Here’s just a quick note about my eldest: I love her dearly.
Today is B’s birthday (he’s 37!!), and she came down to the kitchen with a hilarious card she’d drawn herself. The details of said card are particular to our family (specifically, that the 5 of us are sharing ONE BATHROOM yet again) and so might not be funny to those not in on the intricate ballet of toilet, sink, and shower-sharing we conduct every morning. Inside the card were three signatures of Hershey Bears players (our local American Hockey League team). She’d had the foresight to ask a friend of hers who attends games regularly to grab a few players’ signatures so she would have something to give B.
She’s full of surprises. This spring she decided to play soccer on the middle school girls’ team, a move I thought she’d never make. As a little girl, she typically was concerned about nail polish and books. When she was 5 I asked if she wanted to play T-ball or soccer (back then, I was chomping at the bit for some sports…oh, if only I’d known then what I was in for). Her response: “Oh, mom. I don’t want to get hit with a ball.” She danced because the potential for painful body contact and injury were minimal.
This fall she played field hockey, which completely blew my shit away, and now she’s playing soccer in the mud, getting kicked and tripped and hit in the head with the ball often (sometimes she does it on purpose).
Anyway, she rocks.