From Dr. Scholl's to the Pig-skin 'pocalypse

I don't understand why people like feet. Particularly fetishes. I mean, they're great for getting you around, donning the occasional toe ring, and tripping the creepy creepers of Wal-Mart  handing out pamphlets to save the world. And shoes...gorgeous shoes make life bearable! (If you see any at Goodwill, lemme know!) If I had a fairy godperson, I would want it to be Jimmy Choo. But I don't, and my size 6-1/2 bad boys haven't earned me much in this life. Thankful? Yes. Salivating at their sensuousness? Gimme a break.

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Welcome to my blog. This is my e-world of recollection, therapy sessions, and homemaker confessions. Be warned...this isn't the fairy tale happily ever after of some size 2, tennis-playing mommy's day at the playgroup. If you don't know me, let me welcome you to my life. Pardon the mountain of shoes in the foyer and the path of shed clothing, thanks to a four year old leaning toward a life as a nudist. I have three children. Braxton, my eldest, is 11, and on most days, the words I associate most with him are tender, spastic, and Disney-obsessed. Great heart, great kid, love him to pieces. In short, he is the reason we have more than one child. It's not by chance that God gave us him first. Next is Reagan, aka the one that gave himself a black eye watching cartoons this morning. Apparently, a Tony Hawk t-shirt is not quite the same as an authentic Superman cape. Eight years old, sweet as pudding, aggravating as a Chihuahua on Mountain Dew and Pop-rocks, and generally speaking, the one that gets hurt every time I look away. We were comfortable with our two children, but still  wondered "what if we had a girl?". Don't get me wrong, Emma is sweet, smart, beautiful, and I couldn't imagine her not being in our lives, but if you ask "what if" and no one answers you....

My husband I have been married for 13 years, and it has been wonderful. We have a joint-custody Schizophrenic marriage. From January to August, he is my loving husband, the devoted father of my children, and one of the nicest men you could ever want to meet. Unfortunately, September always rolls around, and I see him slip away from me. His sweet words of encouragement transform into growling barks. His Saturday mornings with the family turn into I-don't-know-where-he-is-but-if-the-tv's-on-you better-back-that-thang-up. But the worst is yet to come: the pigskin 'pocalypse. The actions of a few dozen young men in tight pants hold the keys to my Sundays. A 'w' at the end of the day usually leads to a pleasant Sunday: singing hymns of praise to the coach, preaching on the moral fabric of today's young athletes, and a twinkle in his eye that resembles the old crystal football in a bubble cloud of thought.

But when the losses come...well, that's when the learning begins. You learn which sportscasters were born out of wedlock. You learn which coaches' mothers were cocker spaniels, and sometimes, if you're lucky, you can hear the tale of a lucky horseshoe that somehow became lodged in the backsides of an entire football time. Let me close by saying:  I'm glad that fairy tale isn't illustrated. Be blessed, my friends.