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Dear Guys: I am not in charge of cleats

Submitted by on Wednesday, 14 September 2011 No Comment

It was bad enough that it happened once. By the time of the second incident in less than 24 hours, my head was ready to explode.

One day last week, my phone rang about 20 minutes into Boots’ soccer practice as I was trying to get Big Guy out the door to his game.

“Boots doesn’t have cleats,” Dad said.

“Yes, he does. He just can’t find them.”

“He has to have cleats.”

“No, he doesn’t. Not under league rules.”

“But his shoes don’t fit. You need to get him new shoes.”

“He has three other pairs. He doesn’t know where he put them.”

The next day the scenario was similar at Big Guy’s practice, where he showed up with footwear that flew off every time he tried to kick.

“Too bad you don’t have cleats,” I teased. “Oh. You do.”

After about the fiftieth shoe flop, he looked my way. “I need my cleats.”

Males in this household, please take note: My responsibility for cleats – and mouth guards and ball gloves and anything else – ends at the cash register of the sporting goods store. It’s up to me to buy cleats – and mouth guards and ball gloves and anything else. It’s not up to me to track them after that.

I know what you’re thinking. What kind of cold, heartless mama would send her babies out into the wild without cleats? The answer: The kind who’s had it after years of nagging and pleading.

And I do I try. The guys come in, and the discarded gear trails them down the hall. “You need to pick that up and put it where you can find it in time for the next game,” I’ll say. Nine times out of 10, that doesn’t happen.

If the definition of insanity is doing the same thing repeatedly but expecting a different outcome then this whole family is certifiable. The males, for expecting to be able to find their stuff when they scatter it hell west and crooked. Me, for expecting them to at least occasionally keep their stuff together.

It seems that three of the four people who live here suffer the illusion that the uterus is a homing device. I can’t remember what comedienne first said that, but it’s a retort so popular that it has its own Facebook page. There’s nothing written on the page, though. I bet the owner is too busy finding other people’s stuff to post.

The situation is even more maddening when you tell them exactly where something is – it seems that the uterus also has  tracking abilities far superior to those of FedEx or UPS – but they’ll go to the spot, stare vacantly and claim they don’t see a thing. It’s true that a higher percentage of males are colorblind, but does that same gene carry a tendency toward object blindness as well? Dude, it’s right there in front of  you.

I’ve finally reached a detente of sorts with Dad. He promises to deposit his keys and his cap at a designated spot on the kitchen counter, and I promise that aliens won’t abscond with them in the middle of the night. It’s been months since I’ve had the 5 a.m. “where are my keys I’m going to be late for PT” wakeup.

As for the guys, they’re still a work in progress. After soccer last night, most of the gear made it to the designated spot, though Big Guy’s cleats were in the middle of the floor this morning. The dog said the strings tasted yummy.

Copyright 2011 Debra Legg. All rights reserved.

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