With tears in my eyes...

This is my first blog post that is written with tears streaming down my face and dripping all over the keyboard and snot hanging out of my nose. Will it be my last? Probably not, but it is the first.

You should see my boy light up when it comes to football. He has a talent, a gift. Every coach sees it. His step father sees it. My mother sees it. Fathers of his friends see it. He is the ONLY 7 year old on his All Star team, and a starting center at that.

So why am I crying so? Because Luke's real father thinks that football is nothing more than "an attempt to steal HIS time away from HIS son." He says things like, "it's not like he's even good" and "I bet the coach tells every mom with boobs that her kid is great."

Luke's Jamboree is this weekend which is basically a weekend celebration of football at his playground. There are booths and food and beer for all. It's a weekend of fun and screaming and sweating and pride. Luke has 4 games this weekend. A rough schedule for a 7 year old? Yes. However, he is THRILLED and totally psyched up and ready to kick butt.

And as usual, I had to be the bad guy that had to call his father regarding his schedule. I have just spent an hour and a half literally begging a man that I almost cannot stand to allow MY son to play football this weekend. I was told things like, "he's only 7 and he'll forget all about it if we tell him he has to quit" and "there comes a time when parents need to stand in and say no to their children".

FUCK HIM.

Luke will NOT forget it if we make him quit. Luke remembers that the Easter bunny hid eggs around the house stuffed with quarters when he was THREE. He remembers things from when he was 2 that he will repeat out of the blue and shock the hell out of me.

I could understand if his grades were slipping. Then, yes, I would step in. But my child has my gift that not many ever understood in me, and I now see developing in him...he, like me, NEVER has to study. We are freaks who absorb knowledge in class and don't forget it. The kid has not only straight A's this quarter, but straight 100's this quarter and ask me how much I've studied with him? Zilch. I know, it's sickening but it's my gift too. I comfort myself with this gift when I see skinny bitches who can eat all day long and still be skinny bitches.

I digress.

And so, after an hour and a half, this is as far as I got. If I "want" him to play football (because of course it's ME who is forcing him to play) then I have to drive to and from Asshole's house FOUR times this weekend to pick Luke up, dress him out, get him to his game and then drive him back to Asshole. Asshole lives 27 miles away. Four games times two drives times a half hour each is four hours I will have to spend driving my child this weekend. Add to that 4 hours of games, and 2 hours of practice - oh and throw in that wedding on Saturday night for Ziggy's cousin he never met and all I can say is that I may need a drink at some point this weekend.

So now I have the task of telling Luke, while holding back tears that no baby, daddy did not say it was ok for you to just spend the weekend with me, which is what he really wanted. He even said as I put him to bed, "don't worry mom, I'll pray that daddy just lets me stay with you this weekend."

Pray harder, baby, pray harder.