ones step up to the challenge.
The rain stopped, the game ended, and the other team treated our kids to snacks and drinks in the park pavilion.
We wrapped it up with an easy drive home in stinky, sweaty and rain drenched clothing. It was the only time I was grateful for the sinus infection because I couldn’t smell.
Aug
(Subtitle: Why Saintseester Had To Reinvent Herself)
Nearly four years ago, back when I first began toying with this activity known as blogging, I had no idea if anyone would ever read what I wrote. No one knew who Saintseester was, and I liked it that way. I’ve never been a person filled to the brim with self-confidence, and hiding behind the pen name was easy.
In fact, it was too easy. I wrote what I felt, without censoring my thoughts. I wrote about the people for whom I worked – their flaws, my flaws, the entire systems’ flaws. About six months into this little adventure, a friend of a former student of mine contacted me with his guess as to my true identity.
Uh-oh, I mused. If old students can find me, then perhaps I need to watch what I say about work. So, I went back and privatized those old posts, you know, just-in-case. Even though I needed the venting outlet, I also wasn’t ready to be fired for it either.
Another six months or so went by, and the husband of a friend found my blog. Once that word got out, I realized that perhaps not only some friends but other people that I know are probably finding the blog as well. While knowing real-lifers are out there reading doesn’t really stop me from saying what I have to say, it probably does stop me from saying what I have to say without thinking.
The other day, someone who I care about deeply found something critical I had written about something they did. Granted my criticism was wildly exaggerated and mostly tongue-in-cheek, it still hurt their feelings very badly. For that, I am deeply regretful. I am quite remorseful, and offered a heart-felt apology. That person is fine about the whole thing, now, but I still wish it hadn’t happened in the first place. It is my fault for saying what I said, not their fault for stumbling on my blog by accident and seeing it.
(They were googling swine flu, of all things, saw the Saints connection, and out of curiosity clicked over.)
My knee-jerk reaction after this was, “what if I said something else critical about them or any other person that really knows me but I’ve forgotten?” I began reviewing old posts, to be sure. You know what? Four years is entirely too much to read over in a timely manner, so I gave that idea up.
I was crushed at the idea that I may need to trash the entire thing. As I was skimming through the past four years of my archives, I saw many, many posts about good things that happened. About me, finding my confidence and my voice. About my children, and all of the wonderful, crazy, child-like moments they had (good, bad, funny, sad). I have never been able to keep a written journal, but here it was, all saved before my eyes. I cannot delete all of those memories, those little conversations with my children and my husband, and other moments of love.
So, here’s my compromise. For the time being, I have archived all of my old postings off line. From time to time, I may copy some of them back over here. They will be marked with the original dates to preserve the time-line, and so they will not interfere with the current events flow. I will continue in my voice, but with an eye on the people I love and care for. I may share stories about my children, but as they grow older, I have to respect that they might not appreciate their lives being out there for anyone (or mortifyingly – their friends or teachers) to see. Some of those posts will be private for me (and them) only.
Thanks for being with me on the journey, up until now. I do not know where we’ll go from here, but I promise to speak with Saintseester’s voice and continue dramatizing the funny, touching, and ordinary events of my life.
Oh, and a fresh start always needs a new wardrobe, so bear with me as I tinker with the new look (and figure out what the hell I did with all of my old blogroll links…)
Aug
Saintseester is undergoing a few minor changes. A little redecorating, a little reorganizing, a little purging. I hope to be fully back on-line in a couple of days.
(This is a temporary look. The fleurs will be back.)
