While the Big Cat's Away...

The canaries will play.

While Hubby is picking dust particles from his teeth in Iraq, I am doing his dirty work over here...

The Sexy Guy loves his boys and loves his football, so last year he purchased season tickets to the local Championship League, Norwich City Football Club. My guys attend all home games (except on Sunday) and listen to the rest on the radio.

When we found out Hubby was deploying, one of the first things that went through their minds were that those season tickets that would sit idle.

He managed to arrange for a friend and his wife to take them-- which is asking a lot since there are the three boys and Miss Ky (of course we explained she wouldn't be going anymore).

Well, that first saturday without Dad rolled around and I had heard nothing from this couple. The Hubby kept emailing to see if the kids had been contacted. Nothing.

I texted the wife.

"Oh, there must have been a miscommunication. We didn't even know Sexy Guy had left".
"But he TALKED to you guys about it the day before he left!" Her husband had already left for the game.
My kids were dressed, sitting and waiting for a ride that wasn't coming. That saturday or any following saturdays.

Last week I decided to take matters into my own hands.

I stepped WAY out of my comfort zone: I called someone to take Miss Ky. I drove into a city I'm not comfortable driving in, during a busy traffic time, to end up somewhere I've never been. All in my hubby's British spec. car that I'm less than happy driving.

I escorted my deliriously happy boys into the football stadium and plopped down into my seat. Other than feeling like my knees were precariously close to my chin (surely I'm not the only long-legged person on this island), it was kind of exciting. I took pictures. I geared up for the great shots. My kids cheered.

Only one problem.

No one told me you're not allowed to take pictures...
so the security people did. During the game. With a personal visit. I blush easily.

At least they didn't confiscate my card.


These shots weren't my technical best, but I caught an exciting moment.
Norwich was 1-0 and the excited spectators were chanting their praises and support.

Burnley was pressuring their way down the pitch--

David Marshall (Canary Goal Keeper) stopped a spectacular shot,

but spilled it.



Only seconds after the first photo... the crowd shouted in surprised disappointment.

The game ended in a draw. That's a bad thing when you're close to being relegated.

I get it now. This father-son bonding thing.

I get how four people could stare straight ahead and make grunting noises rather than communicate verbally with one another and feel closer for having done so.

The Hubby has asked me if I want him to add another ticket to next year's pass.

I don't think so.

I'm going to drop back into the role of the one who catches their rush of adjectives as they spill into the house, tummies hungry and eyes shining.
That's my comfort zone.



Hosted by Cecily and MamaGeek

saturday in my part of the world

Today began with a phone call at 3:05 am. It wasn't one of those dreaded calls where your life changes forever, it was the welcomed call. My dad just arrived home after a four hour drive from the city where he had emergency surgery. He had suffered a heart attack while in the hospital for observation and was flown to Salt Lake City. I can't even begin to tell you what a nightmare this week was.
30 years ago, my mother came home alone from a bowling tournament my dad was competing in. She told me later that he had just bowled and when he turned around, he had the funniest (not as in "ha ha funny") look on his face and she knew something was wrong. He sat down beside her and she began to take his pulse. She said she knew something wasn't right so she called an ambulance. He was angry with her for doing so, and refused to get on the gurney. He made it to the door of the bowling alley when he collapsed. My dad died in the ambulance on the way to the hospital from a massive heart attack. He was 47. I was an adolescent.
So here we are 30-some years later and my step-father (who has been my father on this planet longer than my bio dad was able to be) returned home with my mom. It's amazing how quick a mind that can't keep track of soccer schedules (or parent conferences) can remember in vivid detail how the room looked when awakened to be told Dad wasn't coming home. I am sure in thirty years I will remember the relief I felt when my 'other' Dad called to say, "Are you sure you want to be called in the middle of the night just to hear I'm home?"