I AM interested in sports...culture.

5 Minutes:
When it comes to breeding sports fans, my parents have a strong batting average: 0.666. It'd be even higher if you got bonus points for creating a kid who ends up majoring in sports management and another who has several close friends on the payroll of a professional baseball team. My siblings are sports fanatics. I, on the other hand, am finding my way to sporting events mostly to be a good mom. So far, both of my kids enjoy playing sports; one REALLY seems into watching, too.

I don't dislike sports or sporting events, but I'm more interested in the people playing them—and also those watching. This afternoon, here are some of the thoughts that ran through my head as I sat in the stands of Centennial Field watching a game between the Vermont Lake Monsters and the Connecticut Tigers:
  • I wonder if hearing Elton John's "Bennie and the Jets" whenever he walks makes the Bennie guy (Joe Bennie, of the Lake Monsters) hate—or love—his name?
  • Look at them doing those calisthenics down there—I wonder if the team exercises together all the time. Who leads them through those moves?
  • That player from Santa Cruz (I forget which team): Growing up, was he all about "keeping it weird"?
  • I wonder if the Lake Monsters have a marketing person who writes bios about all the players'  favorite foods and such. 
  • That would be fun. 
  • I think I remember a piece in The New Yorker about the marketing person for the Mets doing this. And people finding that fluffy and strange. Maybe I'm making that up. 
  • Still, that would be a fun job. 
  • I can't believe that Olin has never noticed that I put ketchup—not mustard and relish—on my hotdogs. In the FIFTEEN years we've been together. 
  • Mustard and relish on a dog taste good.
  • I think I would have made a great mascot. Dancing and acting without having to talk or sing. How awesome would that be?
  • How often do seagulls often get hit with baseballs? 
This went on and on... Then we came home and watched a bit of the World Cup. My inquiring mind continued:
  • Why is our goalie dressed like a banana?
  • Does that yellow mean something?
  • Why is their goalie wearing green?
  • I'm confused. 
  • I wonder if that big beard makes our goalie hot. Like warm, not attractive. But he is quite attractive. I wonder what he'd look like without that beard.  
My stream of consciousness represents one who is totally uninformed about soccer. But the comment of one of my kids suggests that we're not doing a great job of informing them about world goings-on (or perhaps they're watching too much Chima). Upon learning that Portugal's goal meant that we had not won, he said, "That's REALLY bad."

"No, it's OK. It's really disappointing, but that's how these things go," I told him.

"But wasn't this the war to see if we keep our country?"

Um... no. But wouldn't that be such a better way? 

5 Snaps: 













Day 13 | 5x5 Challenge | Today was long and sweet.

5 Minutes:

It was the longest day and it feels it, in a really good way. At solstice (which, I learned from the

Farmer's Almanac

, occurred at 6:51 am) I was running—about one third of the way done. When I got back, the boys were still asleep and Jon was just pouring his first cup of coffee. We actually got to have a conversation—uninterrupted and not about scheduling. No clue what we actually discussed. The boys woke up and ate breakfast. Jon disappeared upstairs to deal with some laundry (go Olin!), and Jules, Kai and I drew pictures and practiced letters, so, so nicely, for what seemed like a long time.

Then it was summer, full-on. I took the boys to

Last Resort Farm

 to pick berries. When we got there—after a few wrong turns and a 30-minute drive—it was all picked out. But Eugenie, who runs the farm, pointed us toward the kids' field and offered the boys to pick whatever ripe berries they could find. And so we did: Jules intently seeking the the rare red gems and pressing them into my hand, after he'd bitten them in half, to "taste how sweet"; Kai following behind, with a less-precise, more-dramatic picking style. The place was magical. We watched red-winged black birds zip and dip across the sky in some sort of (mating?) chase. We pointed out how the clouds—the kinds kids draw—hung low just above the tops of the long greenhouses. Then we went into the farm stand and bought two of the few remaining pints of the sweetest, reddest pre-picked berries.

When we got home, the next-door neighbor—six, like Jules—had set up a stand to sell lemonade and homemade (AMAZING) donuts. Eventually, a gang of neighborhood kids assembled next door, and then in our backyard, playing on swings and creating scenarios that involved armor and swords. THIS is what summer had always been to me. With Ange and Dan, Jeff and Steve, Missy and Gina. We had bike races. We played GI Joe. We held an Olympics. (Hello, 1984.) We choreographed outdoor performances (most memorable: Billy Joel's "The Longest Time"). We stayed out all day until our moms called us in for dinner.

For dinner, tonight, we packed it all up for the beach. The crowd there was surprisingly sparse—perhaps because it wasn't hot, just warm, and the water was freezing. Its iciness didn't faze Kai a bit, and not really Jules either. But he preferred to stay in the sand, building volcanos and retaining walls for waterways, combing the beach for sea glass. Jules and I hung along the water (bellies full of quinoa salad and cantaloupe), while Jon and Kai went back up for a second course of hot dogs.

We reconvened for one last hurrah at the playground before getting in the car and driving to Archie's for ice cream. Long. Sweet. Today. Let's keep it coming, summer.