We drove to Georgia Friday to spend a few days with Youngest Daughter and her family. Two of the grandsons play soccer, so Dearly Beloved and I got to see SIX soccer games over the weekend. I know very little about the sport, so YD suggested I simply yell, “Go Blue!”
I yelled it and sometimes I turned it. It was cold and windy out there! I’d packed a sweater, but it was wasn’t up to its task. The Saturday games. . . all four of them. . . were played on fields that the Wright Brothers would have chosen over Kill Devil Hills had they known about them. Georgia Power could slap up a few windmills out there and power the Southeast.
The people watching was almost as much fun as the games. Two boys on one of the opposing teams had worn the wrong color jersey. One cornered his older sister (who happened to be sitting near me) and in a panicked voice, asked for her white shirt. She zipped up her hoodie and deftly removed the shirt she was wearing underneath. Her mother watched the entire process, looking a little anxious. I don’t know if it was for the wrong shirt or the ease with which her teen carried out her shirt maneuver.
Another mom ran to the car and returned waving her daughter’s white soccer shirt for her son. She ran toward the team huddle shouting, “Tell them you’re #20 today!”
Our grandsons carry both shirts now, having gone through these same scenarios without benefit of an older sister, but it was not a weekend without some upheaval. For Saturday’s games, older grandson had forgotten his soccer cleats. Sunday, everyone forgot it was the family’s turn to take oranges and ice for one of the teams. Our son-in-law dashed to the supermarket in mid-game and and only after he’d returned and distributed his purchases did he realize he’d given it to the wrong kid’s team.
Luckily, he’d bought plenty. Besides, ice wasn’t high on anyone’s list that day.
The boys gave up their very large, dorm-style bedroom upstairs so that DB and I would have plenty of room and privacy. A set of bunk beds and a twin bed offered plenty of sleeping space for DB and me. I laid claim to the twin bed in the nook under the eaves, only to find DB slipping in beside me.
When we went on our honeymoon, DB rented a seaside condo and lugged me over the threshold and up the stairs to all four bedrooms in search of a room with something besides twin beds. There wasn’t one. We slept together in a single bed the entire week.
Since the opportunity presented itself, DB thought it would be fun to sleep like honeymooners again and indeed, the first night we both slept great, snuggled together. We were tired from the drive and I don’t think either of us moved. It helps that DB sleeps in corpse position–on his back, his arms in an X over his chest. I sleep on my side in a semi-fetal position.
The second night wasn’t quite as restful. For one thing, there was the problem of having to get up and go to the bathroom during the night. We had to crawl over each other to get out of bed. Too, the ceiling of that cozy nook was slanted enough that each of us almost cold-cocked ourselves every time we ran into the slanting corner, trying to make our way to the bathroom in the dark.
The last night, DB woke me several times to tell me to move over. That didn’t sit well with me because I could see an inch or two of mattress on the other side of him, while several inches of my butt were already hanging off my side of the bed. Still, neither one of us moved to another bed.
Honeymooners, still. And I don’t mean these Honeymooners!