What I need y’all to do this evening is just sit yourselves down and don’t be all judgemental-y on me, because I am about to confess something that will BLOW. YOUR. MIND. IN HALF.
I am a lover of lists. I love to make lists. I love to cross things off of lists. I love to see lists on the counter, telling me everything I should possibly know about what is about to shake down. And then there’s nothing more lovely than throwing a paper list into the garbage, because THAT SUCKER IS DONE! You can strut away from the kitchen garbage can and know that you are a productive member of society who has FINISHED THE LIST.
I just found someone on Instagram who has a list BOOK. Yes. It’s a notebook, and let me tell you this one thing: It is a work of art. She has used different handwritten fonts, and it’s been illustrated with colored pencils, and the handwriting is lovely beyond my imagination.
I am suffering from LIST ENVY.
As in, I no longer consider my own handwritten lists to be worthy enough of my attention.
Now, I know that this is supposed to happen with other things in life. Say… an envious feeling about someone’s larger home… or their cleaner home… or their gorgeous rosebushes… or the sassy blouse that they wore with that even sassier, dangly necklace… Aren’t those all legitimate reasons to feel some envy? I mean, if we set aside the whole truth that Jesus doesn’t want us to feel envy in the first place?
But LIST ENVY??!! Is that even a real thing? Because apparently it is now.
I know!! NERD MUCH??!!
Now, let’s pretend that I didn’t just own up to being a List Goober. Let’s just keep on pretending that I’m swanky and trendy and very posh, and MY WORD! So incredibly CHIC!
One day last week, when it was really and truly and also very genuinely 104 degrees of the Fahrenheit variety, we had our last preschool soccer game of the season. I have developed a brand new respect for soccer players in Southern Texas, who suck it up and get out there and RUN WITH THE BALL, because I was suffering just sitting on the metal bleachers. The sweat was dripping down exactly like the Mississippi River, and I found myself wondering why we couldn’t have had an AWAY GAME that night.
… like why we weren’t in Antarctica, playing the local preschoolers there, on an icy plateau.
It was about then that I realized we had no AWAY jerseys, so clearly, we were stuck in Small Town’s hellish furnace, with our orange shirts.
Because of the temperatures that day, a friend of mine and I had taken our kids to a creek to play. Thing 2 and his three buddies caught water skippers, splashed to their hearts’ content, and just flat-out LAID DOWN IN the water, for almost three hours.
And then we rinsed the mud and sand off of his feet, put on dry shorts and his soccer shirt, and off we went.
The exhaustion of three hours at the creek, combined with SWEET MOTHER OF BULLWINKLE! THE HEAT!!, did not sit well with our little Lionel Messi.
The little man spent most of the game looking like this:
And also like this:
And even this:
We pumped him full of water and blue Gatorade, and encouraged him to GO PLAY! MAKE A GOAL, but he shook us off and told his coach, “I want to be the one who takes a break with my water bottle.”
Thankfully, the refs and coaches all got together at the round table, and came up with a plan to extend the length of half time to TRIPLE. The kids all got to flop in the grass in the shade, with their chilled water bottles clutched against their foreheads, in an effort to drop their body temperatures down from 438 degrees.
Then, with some pep talks about PINK AND WHITE FROSTED CIRCUS ANIMAL COOKIES… WITH SPRINKLES!!!!!… FOR SNACKS AFTER THE GAME, the kids mustered themselves to get back out on the field.
So… with our cousins there to cheer Thing 2 on…
And then Hubs and I, with our sweat-soaked T-shirts, made the executive decision that we’ll simply sign Thing 2 up for ice hockey next.
Happy Wednesday, folks!