In Which We are Very, Very Muddy

It is Soccer Saturday #2.  Kerry took Wyatt to his morning game (which was relatively dry) and I took Tate and Gunnar to their afternoon games, which meant being at the fields from 2 until after 5pm.

Congratulate me.

Tell me I'm a good mom.

Because it was cold.

And wet.

And I wore so many layers

I was almost afraid to attempt a potty break.

I probably made the Pillsbury dough boy

look like an anorexic,

because I know how cold it is at the soccer fields.

As we left the house it began to rain,

and by the time we were heading out of town the rain got...  

chunky.

 As in, partial snow.  And I had memories of this.

But it was more rain than snow.

And it began to come down so hard that it was difficult to see to drive.

We prayed.

The chunky rain continued to pour down.

Until we were - no kidding - about half a mile from the fields.

There was no question that the chunky rain had been there...

... but it was moving off to the east.

Driven away by a cold, cold wind.

Tate played first, and all was well because his team only had one sub so he was running almost non-stop for an hour.  And Gunnar was dry and bundled up in many layers.

But then Gunnar played his game and Tate was wet and muddy and cold

and had forgotten his dry boots.

Which reminded me of this.

And he doesn't believe me when I tell him that walking around, instead of just sitting,

will make him warmer.

Even when he's wearing my coat.

And we finally got home in a flurry of mud,

and Dad-with-a-hose-at-the-back-door,

and an empty laundry basket in the mud room

because I've seen you in your underwear

and you're not stepping foot into the house in those clothes,

and showers,

and heat,

and dry clothes,

and blessings for the inventor of the crock-pot,

and friends for dinner.

And only six more weeks of spring soccer.

But I'm not counting.