October 15, 2018


Under 'talk to Daddy' mid page
(is it weird that I don't use
 Coach's name in my
 notebook of things to-do?),
the second thing I crossed out was:
 'Boston/Wed? Th? or Fri?'
I felt so happy when I crossed it out.
I booked flights to take Tank and Mini to Boston to watch Laddie play water polo the end of October.  I obsessed over who to take, which games to go see, what flights to book, frequent flyer vs. not frequent flyer . . . for a few weeks.  Every day it would land back on my to-do list.

I preferred to do a 'girls' weekend'.  Tank had a Southwest ticket that he had to use, because he ended up meeting up with a friend in Florida over spring break.  When Coach headed home, Tank hooked up with his friend and we had to book him a different flight so he could fly home with his buddy's family.  Tank leads the life, people.

Tank was looking forward to seeing this friend in Boston that he met on a mission trip over the summer.  I was not sure how much 'friend-time' I could count on.  What if I brought one of my friends along to Boston and Tank ended up hanging out with us the majority of the time?  I didn't know the kid in Boston well enough to email his mom and say, 'So, were you planning on having Tank hang out with you the entire weekend or just like 2 hours?'

Eventually I opted to surprise Mini and bring her to Boston.  Mini was super excited.  If Tank hung with his friend, then she and I could shop or sight-see between water polo games.  We wouldn't bat an eye if Tank ended up spending more time with us than with his Boston friend, because we are accustomed to his antics at our home base already.

36 hours after I booked the flight, I got a text from Lad.  It read simply, 'Cancel your trip.  Messed up my shoulder.  Out for season.'

Nooooo!!!!  I wanted to cry, but instead I sat down- doubled over for a bit.  I felt horrible for Lad who worked so hard over the summer to go back to school in tip top shape.  I also dreaded telling Tank and Mini that our trip was cancelled.

Lad wouldn't even travel with the team since he was injured, so it wasn't like it made sense to go to Boston and sit with him in the stands during the game, etc.

Coach has never seen Lad play in college.  He teaches on the weekends sometimes, so he had plans to fly to New York on Wednesday (just 4 days after the bad news text arrived), watch a game, spend some time with Lad, and then fly to DC to teach for the weekend.

What's better than having your dad come to watch you play?  Having your dad come and evaluate your messed up shoulder.  Sigh.

Coach flew out there and checked out the injury.  He called it an unstable shoulder.  The doctor that Lad saw the next day also called in an unstable shoulder.  This impressed Coach, because often he disagrees with a doctor's assessment of his patients.  (Not to brag or anything, but my husband is a miracle worker.  Many, many patients are astounded at how he is able to cure them when all hope was lost.  I should have a t-shirt made that says, 'I put him thru PT school, you're welcome').  Basically a bunch of ligaments and muscles are working too hard to stabilize Lad's shoulder.

Coach gave him some exercises to do and they met with the trainers to make sure everyone was on the same page.

I am now trying to decide what to do with our frequent flyer miles.  The flights I booked out there was with Southwest - which Tank, Mini, and I can use as a voucher in the next year.  The way home was frequent flyer miles.  American Airlines said I can pay $200 to put the miles back, or I can use them like a voucher.  Each of the three passengers would have a voucher to use for the same amount of miles to go wherever we wanted within a year from the date I booked - NOT the date of travel.  If they could bend a bit on the travel date vs the booked date, I could try to re-book the trip same time next year. 

Just one more thing to write down in my list of things 'to-do' so I remember to figure it out.

October 13, 2018

in-laws from Hell, ironically

It has been 22 years, or technically more if you count the few years Coach and I spent dating and engaged.  When Coach asked me to marry him, his parents were upset.  It was something I was not supposed to take personally.  Easier said than done.  His parents and my parents were (note:  the use of past tense) friends.  Our families had known each other for years.  Their reaction to our engagement was ludicrous.

I am not sharing our (my folks, Coach and I, and  my in-laws) expressions, but trust me - there was a bit of a strained look here.  My in-laws threatened to refuse to invite any of their friends to our wedding, because we planned our wedding in the city of Chicago.  We live in the suburbs.  They felt it was too much to ask people to drive into the city.  These people were in their 50's not their 90's. My closest sister in law just ignores our in-laws' emails and their nonsense.  She wonders why I can't.  I don't think she realizes how much I went thru when I joined the family.  I paved the way and I believe I made it less stressful for those who followed in my footsteps. 
According to my religious zealot in-laws, marrying without intending to procreate from day 1 was a sin.  Coach was a full time student.  His parents assumed that we would not be welcoming children immediately.  Let’s pretend for a MINUTE that this was ANY of their business. 
Aug. 10, 1996

Even after all these years, it is hard to find the words to describe the hurt and the frustration they caused.

Of all the hurdles a bride might need to jump when finding footing with future in-laws, who would have anticipated this one?  (FYI:  Lad was born when Coach was still a student.  His folks knew nothing of my financial situation.  I put Coach thru PT school and had a baby while he was in school.  Plus I owned a one bedroom condo that we lived in.  We took out zero loans.)

We were SO young!
My parents are Catholic.  My mom spent time in the convent before deciding to marry my dad.  I was raised with a strong faith.  We were not slackers when it came to religion.  But Coach’s parents and their over-the-top interpretation of Catholicism is downright barbaric.  

When we were dating, Coach felt compelled to tell his parents that we saw the animated movie ‘The Lion King’ repeatedly.  This was to avoid their disapproval.  Spending time in a bar or being alone was classified as an ‘Occasion of sin.’  

They have a singular focus.  Well, maybe two focuses, but they relate back to one another.  They can talk ultra-conservative politics (because they find so many candidates immoral or Satan like) or they can offer guidance on Catholicism - whether it is welcome or not.  

Over the years we have received countless emails instructing us on how to vote or how to pray.  Imagine their disgust when we yanked our children from Catholic Schools?  

Their latest email sums it all up.  I am just flat out done.  I am too old to be instructed on a faith that I take seriously and that I work on daily.  Coach and I teach religious education.  We attend mass.  We pray.

Email from Coach's folks:

The problem I have with this latest installment of ‘We must save all Catholics who aren’t REALLY following the by-laws’ that arrived in my email in-box last week:  it has pushed me to my breaking point for several reasons.

1.  There is a reference in their email to people who felt that they were doing everything right, ie:  they sent their kids to Catholic schools.  This implies that those of us who DO NOT send our kids to Catholic schools are in the wrong.  My in-laws are constantly jobber jabbering about the Catholic school system and how it is the only acceptable option.  

2.  I have kept my mouth shut for years.  Coach is comfortable ignoring them.  I can’t do it any more.  Part of the problem might be that I CANNOT TOLERATE self-righteous people.  Remember my brother was raised to believe that he is always right.
     Or perhaps my middle child status is to blame for my need to be heard, since I have always had to fight for what I want and speak up when I was wronged.  I WILL NOT have these people BELIEVE that their emails have impacted me in the way that they want them to impact me.  I need to just call a spade a spade and tell them that I have chosen to unsubscribe.  My goal is to inform them that I have a spiritual adviser . . . and it ain’t them.  

3.  The audacity of these ‘Christian’ people to try to offer ME unwarranted instruction!  My in-laws are in a word ‘judgmental.’  While they get all worked up trying to convince the world to study the Catholic faith seriously, they struggle to relate to people on a personal level.  My father-in-law is a jerk.  He has an explosive temper and is incredibly inpatient.  He is overbearing.  He doesn’t listen when other people talk unless they are conversing about golf or God.  Translation:  any time I have ever tried to talk to him, he interrupts me, or changes the subject.  My mother in law is passive aggressive.  She is a worry wart who doesn’t live in the same world as the rest of us.  Twice this summer they ticked me off because of their social transgressions.  

So, I see my therapist on Friday to discuss why I cannot ignore all of this.  Until then, any suggestions from the peanut gallery?

October 11, 2018

Falling down on the job? HARDLY

Imagine feeling like you are knocking your faith out of the park - I mean, who doesn’t have room for improvement? but overall - bang up job in the religion department.  But instead you are left to CONSTANTLY feel like you are failing, not meeting expectations, not doing enough?  Let me tell you from experience.  It sucks.  

I am an adult- I am dangerously close to the age that young children might even consider ‘old’.  As far as my in-laws are concerned, I am a child.  A child in need of training.  A child with no hope of making the grade.  A child they keep hoping they can 'save'.  They have managed to make me feel inadequate for over 22 years.  Always undermining.  Always handing out unsolicited religious books.  Always subscribing our children to Catholic children magazines, even when asked to stop.  

When Lad was around 5, Coach made plans to drive out to visit his sister.  One of her kids was going to make his First Holy Communion.  Coach’s mom was not going to go because it was an 8 hour drive.  His parents are wealthy.  Do not ask me to explain why they didn’t fork over the dough for airfare to fly from Chicago to Kansas City.  The best explanation I can give:  it has something to do with the fact that religious celebrations should never be too over the top.  The focus should be more about prayer than party.  Whether she is there or not, she would be praying.  That should be enough.  (I still don’t get this, but they have skipped many baptisms, etc. because of travel expenses.  No comprendo).  

My mother-in-law, who we will call Sainty, was going to drive with Coach to Kansas City, so she could be there for the Communion.  I was staying home with a new baby or a big pregnant belly or some other welcome excuse.  I was happy to miss a chance to hang out with a sister-in-law who likes to give people instruction.  

When our kids were tiny, she once visited our home and laughed at the three different kinds of milk in the fridge. She made the following statement out loud.  I find it strange because it might be one of those things that you think, but don’t say.  I wanted to inform her:  ‘Oops, did you know we can hear you?’  OK, it wasn’t really that offensive, but it gives you an idea of her authority on most things.  

Who would buy three different varieties of milk?
 I must be crazy.
I’ve built it up too much, but she said with a chuckle:  ‘You really only need skim milk (can’t remember which variety she felt we should stick with - either skim or 2%), but you’ll figure it out.’  Funny, we already did figure it out - which is why we had skim, 2%, and whole milk in our fridge.  If I am buying 6 gallons of milk, why wouldn’t I buy vitamin D for a one year old’s growing noggin?  Super strange.  She is a physician assistant, so medically she can make that statement.  I guess.  I am not a physician assistant, but I know a few things and I don’t really give a shit if the things I do align with are the things she thinks I should do.  I wish I could go back to 2006 and shake my younger. more 'let's-just-get-along' self and whisper:  just tell her that you already have figured it out!!!

She is following in her mom’s footsteps sending out occasional ‘faith focused’ emails or Facebook posts.  If you didn’t know that she is better than you are, not to worry.  She comes dangerously close to telling you that she is.  She is also the only person who regularly tries to figure out how much moo-la I pull in as a babysitter.  Totally odd.  She and her husband have so much money they aren’t sure what far away religious shrine they should visit next, so why the fixation on how much I earn?  My guess:  since she thinks she knows everything, she has a hard time with information being ‘out there’ that she doesn't have a handle on.

Anyway, Sainty came to sleep over at our house the night before the road trip like 14 years ago, because Coach was going to leave crazy early in the morning.  I remember it like it was yesterday.  My little boys were going with Coach to Kansas City to hang out with their cousins.  I called Laddie over and handed him a book.  ‘I got you this book to look at in the car.  I think you can read some of the words in it.  It has your name in it.  It is called ‘Laddie the Lizard’. (OK that isn’t the name of the book, but you get the idea).  

Sainty literally boxed me out and leaned closer to Laddie’s face.  ‘Oh Laddie, I want you to know that there is ANOTHER book with your name in it.’  Laddie got very excited.  ‘It is the Bible,’ she breathed the words like she had just spoken magic.

Laddie just looked at her deadpan and said, ‘Oh, I already knew that.’  Then he turned back to me and expressed more excitement about his new, non-denominational book. (Obviously there is not a character in the Bible named Laddie, but Laddie’s real name IS found in the Bible).  

Never did I want to squeeze my kid more than I did at that moment.  His stock rose a bit that day and I intend to leave more to him in my will (despite his college years infractions) for that ‘Duh-my-parents-already-taught-me-that’ moment.  You tell her, Lad.  You let her know that despite what she thinks your mom and dad ‘got this.’ 
Damn it.  (Couldn't resist)

October 9, 2018

Give me a golf club, I dare you

I don’t golf.  When we were newly weds, Coach took me golfing with his family.  His dad remarked that I had a natural swing, and that I should give golf a try.  NEVER GONNA HAPPEN.  

My reason at the time:  ‘Oh yeah,  just what I need -one more opportunity for him (my father-in-law) to critique me.’  After 22 years of marriage, I have adjusted my reason.  No one should hand me a big stick within striking distance of my father-in-law and expect it to end well.  

Example B.  (B as in bastard). In late July, Coach arranged for he and his dad to golf with our three older sons before the start of school.  Lad ended up having a summer school final exam scheduled that same day, so he had to miss golf.  

Since the grandpa golf date was going to take place in the afternoon, Eddie decided to caddy that morning.  Not sleep late and lay around like so many teenagers in the world would opt to do - he chose to squeeze in a caddy opportunity.  Coach agreed that he would have plenty of time.  The round should have taken around 4 hours.  Freakishly it took over 6.  HOURS.  There wasn’t a thunder storm delay or anything.  

Ed was beside himself and actually wept a little when he finally got in Coach’s car.  He was so frustrated.  He hated that he had screwed up the golf with grandpa day.  From time-to-time in order to keep his father in the loop, Coach had texted him with info like:  'Ed is on hole 16 still'.  Coach asked Mr. Patience repeatedly to see if he could go back into the pro shop and push back their tee time.  

Coach told Ed that he was NOT going to call his dad again.  As they drove to the course to FINALLY meet his dad, Coach made Eddie call Grandpa.  ‘Sorry it was such a long round, Ed.  I cannot call my dad again.  You call him and tell him what time we are going to get there.’  (The golf meeting spot was an hour away, because grandpa lives practically in Wisconsin).  Eventually Coach, Ed, and Tank arrived and met Grandpa for golf.  

The following week, Lad contacted Grandpa and they set up a different time to golf together.  Lad was about to go back out east for school.  He forgot that he needed a physical.  Shock.  He reached out to grandpa and asked if they could push their tee time back because it conflicted with the only appointment time he could get with his doctor.  Grandpa texted back and said, ‘Well, since you never know how long a doctor appointment might take, I am going to just cancel the tee time.  I seem to recall having to change a tee time several times recently.’  

What?!  Like, WHAT THE HELL?!!!  Who does that?  The doctor Lad sees is the same family practitioner that I see.  I have never waited for more than 5 minutes to see him.  As anticipated, Lad’s doctor appointment took about 15 minutes.  Laddie would have had ample time to drive up north to golf with his grandpa.  

A little fun fact about Laddie:  he thrives on one-on-one time.  Thanks to parental hindsight, Coach and I feel terrible that Lad didn’t get the attention that he so desperately needed from us when he was younger.   

Lad with Coach and
Mr. Patience back in the day
on a golf course
before life became so
Coach felt horrible, but wouldn’t correct his father or give him a piece of his mind.  (Another fun fact:  Coach claims that I am the only person he has ever seen stand up to his dad).  Instead, Coach took Lad golfing.  They had a nice time, but Lad doesn’t see Coach’s parents very often.  He would have enjoyed sharing an afternoon with an unfamiliar audience.  

Not as much fun for a guy like Lad to golf with his dad, who knows how much hot water he can get himself into.  Compare that round of golf with one with a grandpa, who doesn’t know much about a particular grandson’s shortcomings, and you might just get lots more opportunities to shine without any built in Mulligans.

So with the help of Example A & B, you might be able to grasp how the latest email from my in-laws sent me over the edge.

October 7, 2018

More than a missed RSVP

A little background on why my in-laws made me flip my lid this week.  (This is a doozie that I will share with you after I have brought you up to speed on the essence of my in-laws.  Brace yourselves).  I find Example B (set to post after the 'example A' below) more offensive, but this will ease you into what they are like . . .

Example A.  (A as in ass holes).  Coach’s parents chose to drive to North Carolina in early June to help Coach’s brother, Matt, enclose a loft area in his new house to create an additional bedroom.  Matt lived minutes away from their parents here in Northern Illinois, but Matt and his wife (who was expecting her 8th baby in early July) relocated to North Carolina suddenly.  The company Matt worked for was moving some jobs there.  It wasn’t mandatory for Matt to relocate (especially weeks before a baby was due), but he and his wife jumped at the chance.  

Coach’s siblings, spouses, and I found the interest in moving out of state surprising considering that they lived a few minutes away from Coach’s parents.  Coach’s parents did A LOT for them.  Like A HELL OF A LOT.  We were all unsure how they would get by without the regular support from Coach’s parents.  

One of the reasons given for moving was that they heard there were lots of big families living in that area.  'The church parking lots are full of big vans like ours!'  OK.  Sure.  That makes sense.  Interesting because my sis-in-law constantly harps on the 'we-have-a-big-family' mentality.  Now she was suddenly claiming that it was hard to be so different from everyone else (in their Illinois town), because (you guessed it) 'we-have-a-big-family.'  

The bottom line is that my in-laws RSVP’d to Mini’s graduation party
with this:  

When Matt mentioned the possible construction project, the in-laws decided to spend a few weeks in North Carolina.  They left town a few days before Mini’s party rather than wait a few days to make the trip.  Strange, but true.  Trust me when I say that they don’t add much to a gathering.  That isn’t the point.  

My in-laws do not bother to drive to where we live very often.  (About an hour away- I mean I can do the drive in less than that, but that goes without saying).  They once had plans to come and see Lad play high school water polo.  They didn’t show up, because there was a threat of rain.  Not even like a bad storm or a monsoon - just a threat of rain.  They were in their early 70’s -not their 90’s (and let’s remember that they are now in their mid 70’s but a drive to North Carolina doesn’t phase them.  Ya' follow?).  They had NEVER seen Lad play water polo.  There wasn’t a single drop of rain that night.  Lad was crushed.  

Another fun fact:  my in-laws drive to where Coach's sister lives in Saint Louis for her kids' graduations, because those kids attend Catholic Schools.  Not only do they NOT attend my kids' public school graduation ceremonies, now they were blowing off the family party to celebrate Mini's graduation.  

Yes, they are very, very Catholic.  Did you pick up on that?  When I suffered a miscarriage back when Ed was one, I called my mother-in-law, 'Sainty' to tell her about our loss.  I was sobbing.  Sainty said this exact thing to me:  'Can you believe that some people choose this?'  

What?  Right to Life is her passion.  Who does that, though?  She was so wrapped up in her cause that she felt compelled to compare my loss to an abortion?  As usual, I bit my lip.  I am surprised that I have not done permanent damage to my lips after over 22 years of lip biting.  I was much younger back then.  Maybe even 'nicer' in general.  I do not feel compelled to be nice anymore. 

A few years ago, Coach and I were in Florida (where my in-laws live half of the year) visiting his folks.  We related a story from when we were spending time at our friends' lake house.  My father in law asked us if our friends were Catholic.  When we said, 'No', he jumped in with:  'Well then, this is an opportunity.'  I think I would rather be invited back to the lake house than compromise our friendship by attempting to recruit them to join the
Lake house fun!  Wow, we enjoy these people
despite their lack of commitment to Catholicism
Catholic army.  

Oh, and to update the overall concern about how Matt and family will get by in North Carolina without Coach's parent . . . his folks bought a condo a few minutes away from them in 'big-family' territory.  They plan to sell their place in Florida.

Just the tip of the ice burg.

October 5, 2018

paper hats & bad movies from way back

I recently looked back at my Google photos.  There I discovered many photos of things that I intended to write about, but never got around to it.  Like this picture . . . of the paper hat the Curly made Coach for Father’s Day.  

I imagine that lots of kids gift ties for Father’s Day, but how often does a dad receive a paper hat?  Since the gift was not meant to be funny, I tried to get the other kids’ attention before they poked fun of it enough to make Curly break down and cry.  The daggers I was shooting from my eyes, mainly at Reg, were proving ineffective.  Reg was doubled over.

‘Where are you going to wear your new hat, Daddy?’ Reg was questioning between fits of laughter.

Coach played it cool and wore the hat while he read the rest of his cards.  I kept a watchful eye on Curly willing her not to pick up on Reg’s endless need to make fun of the carefully crafted, homemade gift.  

Apparently the days of our kids presenting us with sweet, made-from-paper gifts officially cease to exist.  Sigh.  The end of an era.  

Once we started the movie, our laughter shifted away from Coach’s new head-wear.  After being subjected to the bad acting and the weak script for a short time, we were all sharing a singular, but thankfully acceptable focus.  Oh, don’t get me wrong.  This movie was not a comedy.  Always on the lookout for a family movie, we rented ‘The 15:17 to Paris.’  

I know this review is long overdue seeing as we watched this movie on Father’s Day, but I had a few lengthy stories to share first.  I hope this warning isn’t too late . . . do NOT waste your time with this ridiculous movie.  

We chose it because it was a true story of real people doing heroic things in a crisis.  Unfortunately that part of the story ended in the blink of an eye.  The scenes leading up to the train ride were torturous.  Our family movie night became more of a family critique session.  Even Eddie moaned about what he referred to as the ‘bro-talk.’  

‘Oh my gosh!  The bro-talk is killing me:  Dude, let’s get ice cream.  What flavor do you want?  Man, I might change career paths.’  It was so painful that it became positively hilarious.  Proof that not all stories are capable of being stretched into a full length feature film. 

Curly even wrote on the hat:
 'This is the #1 dad in the whole world'
 - so sweet!
I was bummed that the movie wasn’t more of a high point for the day.  I mean it was already a full day with a freshly clean (slightly unwelcome) garage.  What more can you ask for?  

I think even Coach would agree that watching 'The 15:17 to Paris' while wearing a one-of-a-kind paper hat didn't make the experience any better.  

October 3, 2018

not dance-mom material

As I approached the corner, I saw a white minivan about to pull out of the gas station. Something clicked - thankfully, it wasn’t my ankle.  The almost audible clicking noise was my brain.  I was just beginning to recover from the holy Hell of a headache I had the night before all this fun began.  My cab driver drove a white minivan.   Yes!  I remembered it now.  The interior was black, which is why my black bag remained camouflaged when I hopped out.  My half asleep brain had nothing to do with it.

I got to the van just before he pulled into the intersection.  I needed to get his attention, so I slammed my hands onto his hood from the passenger side where I was approaching.  The driver just about jumped out of his skin.  At first I thought I recognized him, but his startled expression threw me off.  

Was he looking at me like he had never seen me before, or was it a look like he WISHED he had never seen me before?  I tried to catch my breath as I staggered in front of his car on my wobbly legs and around to the driver side.  He rolled down his window and looked at me wide eyed.  I am guessing that this is implied, but folks - I looked like Hell.  

‘My bag.  Is.  Still in your car.  I need.  My bag!’  (The periods here denote where I took long wheezing breaths.)  While I wheezed, I took no chances.  I refused to stand on ceremony.  I crossed the cab driver/ dance-mom passenger boundary and stuck my head thru his not-completely opened window definitely infringing on his personal space.  

I wept at the sight of my perky, little, well-worn, refused-to-glide-in-a-straight-line-on-its-wheels, knock-off-of-a-real-wheeled-bag, gift-from-my-sister, black bag.
This is my black bag that I was
so desperate to get back. 
These are my fingers sticking
out of the holes.  The holes are
 here because the bag isn't really
 made properly.  This side where the
wheels are occasionally drags on
the ground.  Oh, it may be ugly

Mr. Driver was so shocked that my bag was still in his car that he gasped loudly.  He slapped  his head with the palm of his hand and jumped quickly out of the car.  

What happened next can only be described as the Ernie-effect.  The man was having a fine, ordinary day until I came along.  In his haste to get this hysterical, sweaty, mess of a woman out of his life, he jumped out of the van to open the back door.  Unfortunately, he failed to put the van in park.  

The van began to roll into the street.  Again, may I reiterate how relieved I am that this was all happening before 5:30 am.  No traffic.  And under the cover of darkness- like a covert operation.  He deftly took three giant steps before popping back into the driver’s seat where he immediately hit the breaks and put the van in park.

I apologized profusely for my train-wreck self.  I would have blamed myself if his minivan had hit something while he was trying to extract my bag from the back seat.  He insisted on driving me back (less than 100 yards) to the hotel.  I tried to shake my head and refuse his offer wanting instead to let this man go on with his life.  

He did drive me up to the hotel.  I did reappear in the lobby just in time for Curly, who was clueless about her Mom’s adventure, to get her ridiculous wig attached.   

See the moms in the background.  I assure
 you they have their shit together. 
And this is my daughter - now
unidentifiable to me with the heavy
 eye makeup in place.
While they worked on her wig, I approached Ms. I-Wish-I-Was-at-a-Barbecue.  ‘Got my bag back,’ I assured her as I tried to pretend that my hair wasn’t dripping in sweat (not unlike Kristin Wiig in ‘Bridesmaids’ when she tries to pretend she doesn't have food poisoning).  Now about my credit card that is currently in your vault.’
People, exhibit B clearly tells the tale of how much I need my sleep and how badly Irish dancing can impact my apparently very sensitive nervous system/ diminished brain cell capacity.  I hate it when Eddie calls me 'Dance-mom' and honestly, I think this story illustrates how I am nothing like a true dance-mom.

The authentic dance-mom breed is perky at 4:30 am, she carries a Starbucks cup (I don't drink coffee) and she NEVER questions crazy-ass time slots for hair and makeup.  I suspect that she likes the smell of sock glue, and she is capable of having full conversations without choking on the bobby pins that dangle from the side of her mouth.  She embraces this shit.  Nothing rattles her.  She clusters around chirping with other true dance-moms about the upcoming competition while I count the hours until the mayhem might be over and my visits to the bathroom might become more predictable.  The lot of them roll pricey Zuca bags as if they are an extension of their God given appendages - they would NEVER abandon said bags in the back of a cab.

Thinking of enrolling your kid in an Irish dancing class?  Don’t say this non-dance mom didn’t warn you.