by Cheryl on January 23rd, 2012 | Posted in Just me
David took Sage to ice skating lessons. And then to softball practice, where he had to hand out photo packets and hit-a-thon envelopes, which is clearly the job of the team mom. Except this Sunday, the team mom was WAY too busy at home – screaming her lungs out for the New England Patriots in front of her TV. It was the AFC Championship against the Baltimore Ravens. I couldn’t miss it.
Maybe there seems something wrong in the cosmic order when it’s the woman who is the rabid football fan, specifically of the Patriots. But I guess David knew what he was in for when he married a sportswriter. I mean, if you don’t love sports, you probably shouldn’t make a career out of it. And if you don’t want your wife to love sports more than you do, also don’t marry someone who does what I did for a living.
I never covered an NFL beat. I did cover one Super Bowl, in Miami, when I worked in Palm Beach. I was one of a posse of reporters from my paper, and my seat was outside the press box, in the stands. When I went below to get interviews, it rained, shorting out my computer. I had to dictate on deadline. That was good times. Who says the job isn’t glamorous?
I grew up in Connecticut on the Patriots and Steve Grogan and white helmets with a red-white-and-blue patriot in a three-point stance, ready to hike the football. I bowed out for the Victor Kiam years, especially after the harassment of my lovely, beautiful and crazily-talented friend Lisa Olson. And then when Robert Kraft took over, I was back.
And now I live as far away from New England and Foxboro as I can and still be in the continental U.S. I can’t find any Patriots gear out here, but I have found friends who’ve grown up in New England and we cheer from afar. I *might* yell loud enough during games to be actually heard a few thousand miles away. Ahem.
My sister, who lived in Boston for years but now lives outside Philly, becomes so nervous she watches via computer rather than on TV. We frantically texted each other, because my sister and I wave the Patriots fan freak flag equally as high.
What else is there other than sports that can bring out such passion, such heartache, such elation, such incontinence, all within a few minutes or even seconds of each other?
Nothing. Which is why I love it.
I might have to be sedated for the Super Bowl. But then it just wouldn’t be as fun.
I’ll just stock up on Depends.
by Cheryl on January 17th, 2012 | Posted in Just me
Once upon a time, there was a gray dog. Someone decided she was worthless and tied her up in a yard that had not one soft surface upon which her body could rest. No one cared if bugs ate at her soft fur. Or if concrete brought sores to her skin or the chain around her neck became almost imbedded in her skin. Or even if she ate.
Somehow she ended up at the shelter in Devore. Where every bone in her body could be counted. And they decided her time was up and she was going to be put down to make room for other dogs, maybe just like her.
But then, the day she was scheduled to die, an angel arrived in the form of a volunteer from I.C.A.R.E. Dog Rescue. They saw her soulful, sad yellow eyes and her gentle spirit and they rescued her. With love and kindness and patience she became brave enough to wag her tail and lick a hand. She no longer cowered when someone stood suddenly. She began to think that not everybody had hate in their hearts.
Then one day she lied on a blanket in a cage at an adoption event. She chewed contentedly on a bone while, all around her, dogs barked and yelped and raced around. People peered into all the cages, stopping to hold the wiggly puppies. She didn’t come to the front of the cage to look at anyone. She didn’t do anything that would draw attention to herself.
But I saw her anyway. I saw her sleek grey fur. I saw the bald patch on her leg and her soulful eyes and her soft muzzle. I asked to take her out and when I pet her beautiful face she looked at me and gently licked my chin. And then, after 10 minutes or so, she licked Sage’s chin, too.
We took her for a short walk. Then I sat on a bench to call David, and she lied down on my foot.
Tonight, we took her home to be part of our family.
She was too busy sniffing every square inch of the house and meeting her new furry older brother to pose for a picture. But here is one taken Saturday when we first met her.
If you are looking for a dog, I urge you to check with local rescue groups and shelters. There are a lot of people devoting their time, money and hearts to saving these “disposable” dogs. Or consider volunteering to foster a dog while it waits for its forever home, or even donating money or things a group or shelter might need – like collars or blankets.
This dog who was neglected and deemed fit to die? Is now snoring softly by my feet. We are ready to love her the way she should’ve been loved since the beginning.
Thank you, Amanda, for bringing our girl back to life. And thank you, I.C.A.R.E Dog Rescue, for all you do to help dogs like ours. I wish all endings could be happy.
by Cheryl on January 12th, 2012 | Posted in Just me
The thing about living in our town is that you drive up the main street that runs between our neighborhood and past the elementary school and you see things like this.
I didn’t know Jessica Joy Rees. It didn’t matter. I was out there this morning, cutting ribbons and stapling posters to trees while Xander watched from his stroller. Because that’s the kind of community in which I live. Mothers, kids – everyone reaches out to help one another in hopes of bringing comfort to a family in times of unimaginable sadness.
Jessie was 12 when she died January 5th of an inoperable brain tumor. She attended our elementary school, graduating last year from the six grade. Her father is a pastor at Saddleback Church, two miles down the road from these signs.
Every class in school made a poster of a Joy Jar and many of the kids made the other individual posters, including Sawyer. The signs and ribbons lined the street from her family’s house to the church and each one told the message Jessie no longer can: NEGU. Never, ever give up. She never did. NEGU is a charitable foundation inspired by Jessie, to raise awareness for pediatric cancer, to support the children and their families, and to raise money for research.
When she was sick, she came up with the idea of Joy Jars, after her middle name. She wanted to brighten the day of other kids with cancer at CHOC (Children’s Hospital of Orange County) so she filled jars with fun stuff for kids: play-doh, crayons, little toys. She’d deliver them every week to sick children, hoping to make them smile. Even as she was enduring her own 11-month battle.
She has touched countless lives by what she did while here on earth, and she continues to inspire hope and faith in her passing.
There is now a hole in the middle of a family where a beautiful young girl used to be. And that is something no posters, ribbons or outpouring of love can ever fix.
by Cheryl on January 11th, 2012 | Posted in Just me, Wordless Wednesday
I am a football fan.
Specifically, of the New England Patriots (I came back to them after the Victor Kiam years).
I also love Tom Brady.
Ahem.
Anyway, Tuesday I was at the grocery store when I came upon these.
That’s right. Football Oreos.
So I did what every self-respecting blogger does. I snapped a picture and texted it to my friend Kathleen. And then I put it on instagram, which then went to Facebook and twitter.
Duh.
I also threw them into my cart because YES those marketers got me. Take a chocolately cookie stuffed with yummy cream and shape it like a football? Of COURSE I will buy it! (Well played, ladies and gentleman of Nabisco. Well played.)
They will obviously be better than those boring round Oreos.
They so will.
And after Tommy boy shows T. Tebow how it’s done Saturday? They will taste even sweeter.
by Cheryl on January 9th, 2012 | Posted in Just me, Parenting
I went to a baby shower for my dear friend Wendy this weekend.
She looked gorgeous, all sweaty glowing and happy and preggo. She *might* have been wiping down her thighs with Kleenex when I arrived. I was just relieved her water hadn’t broken.
The house was packed with women. There were four long tables filled with friends and family. This was, I believe, her fourth of five showers. Maybe they’ll be more. It’s not surprising; Wendy is one of the kindest, funniest, most genuinely nice people I know. And anyone who has met her will feel that light that comes from within her.
Wendy and her husband, Wes, went through three years of infertility before in vitro gave them their soon-to-be baby girl, Whitney. It was definitely something to celebrate. So I took a seat at the table in between her birth mother and her mother-in-law and diagonally across from Wendy’s mom. We ate and we chatted and we laughed.
And then it was time to open gifts. We settled in. This was going to take awhile. The gift bags and brightly-wrapped packages lined up like planes on the runway at LAX.
We oohed and aahed at adorable, miniature pink onesies with tutus, mary jane tights, crocheted hats and unbelievably soft blankets, pants with a cupcake on the butt. All that sweet, sweet baby girl stuff.
I thought I’d feel a pang. A longing for the days when my own daughter was wearing sun bonnets and footie pajamas and rompers that showed off her bakery-roll thighs.
But I didn’t.
I didn’t.
I had not one moment of baby envy. Of wishing back those hazy newborn days.
Maybe it’s because I still have a baby. Well, he’s a toddler, but he still likes to be carried and he has no interest in using anything other than his diapers to do his business.
Or, possibly, it’s the knowledge that I’m done. D-O-N-E. I am not yet nostaligic, and, in fact, had a bit of a love-hate relationship with babyhood – which happens when you’re dealing with breastmilk allergy and colic and two under two and then three that are five and under. I am aware this might change as my kids move into their teens, and, someday (hopefully) out of our house and into lives of their own.
I am sure I will remember the early-morning nursing of a warm-from-sleep, sighing baby, or the big gummy smiles and belly laughs, or the way their heads smelled like warm toast, and want to disappear into them for awhile.
But this day? I could sit and relax and giggle over the gift that came – accidentally – with a dirty, little boy’s sock tangled in the tissue paper. I watched Wendy gently hold each outfit and I’m sure she could imagine her baby girl in them one day soon.
My time for that is over. And I am not sad.
How about you? Are you done, and if so, when did you know it for sure?
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