Junkin' it up

If you want to be embarrassed about your family's spending/eating habits, just call your credit card company to report fraudulent charges. As they quote back to you a weekend's worth of expenditure to verify legitimacy, your embarrassment will grow.

"Wildflower...not sure what that is. Does that sound right?"

"We ate there Sunday after church. It's a bakery-cafe. It's fine."

"How about Smashburger?"

"Uh, yes..."

"McDonald's?"

"That's right, too, I'm afraid."

"Robert's sizzling Barbecue?"

"That's a food truck that comes to my husband's work."

"Krispy Kreme's?"

I giggled.

"Boy, I'm really beginning to feel embarrassed about my family's eating habits! We're just such a busy family, you know?"

Indeed, how far my family has fallen!. We used to be the frugal ones, visiting McDonald's only on road trips, eating out only on special and rare occasions. We were so frugal and proud of it, in fact, that we scoffed at all the families who blew their money on fancy restaurant food as we smugly ingested our frozen pizzas, chicken nuggets and canned vegetables at home!

Now most evenings find us on the run to practices, meets, classes and games. Last weekend was especially hectic. A football and soccer practice Friday night, A football practice and three soccer games on Saturday (at least I had a roast in the crock pot for supper!). Then Sunday we spent the morning and afternoon at church for the installation of our new priest in the parish and a reception with the bishop afterwards. Thus, we walked to that bakery-cafe to eat light buttery pancakes, skillet potatoes and greasy link sausage for breakfast between masses.

My scintillating conversation about junk food receipts with the credit card rep ended with him ribbing me about the outrageous amount we spent at Krispy Kreme.

"$54 on doughnuts did seem like a lot! I'm just saying..."

We both laugh as I exclaim, "It was for the soccer teams, for end of season...honestly!" A pause, and then guiltily,  "Well, I mean, we did eat the leftovers..."

I didn't mention that the "leftovers" were approximately two dozen donuts.

Thanks Giving

I read a comment from a psychologist yesterday that Thanksgiving is losing its gratitude luster and becoming merely an exercise in gluttony. Silly cynicism - I hope not! Besides, when else in all the year do we eat candied yams and canned cranberries with such abandon? Is that not something for which to be thankful?

In the same newspaper section I also read several stories of Black Friday traditions. Formerly I would have scoffed at the notion of any worthwhile tradition centered on consumerism, but what I learned from reading these stories of generations of family members staying up all night, comparing ads, waiting in long lines, and planning coffee and breakfast breaks along their shopping routes is that yes, family time full of laughter and capable of forming wonderful memories can be made on a day full of consumer insanity. And who am I to judge? It may not be my thing at all, but if mothers and daughters or whole clans can bond on such a day in such a way, it's good. Family is golden, and the memories are the real, lasting bargain.

For my own silly non-Black-Friday-honoring self, there are many blessings I try to count all the year: my family, our health, our security, our faith. But there are some things for which I am incredibly grateful that have been on my mind a good deal lately as this wonderful, down-to-earth holiday we call Thanksgiving approaches:

My Dad's Health and His Book and Mama's Recipe

My dad had a very hard year. He suffered serious injuries during a fall in March, was ill on and off for months, and then developed a terrible, scary infection in his head that badly frightened his loved ones.

All of those challenges delayed the fifth book in his Kelven's Riddle fantasy series. Honestly, my dad has had to accommodate several upsets in his creative processes over the years because of the demands of unpredictable, messy life. He wrote about some of those challenges in this inspiring post about perspective and gratitude: Buck Up, Boy; It Isn't Normandy.

But despite a bad year Daniel Hylton, my dad, has put out the fifth and final book of the Kelven's Riddle story in time for Christmas. I have read and relished them all, but don't take my word for it. You can read a review by a fantasy reader here: Farewell Kelven's Riddle.

I had a bad dream once that I had to finish Dad's books for him. I could not imagine telling this story of valor, love, the cost of freedom and unlikely but enduring friendships as well as he. I am glad that dream was not a reality. This year I am very thankful that my dad is healthy and that, at long last, I can have all his books upon my shelf.

(I must say that I am also grateful that for my whole life he has mentored me in my writing endeavors. Thanks, Dad.)

And I am very grateful for heirloom recipes like this magical one I received from my mom when I was newly married and fumbling through the Big Feast prep. I was blessed to eat it all those Thanksgivings growing up. Now I make it myself year after year, and it always gets rave reviews whenever I serve it: Mama Darlin's Sweet Potato Casserole. Thanks, Mom!!

The Mom's Group

For years I have thought and thought again about writing of these lovely people; I have chickened - or turkeyed - out every time. The pressure to attempt to sum up what this surrogate family means to my own little clan...I never felt I could do it justice. But I'll try at long last - only because it's Thanksgiving.

When we moved to Arizona my husband and I had no friends or family here. No friends when our first child, Berto, was born. No friends to help us move into our first house. No friends to call on the phone while putting myself in time-out from my kids. No one.

I soon discovered that a mother needs friends to maintain sanity as my sense of loneliness increased each month after my son's birth. My husband offered to introduce me to his co-workers' wives, but they didn't have children. I needed compatriots that would understand my struggles with nursing, nutrition, potty-training, discipline and sleep lust. When my Ana came I knew I couldn't take the isolation from my own kind anymore. I prayed for friends. Yes, prayed - and then I called up my church and asked if I could start a group of some kind. They quickly put something in the church bulletin. Soon I was calling moms and asking when they would like to meet. Much to my chagrin they all wanted to meet during the day midweek, so I set up a play date at the church nursery twice a month on Wednesdays, but I regretfully told one of the moms that I wouldn't be able to make it; our family had only one vehicle.

That fellow mother, my dear friend Cathleen, said that I had to be there; she drove south past the church to pick me up every other Wednesday, took us all the way back up to the church, then drove my family home after our play date only to drive all the way north past the church again to her own home.

What a blessing that was for me and how Cathleen and I laughed years later remembering stuffing three car seats in the back of her sedan! Because of Cathleen's generosity my children and I got out twice a month to spend time in community.

The group is and has been for some time a family. Some of our friends have scattered across the US and the world, but once a member of this group, always a member. Our kids have grown together since babyhood, started school together, celebrated birthdays, Halloween, Thanksgiving and Christmastime together. After the birth of children, we parents have rotated turns bringing meals to the blessed but tired families. Heck, my friends brought me the fixings for our holiday meal - delicious red mashed potatoes and chorizo-squash stuffing - when my youngest daughter, Ella, was born a week before Thanksgiving! We've rushed to each other's sides during illness, sheltered each other's little ones in emergencies and exchanged babysitting. Our kids cannot remember a time without these fellow young uns from the group, their cousins not by blood but by bonds years in the making. And even the men, years after the moms and kids, finally realized they had friends with whom they could go out on "man dates" to the local brewery.

I, for one, do not know what I would do without our Mom's Group. It's very easy for me to say I love them like family.

Sports

Oh, I fought sports! I am a devotee of the home and family time and quiet life. I do not like or believe in endless structured activities. I grew up in the country where our sport was running through the cornfield with our dogs, swimming the creek, and walking in the woods. I didn't think my kids needed sports. My athletic man and I argued about it.

He won.

I have been proven wrong, because now I see their worth. My man, a city boy himself all his life, played sports, and he knew their value in the concrete jungle.

Instead of begging for television on Saturdays, my two eldest are out running their hearts out on a different kind of field, learning how to support and get along/work well with others. They have learned to trust and use the power in their own bodies - an integral thing for all of us. Meanwhile, my youngest two are supporting their siblings in between trips to the adjacent playground on game days, and hey! It counts as good old green time even if it's not in the country. Matthew is the kids' soccer coach, back into his beloved sports while using them to teach respect, teamwork, and more than athletic skills - life skills.

One of the greatest blessings to arise from all the practices and games has been the camaraderie that has developed between Berto and Ana. When little tykes they were close buddies, but as they grew older, he became harder on her; it seemed to grow worse until recently. Now they have great things in common: a competitive spirit and love of the games(s). Now little sis is Berto's teammate and compatriot in the world of athletics. He has her back, and she has his.

As for me? I am on the sidelines each Saturday, pacing, yelling, cheering, gasping. I hate to say it - I really hate to say it - but I am a bonafide soccer mom. And I'm terribly afraid there's no turning back now.

Boots

Alright, it's a little thing, but I am grateful for these boots. I bought them here in Arizona at an establishment called Saba's for my sister Annie's wedding in San Saba, Texas. I spent far too much on them - or so I thought at the time. Since then I have grown to like them very much and possibly love them. Yes, they're a bit loud, quite daring for everyday wear, but I have never shied away from making a statement. I have worn them on a plane, to my kids' school, to go shopping and at church to boot. They are incredibly comfortable and fulfilling. Fulfilling? Yes, but I don't know how exactly. And the smell of them? Real leather paradise!

God bless you this Thanksgiving, my readers and friends! And to my family, blood-related or not, scattered across this country and in the United Kingdom and Chile, please know that I love you tremendously. Our little family will think of you as we sit down for our feast and ponder all those people and things in our lives for which we are deeply grateful.

Proud Mama of Four Fantabulous (fantastic and fabulous) Kids

While our family was at the park today to celebrate the end of school, our Danny Sam did a set of five monkey bars all by himself!

If you are not gasping or cheering right now, then you are not reacting properly to this fantastic news. The boy is only a bit over four-years-old! Already I am truly convinced that he is destined for outstanding, wildly successful, extraordinary, well-coordinated things - perhaps on planet Mars - because he can also ride his bike with no training wheels around the yard really, really fast. And he just barely learned! You should see that boy take corners with a smile on his blue-eyed face.

**********************

This week our Boo, aka Ella, graduated from kindergarten.

She was very nervous the night before, and at bedtime I laid down to snuggle with her. I don't think I do quite enough of that, just taking quiet moments for them individually.

She must have appreciated my concern for, "You can pick out my dress and fix my hair, Mama," is what she said in the morning.

That sounded quite sweet and suspicious, for Boo likes to fix her own hair without combing or parting it. Then if I balk at the lumps or general disarray on her head she gets extremely offended, pouts, and accuses me of all kinds of meanness hidden behind my innocuous concern in making sure she's properly groomed.

Growing impatient for her appointed hairdresser, she had her sister braid her hair in pigtails without parting it and picked out her own outfit to boot. Her style looked fabulous from the front, but the top and back? Not so much. My objections to the form set off a whole morning of jungle hair warfare. I barely survived to tell the tale!

When I showed up for the graduation, I wore all blue and black: Batman colors for my number 1 Batman fan. I brought two beautiful dresses with me, jewelry and dress shoes just in case Ella wanted them. Walking into her classroom, I noticed immediately that a teacher had taken Boo's hair down in order to fasten her cap to her head with bobby pins more easily; the battles had been for nought. Booey was grateful for the dresses, though, choosing a dark blue fancy number to match me.

She was absolutely beautiful as she sang her favorite song Muscles and Bones in the little auditorium/lunchroom, and her whole family was in the audience, her big brother and sister having come from their classrooms and Papa from work to see her promotion to first grade. My only regret? - that Matthew and I did not think to ask someone to take our picture with our little girl in her cap and gown.

She made excellent grades and behavior marks, learned to read Little Critter books, lost more teeth than I can recall, and also, sadly, outgrew her curly hair this year. Ella Belle, with her very strong personality, is growing up.

*************************

Ana's teacher said to me one afternoon this week, "She kicked the ball over the fence and kept apologizing. I told her there was no need to be sorry about it; she was just playing the game. Ana is a great defender! All the kids want her on their team during recess."

"She is! She is a great defender," I agreed as I hugged Ana. "I've always thought so, but that's good to hear."

With her crazy long legs, how could she not be? I am so glad she's in soccer and that she enjoys it, but I didn't feel that way - not even close - the first time I saw her play.

I wanted to yank her away from the cruel sport, pull her off the field into my arms and keep her safe from that mean ball and those rude, rough kids. In just that one game, the ball was kicked into her head and chest at about 3000 miles per hour, a gigantic boy fell on and crushed her arm, and then she nearly collapsed on the field in exhaustion after running up and down a field continuously for no good reason.

What kind of devil sport is this? I wondered.

But now, coached by her papa for two seasons, my girl is confident on the field. She doesn't feel badly anymore when she steals the ball or accidentally knocks down or kicks a rival player. She runs continually and hardly puffs one bit, and she is a great defender of the goal. I've told her so myself many times after seeing her skill in several games these past two seasons.

"She's going to play in high school," her assistant coach pronounced last week. I think he's right.

**************************

After being madly in love with football for two years, Berto finally gave soccer a whirl this season.

Did I say the game of soccer is all about anticipation? No? Well, if you've ever watched a bunch of men running around an enormous field FOR-EV-ER for the chance in a million that they or a teammate will get the chance to put that stinkin' ball in THAT STINKIN goal and actually make it, then you know what I mean. If you are a crazy soccer fan who watches your favorite team's players - or a parent who watches their favorite kids - running around like dehydrated lunatics chasing down the mirage of netting spanning metal poles, then you know what I mean. The only thing that keeps us going is the anticipation, the blasted dream of a ball on air hitting a pocket of love.

Well, with our boy Berto, the anticipation wasn't such a commodity; nearly every single game he scored a goal.

I kid you not. Is not that miraculous? They're going to call him B-AIR-to when he gets to the MLS. That boy knows how to play forward and rock it, my friends. Yes, his team lost more than won (isn't that good for a boy who got too used to his team annihilating opponents in football?), but he got them goals or assisted the cause on a regular basis. He also played goalie, diving and jumping to bat that ball back down the field.

"The problem with him is that he's good in every position he plays," one of his coaches remarked to me.

We were very honored when Berto got the chance to play in an invite-only tournament here in Phoenix called East-Versus-West. His coach said it was about sportsmanship and behavior but also about skill. Sure enough, Berto scored his team's only goal in their first game. (He was appropriately humble about it, however: "My goal was easy, Mom. It was just me and the goalie.) Sadly, they lost, but they moved on to a shootout at the end of their second game, and they racked up three consecutive goals and won. Berto, though he wouldn't have his turn at the opposing goalie, ran down the field to jump on his fellow players in celebration.

For Love of the Game

When our son Berto began playing flag football at age nine, there was no dream team at first. All the coaches in the league were volunteers, dads of the players. At the one practice a week, the kids ran a lot, goofed off a bit, and tried to learn to catch and throw properly, but specific skills were not taught, no blocking techniques and certainly no plays were practiced. There was no solid strategy at all.

So the games were a bit confused, obviously. Berto was a great runner and wanted badly to try his hand at quarterback but didn't get the opportunity, because the coaches were not really evaluating the kids' desires or skills. Many balls were dropped. Many kids still seemed afraid of the object of the catch. Many games were lost. Berto had his fair share of discouragement.

But there was one team that shone in the league, and we quickly became aware of them, mainly because they decimated every team they faced. The other teams developed a fear of facing this team, not because they were comprised of big, mean-faced kids or a loud-mouthed coach, but because they truly understood the game and how to execute. You were just sure to lose. Yet they wouldn't pull your flag without handing it back to you respectfully, and if anyone on your team got hurt, they were the first to take a knee.

One season, when Berto's team was badly defeated by these lone stars of the league (40-0), my husband and son walked past them on the way to the parking lot. The coach was kneeling by his players in a circle, talking to each one about the game, what had gone well, their favorite moments and what needed improvement, and Matthew pointed and said to our son, "Berto, if you really want to play football, that's the coach you need."

No other coach did what this coach did. He called plays, and his boys knew them, which meant he had constructive huddles. His team snapped the ball like professionals and played defined positions. His kids caught the ball very well, jumping, diving - whatever it took - and pulling it in neatly. Perhaps most importantly, while other coaches released their teams immediately after the game to wander home, he talked to his boys post-game every week, welcoming their feedback and encouraging team spirit and respect.

We didn't get on his roster the next season, despite the fact that we had a good friend, Beth, whose son, Reese, was on the team.

"Come to our team," she kept urging me. "He's a great coach!"

I didn't know you could request a coach, and we didn't even know the coach's name for a while. Maybe we were just timid.

Then we were placed on the team for the winter season. Call it what you will: pure chance, dumb luck, golden opportunity for our boy. I like to think it smacks just a bit of divine intervention. God hears our hearts, and he answers those longings that can work for the good. And this longing that Berto - that we all - had to learn from this great coach most definitely had great potential for good in our son's life.

But, strangely, when Matthew and Berto showed up for Meet-the-Coach night, it was a ghost town; you could almost hear the eerie harmonica playing on the cheesy wind of the pizza joint. No one from the team was there, not one single soul, but Matthew knew where we'd landed; we were on "the team". He believed Stacie from the league when she assured him that we were going to love Coach Ryan.

We understood, Matthew best of all, that Berto would have some catching up to do. I asked how it was when they came home from that first practice. There was excitement in their eyes, but they had little time for answers and conjectures; they went out in our street to practice all the new plays Berto would need to know. That whole first season they showed up early to practice and left late to get up to speed, and Coach Ryan noticed. Berto was at last going to get that chance to play quarterback regularly, sharing that responsibility with a talented boy named Connor who Coach Ryan had nicknamed Franchise for his ability to make decisions as QB. Matthew got noticed, too, you might say. Very soon he was recruited to help Ryan with coaching. In fact, many of the dads helped, bonding over drills and discipline, a coalition of role models.

Now we were certain Berto would at last know what it felt like to win regularly, but that was not what made it our dream team. It was a family, a network of support. Team Mom, Dani, pulled everyone together, organized everything for the schedule, and she went above and beyond for the boys. Every jersey had the player's name on back and often a special team logo added. Everyone received the same trophy, voting on favorites. Dani patrolled the sidelines at games, taking countless photographs of the boys in action. At the end-of-season parties, we would all admire and cherish these snapshots when an album was handed out (albums that Dani designed and pulled together personally). The time and effort she spent for the families astonished us. I doubt we'll see another team mom like her.

Last night I was sure we would all be crying at our farewell. I'm surprised we weren't, but we had one last huddle in which a few families shared how this team had supported them through very challenging times in their personal lives, and that did spark tears. And the boys all got up to speak about their favorite part of this season. Many of them shared the love, talking about memorable plays their teammates had made, and many talked about just loving being on "this team".

Berto said, "I love this team, because I really learned how to play football from a great coach and other players like Connor on quarterbacking. Before that I was just a kid running this way, because his coach told him to."

I know exactly what he means. I've seen how much our boy has grown, how they have all sprouted. In the last couple games, he and his teammates were calling some of their own plays on offense, then reading the other team and yelling caution and encouragement on defense.

When the assistant coaches got up to share, Matthew spoke in jest about that first Meet-the-Coach night and how not one single family showed up (they simply requested Ryan as coach again and stayed home) and said sarcastically, "Thanks for that." But then he added in all sincerity, "My son could not have asked for a better coach."

Children never forget a great coach. He does so much more than teach them about a sport. He teaches them about life, giving them ideas and values that will follow them into adulthood and inspire them to work hard and treat all others with respect in whatever they do. I remember reading how much credit Randy Pausch, the charismatic orator and author of The Last Lecture, gave to his childhood football coach, Coach Graham. Maybe someday Berto will credit Coach Ryan for helping him to achieve his dreams.

In the end my words to express our gratitude to Coach Ryan, Team Mom, my wonderful husband Matthew and our whole team family are inadequate, but there was a wonderful quote in the last album Dani put together. It said:

The mediocre Coach tells. The good Coach explains. The superior Coach demonstrates. The best Coach inspires!

Thanks for the inspiration, Coach!



This post is dedicated to the Line 10 Dynasty. You know who you are, and I hope you know what you mean to us. May God bless you all and shine His light on your path wherever you may roam.

The Champions

There's no crying in baseball!

We all know that quotable nugget from the movie A League of Their Own, and it can be applied to many situations, but what about football? There should absolutely, positively never be tears in such a sport as football.

Unless you're me. Sometimes football is just so beautiful, I can't choke back my tears.

This past weekend I finally got football fever for the first time in a long time, and it wasn't because of the Arizona Cardinals who stink this year, or the Miami Dolphins (I rarely get to see their games), or those ancient teams the Chicago Bears and Detroit Lions. It was because of a team called the Blue Bombers, and they don't even play tackle.

My son Berto's flag football team had their last game of the year on Saturday. I had yet to see one of his games due to conflict with my youngest son's naptime. And truthfully, though silently, I balked at going on Saturday, because there were Christmas boxes piled in our home, my husband's work party to attend early that evening, and plenty of housework to do in preparation for the babysitter. But I knew I had to go. There had been several disappointing games for my son's team; he had struggled his first couple times as quarterback, a position he's passionate about, but he really wanted me to come see him play.

So I put a cap on my unshowered head, rounded up my younger children, and headed out with my honor as a mother. After all, you should be there for your kid if you can.

And what a sight to see beneath that unblemished Arizona sky! With the thrill I got and the investment I felt in watching the game unfold, I couldn't believe I had never come before, and to heck with naptime! There were plenty of eight to ten-year-olds on that field running their cleats off, but as I bounced my way from the playground, where my youngest three played, to the field, my eyes were on my son. I felt pride at simple things: the authoritative way Berto shouted "Hike!" and the fact that as quarterback he had the ball hiked to him in different form than his teammates to better facilitate his passes. I saw him throw a beautiful long pass. Sure, it wasn't caught by the receiver, but it had a lovely, smooth arc. And when I witnessed one of his two touchdown passes as QB and cheered as he ran one into the end zone as RB, my eyes misted over and my chest locked up in emotion as I shouted and applauded.

There's no crying in baseball or football...if you're playing the game. But if you're the proud mama? All's fair in love and score.