I'm in here. My kitchen that is. There's a bit too many flies in here. That might have something to do with the horses out back and the pig who's peering out of her cage at me as I write this. Her cage is like a miniature barn. She poops a lot.
Anyway. Um. Yeah. So. It's like. Well. You know..... it's been a while since I've written. I can't explain why. Intertia happens.
Summer turned to fall when I wasn't looking. I was still daydreaming about ocean waves and lazy days and salty air and such, when, wham, the leaves turned color and the clouds dropped into place and it started to rain, and rain, and rain. And throughout the rain we have stood, mostly, on the side of a soccer field watching Esther, and her teammates, chase a ball back and forth in a strangely compelling sporty diversion.
And who would have thought I would have the stamina to watch her do this for three hours straight? It's weird. I've learned that real soccer moms and dads keep chair in the backs of their cars for just this purpose. Sitting and watching. Some of them even have huge umbrellas in their cars as well. Others have popups.
This is indeed a new chapter of parenthood. I'm not sure what this chapter should be called. Jealousy, maybe. Because, you see, I still imagine myself as an athlete. I still want to be the one who is running around, out of breath, for hours each day.
Spectator has never been in my resumé. Until now.
Funny thing, Ian likes to watch Esther play soccer too. So rather than one of us representing the family on the sidelines, while the other does something productive like, work a second job, which I should, or clean the house, which I should, or work on the book I'm planning to write about living in France en famille, which I should, or unpacking the six boxes of books which came over on the boat from France and were delivered over a month ago, which I should, or unstrangling the garden and putting it to bed, which I should, we both just ...... stand there and watch Esther run.
Her sense of purpose, while chasing and carrying and shooting and blocking that ball, somehow lightens our loads. All the chasing and carrying and shooting and blocking we should probably be doing ourselves is somehow pushed onto the back burner.
We'd all much rather be playing games. Wouldn't we?