No mom signs the kid up for team sports because she gets excited about the extra driving, the complicated scheduling, or the chopped -up weekends. Trust me. This is a fact.

And it’s true for me, too.

When our sons were little, I dreaded the day they’d want to play sports, if truth be told. The rap about soccer moms and families whose lives revolve around sports really turned me off.

But.

I am absolutely convinced that my guys have grown. Learned teamwork. Become more confident. And that they’re well on their way to becoming men.

Max plays flag football in spring and fall and basketball in the winter. Reed plays basketball in the winter (and trombone all year, but that’s another story for another day).

Last basketball season, the boys were ‘drafted’ onto teams where they didn’t know even one other player. Shocking, because there must be 20 boys in each age group from our schools that play in the league. But things happen, right?

I was bummed out. The practices were far away. The boys had to make new relationships. The coaches were unknown to us.

The boys, while thinking it’d be nice to have a friend or two on the team already, were not really all that concerned. In fact, when they heard me talking to Andrew about lack of carpools and camaraderie, they said they absolutely did not want me to try to change them to a team with their peers. They were F.I.N.E.

And that started the best season for both boys that we’ve ever had. They made friends. They had amazingly stupendous, encouraging coaches. Together, this great group of kids led by compassionate and talented men, became teams. Really good, strong, cohesive teams.

When it was time to sign up last week for next winter’s league, I asked the boys if they wanted me to put any requests on the form. For specific kids? Coaches?

And the immediate response was “No, Mom. We’re good.” And I realized that my guys were going to be just fine in this world. They could walk into a situation and make it work for them. They had inner strength and motivation. And, not to be corny, they are team players.

And I’m really proud.

I get all sorts of alerts for moms to blog or tweet about different things. I don’t consider myself a mommy blogger, but clearly I am a mom and a blogger. And so when I saw that Liberty Mutual (not my insurance company – or at least I don’t think so, but Andrew would know for sure. Yikes. That’s terrible, isn’t it?) was sponsoring a program that supports volunteer youth sports coaches and parents who help our children succeed both on and off the field, gives community grants (in a time when communities are seeing cutbacks in funding for sure!) , and is maintaining a site with some terrific resources, and they were hoping that some bloggers would give them some ink, I decided wtf, I’d do it. ResponsibleSports.com. It’s nice. And I don’t say that lightly.

And I think it’s really important.

I had a fabulous childhood. I’m not apologizing for it, but it does feel a little boastful to say it outloud.

In particular, today I was thinking about the stream out back, behind our suburban house just beyond the three beautiful weeping willow trees.

There was one tree for each of us. Mine, the middle one, had the perfect perch for snuggling up with a book. I’m just sayin’…

So the stream. It wasn’t very wide or deep. We’d take a running start and leap over it as if it was a huge accomplishment (though realized later that it was not). We’d play in it, around it, and best of all, we’d venture into the tunnel that followed the stream under the road and into the woods on the other side of (and I swear, I JUST got why it was named that) Streamwood Drive.

And then the adventure continued. There were miles of trails (really probably 1/4 mile tops) and deep water (2 feet?) and thick trees and vines and sometimes it felt like we’d never find our way back home.

One day, we went really far until the woods opened up and the stream poured unto a giant pool with huge concrete walls. What a discovery!

But we weren’t the first to step foot here. I know this because high up on the concrete was a beautiful spray-painted declaration of true love…

Howie loves Izzy.

I remember thinking, hoping, praying that someone, some day, would love me that much.

And though he’s never done graffiti on my behalf (at least I don’t think he has) I can say that someone does.

If my life was made into a movie, it'd be a comedy, I think. I love to laugh and to make life fun around here. And it is fun. But maybe it's more a family film. Well, maybe sometimes it's more of a romantic comedy. Come to think of it, it's an action-adventure, too.

And sometimes? It's more like anime….

These candlesticks have little or no value. They are not made of precious metal. They’re only 1″ high. And yet, I treasure them.

They were a gift to me around 1970 or 1971. I was 9 or 10 years old. A good friend, a neighbor gave them to me. I really don’t know why. I wasn’t particularly religious or interested in Judaism at that time. (It was before youth group involvement, too.) I did have some miniatures and dolls. But I can’t imagine that’s why she gave them to me.

And I can’t really figure out why I still have them.

And more than that? I’ve always, and I mean always known where they were. Through college years. And then through 6 apartments, 1 house, 1 apartment (yes, again), and now 3 houses later (phew) I always knew where these candlesticks were.

Is it a coincidence that the little girl who gave these to me became a very observant Jew as an adult? And is it a coincidence that I light the Shabbat candles with my family nearly every week?

If I look closely, I can see some wax in the metal from when I lit birthday candles there.

And it makes me smile.

I’ve considered giving these candlesticks to a someone, maybe one of my amazing nieces, but truth be told, I can’t imagine anyone caring for them as I have.

Why do I have them? Why do I care?

I don’t know. But I do.

It’s dark. And it’s stll. And except for the sound of the air conditioning units and the occaisional car with a deep bass beat, there’s nothing.

Andrew and the boys are asleep in the motel beds and there’s a space waiting for me.

But I can’t sleep.

I’ve struggled with insomnia since college. More recently, I’ve been able to control it with medication.

But not tonight.

And it seems the more I want it, the more it evades me.

So I will blog and tweet and…

And wait for a yawn.

He was asked to choose symbols for his identity and create art to represent them.

He chose:

• Torah because he is Jewish and is proud of his religion.
• Books because he likes to read and has many books at his house.
• Crab because he lives in Maryland and likes to eat crab.
• Chef’s Hat because he likes to cook and to eat.

Is it just me that sees the irony?

We’ve all read about the staycation trend. You know, check into a local hotel or resort and enjoy down time in your own city. Or stay home and take some day trips or just make some fun at home.

It’s as good as a vacation.

Or not.

But today, I heard something on the radio that made me howl.

It was about a daycation. Urban Dictionary defines it as “A day trip. A day long vacation. Most daycations take place in amusement parks, or sometimes the beach.”

But this took it one step further. It suggested that you could go to On The Run and, for a mere 50 cents, have the time of your life. Yes, for that low price you could grab a soggy, hotdog – yes, the ones that sit out on that spinny thing for all to see, and that, my friends, is your getaway. Add a cheap fountain soda and it’s like a mini-vacation in your day.

I swear it said that, “a mini-vacation in your day.”

I could not make that up.

So who’s with me? I’m taking a daycation tomorrow. I could sure use the break.

I forgot I had this book. I think my mom gave it to me some time ago. It is about a woman’s journey to connect with her grandmothers and her memories of them by embracing a more observant Jewish life. Well, that and cooking. (The book is filled with recipes!)

For some reason, I picked it up last night.

And this bookmark was on page 227.

It marked these words:

Once I knew I was a certain kind of Jew and I was comfortable in that identity. My heritage was Jewish, I was a cultural Jew. My cultural memories were Jewish. But I was Jewish and American, and the identification with my hybrid roots was also strong. I strove to be a pure hybrid.

And I tried to remember why I marked the page. I surely identify with the quote but barely remember seeing it before. But it must have spoken to me at some level. Or perhaps I had just stuck the bookmark in the book randomly.

I don’t know.

But the bookmark.

It was made by Andrew’s great aunt Abbey who died last year at age 101. Abbey was a character; a strong and opinionated woman who had lived a long (clearly) and interesting life. She wasn’t easy by any stretch of the imagination.

But I really liked her. Her stories fascinated me. And I loved that she made things. I have boxes of handmade greeting cards and several of these flower-pressed bookmarks. These were her flowers from her garden.

She had a beautiful garden. Her love for flowers is evident in her niece, my mother-in-law, too. Some people just understand how to cultivate and encourage flowers, I think.

I am not one of these people. Abbey gave me seeds one time. I hurried home to plant them. I don’t think I ever saw a sprout. I suppose I grow other things in other ways. And that’s okay with me. But I am envious of those gardens, like the one across the street from us. I appreciate the beauty.

Yesterday, we went to a beautiful botanical garden and I was overwhelmed. The boys didn’t go eagerly. But they will eagerly go back. There was something in the air besides the lovely fragrance – a peace of sorts.

I’m going to read this book and then I’ll use this bookmark pressed with memories and stories to mark another place in another book.

And the story continues.

So on this occasion of his 51st birthday, I thought I’d touch on a few highlights of what we’ve had together – since the years together are the only ones I know.

Riding into South Dakota. Remember the Bearnaise Sauce? It was like alfredo sauce with extra butter. Scary.
All the days we’d have lunch at home when we worked at Bozell/Kiewit
Lazy Sundays before we had kids
The day Davis was born. Was that crazy or what?
Hawaii. Remember we talked about eloping?
Cabo San Lucas.
Mexico with the boys. The tequila tour.
Ocean City that day that we just talked and talked.
Our wedding party. Celebrating with all our friends.
Leaving the wedding party in tears knowing we were moving 1200 miles away.
The day Reed was born. Tough one. You were great.
When we found out was pregnant with Max.
When Davis preschool teacher laughed because he told her I was having a baby. She knew I’d just had one so how could that be?
When Davis wondered why our new baby looked so different.
The Katzman’s helping us with the bris’s.
The day I brought the wood playhouse home.
Raising the boys with you here. I’m really proud of them. Aren’t you? We’ve had quite a run so far.

Happy birthday. Enjoy the ride, Andrew.

Okay, fine, it’s not really a vote. But the applicant who gets the most video views will get a groovy job with Maryland Tourism.

Lacey’s video is great. I happen to know her mother, who is a great friend of my sister-in-law. But I really do think it’s great and this girl is loaded with talent.

View the video. Please?!