I'm just your average, everyday, divorced 38 year old girl -- overweight, tragically unhip,
and trying to make a life for myself. I live with two furry beasts, Dave and Abby, whose
feline mission in life is to choke me with their fur. Nothing special.
Friday afternoon. Yesterday was TCB's birthday. Yesterday was Alcott's first football game of the year. I dithered back and forth about what to do, who to see, where to be, and then I decided that TCB's birthday would be a once-in-a-lifetime thing and that I should skip the game and spend the evening with my boyfriend. I called TCB with the news and he said, "Oh, no, you have to go to his first game. It's a big deal and you need to be there." I pressed him and he kept insisting that I go to Alcott's game. And so I did.
Omigosh, I can't tell you how many times my heart threatened to leap out of my chest. Watching my boy throw and run and hit and jump with joy and look so much like a man, I tumbled back and forth between pride and fear, afraid that he wouldn't get up after getting clobbered by some behemoth (probably a freshman) and afraid that I'd embarrass him by screaming, "that's my boy!" In the end, his team started their season off with a win and I got to eat dinner with 20 junior varsity football players.
(We won't talk about the fact that I sat with the boys at dinner because I'm pretty sure that I did a "no-no" by doing so. Before anyone blames me, remember that I haven't been through training on being a grown-up with kids - until very recently, I was convinced that I was still a kid myself. Who knew that it was time for me to be banished to the grown up table? Gah!)
