Published on July 17th, 2011 | by Lady Quebeaum0
Parenting: The Fuzzy End Of The Lollipop
There are some things I know nothing about. Two of them are what it’s like to raise a person with another adult in the house, and deciding what I’m going to do with my free time. Straight up, readers. I pulled this article out of my ass. I think I was supposed to write something about parenting and roller derby. I have a lot of things I could say about that, but fundamentally, what I want to tell you is that if you combine the two you will never, ever have time to do anything properly ever. Everyone will get the fuzzy end of the lollipop at some point.
Sometimes folks tell me I have a terrific kid. I happen to agree, and it’s lovely to hear, but often, after I say “thank you,” in my mind I think, “He’s only nine. I have plenty of time to fuck this up royally.”
Case in point: My most miserable bout experience ever, the game we played against the Tampa Bay Derby Darlins. I not only exposed a significant chunk of the entire Eastern WFTDA region to a nasty stomach bug, but I also let my kid eat Skittles for dinner and he learned how to hustle fans.
Bout day. You, dear reader, are likely all too familiar with just how much work goes in behind the scenes. I am, for all intents and purposes, where the buck frequently stops with my league when things go to hell, as they are wont to do in derby. I am also occasionally bad at lining up baby sitters. My son frequently comes to the bouts with me, and tags along while I do the admin stuff that needs doing. Thankfully, a small posse of mamas I know well were in attendance that day and able to act as designated adults while I was skating, which was hours away…
In my defense, I had no intention of sharing my germs. I felt fine when I got to the venue. I did manage to leave my wallet at home, and was both without my drivers license and cashless.
I’m sure I’m not the first person to throw up violently on roller skates at a roller derby bout. I’m sure I’m not the first to totally lose track of her kid at an arena and then fail to feed him real food after locating him, and I’m also pretty sure I’m not the first person who has ever stumbled into a Royal Farms with no pants on in search of Pepto Bismol that I intended to purchase with change. I may be the first to do all these things at once in the space of an hour and a half.
Hours into our arrival, my derby admin duties done and offspring handed off, our warm up started. My teammate pushed me over like a stack of couch cushions as I groaned and offered zero resistance. I curled into a ball behind the bench. “Stretching,” I called it. As the first game got underway, I removed myself from the bench area and the first rumble bubbled up. I managed to make it to the ladies room. I politely chatted with fans in line as best I could, and then violently and loudly tossed my cookies in a stall. The chatter in the hot little room came to a dead stop, and I’m sure some were wondering if this was just how we do things at the derby. I curled up behind the VIP area with a bucket someone found for me and waited for our game.
“So…You’re going to be OK, right? You can do anything for an hour right?” my captain brightly posited.
I don’t really remember much of the bout after this beyond sitting on the end of our bench with a bucket. I was unable to parent, unable to derby, and unable to deal. I do know, however, that my child did not eat the food I brought for him. I also know he ate a pack and a half of Skittles with soda instead, and was apparently very difficult to catch. He was practically vibrating when a friend of mine brought him over afterwards and handed me the pack she’d confiscated. When I asked him where he got money for candy, since my wallet-less ass sure hadn’t given it to him, he explained that a fan and former skater had given him two dollars after he showed her his hip-hop moves. Fabulous. My son shook his booty for two dollars.
Too wrecked to properly respond, I somehow got us into the car and to the Royal Farms, where I did my best not to look like someone should take my child away, and purchased a small bottle of pink stuff with quarters I found on the floor. The drive home was long.
I forget what my point was, but it was probably something along the lines of, “don’t do it like this.”
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