Dementia Dad

"Did you play soccer today?” my dad asks. I think this is the fourth time this week he has asked me this. I often drop in to Extended Care to see him after my physiotherapy sessions, since they are held across the street. He is sitting in his wheelchair, looking out the window. I sit on his bed, careful to avoid the button on a cord that calls for the nurse.

“No, Dad. I had knee surgery in October.” We have this same conversation almost every time. I lift up my yoga pants legs to show Dad the scars on my knees. “This is the scar from 1998,” I say, “and this is the new one. I still have to wait at least six more weeks before I can play.”

He stares thoughtfully at my knees like this is new information. “That’s a long time to wait, isn’t it?” he asks.

Yes, oh yes.

We are quiet for a while. We’ve never had much to say, he and I. He was always the science guy, the technical guy – an avionics engineer who couldn’t connect with people very well- even his own kids. Of course, we all had our specialty niches: Meg was the smart one, James was the mullet-wearing one that he fought about haircuts with, and I was the sporty one. After I moved out to go to UVIC, the only time my parents and I ever spoke was on Sundays because that was the day of my soccer game. And just like all those years ago, once we are done with the topic of soccer, the conversation gets pretty thin.

“So, what did you have for breakfast today?” I ask. This is usually a safe subject.

“I had no stuff for my toast,” he says. He makes a triangle shape with his hands.

“Jam, you mean?”

“Yeah, that’s it. Jam.”

“Why not?”

“Well, the toast was shaped like a triangle,” he says, showing me the shape again.

What does this have to do with jam? “Cut on the diagonal?” I ask.

“Yes,” he says. “Everyone else had stuff on their toast. But not me.”

He starts to make the triangle shape with his hands again, but I don’t say anything. I’m eager to get past the great toast-and-jam debacle of 2011.

“Just toast for breakfast, Dad?” I say, finally.

“No,” he says, starting to make a different shape with his hands. “There were, uh, eggs,” he looks at his hands. “They were....egg shaped,” he explains without a trace of irony.

“Okay.” I say.

“And soup,” he adds, making his hands into a circle. I guess for the shape of the bowl.

“Soup for breakfast?! Nah, I think you mean for dinner last night.”

“Well, okay, yes,” he says. “It was last night but it was for breakfast this morning. It was that small stuff with air in it. It was shaped like this.” He slowly points to the small circular holes on the medical name bracelet he wears, the ones that allow you to make the bracelet different sizes. When did his wrists get so impossibly thin?

“Rice Krispies?” I guess.

“Maybe,” he says, staring out the window.

We don’t talk for a while. I decide no conversation is better than the riveting shape-filled breakfast exchange we just had. Then he looks at me and says “I want to go home. It’s so boring here.”

My stomach lurches. “Dad, you can’t go home right now. Mom can’t take care of you there. You can’t stand up or walk, remember? “

“Yes, I can. I can fucking walk.”

“Dad, before you came in here, Mom had to call me early one morning to help her try to lift you off the floor, where you had slid down. We had to get the fire department to help us. That’s why they brought you here, in the ambulance. Do you remember being in the ambulance?”

He looks at me angrily. “I came here in an ambulance?”

“Yes. A few months ago.”

We are quiet for a long while this time. We talk a little about the gardening they are doing outside here at the hospital. Across from the garden, in the distance, I can see the field where Sophie played soccer a few weeks ago. “I have to go, Dad,” I say eventually. “I’ll come and see you in a few days.”

“Okay. Thanks for coming. Have a good trip.”

I am not going on a trip. “Thanks Dad.”

“And have a good game.”

“Thanks, Dad. I will.”

Look at Me, the Normal Mommy Blogger! Shopping! Celebrity Pictures!

I’ve checked out some other mommy blogs, and it seems a large proportion of what these moms do is post celebrity pictures or mention their kids and talk about how adorable they are. Now, my kids are freaking hilarious, but Hannah is starting to get tired of her comments being fodder for my musings, since I’ve noticed lately that she keeps saying awesome, unintentionally hilarious kiddish stuff, and then following it up with “promise you won’t tell anyone else I said that." Then I actually have to promise. And pinky swear. Dang. Doesn’t she know that one of the reasons I had her was for the material?

The other thing moms seem to love to blog about is shopping, particularly shopping for handmade organic linen baby clothes or crazily expensive designer handbags. They mention the brands on purpose, in bold letters, probably because they are getting free products from the companies, and it is all a form of advertising. If I want to fit in with the in crowd, perhaps I should blog about this too, but the thing is, of course, that

1) I don’t care about stuff like that and

2) my blog is a soccer blog, and there isn’t a whole lot of soccer shopping one can do. On my recent visit to Seattle, though, I did find this one soccer thing. Granted, I had to pay for it, but it was in my price range ($3.99, American), so I bought it and plan to blog about it for you. You’re welcome.

It’s a flip book, featuring Pele, the soccer star. If you hold the handle on the top and flip through it quickly, the individual pictures of Pele playing look like a short clip of him scoring a bicycle-kick-style goal, or if you turn it over and flip through the back, Pele dribbling through 3 defenders. It is not organic or made by a designer, although the brand name on it is “Flipp Tipps”, so I guess in a way, I am shilling for them now by mentioning them. Quite an unfortunate brand name, really. How can the double p at the end not make you think of Linda Tripp, the infamous informer in the Clinton/Lewinsky scandal ? I’m going to put her picture in here, alongside a picture of Jabba the Hutt, since he also has two of the same letter at the end of his name, and because I think that is the ‘celebrity’ Linda Tripp looks most like.


Look at me, the normal mommy blogger! Shopping! Celebrity pictures! Okay, moving on: at the top of each Pele photo in Flipp Tipps is a written comment about what Pele is doing; a ‘tipp’ if you will. Of course, you can’t read these if you flip through the book since they go by too fast—you need to slow down and read them one by one. I don’t recommend this. Pele is clearly a beautiful, inspirational player, but what soccer players do is usually instinctive, and can’t be written down or else it looks dumb. For example, this is what it says:

Picture 52: Balance is another key ingredient in becoming a good dribbler.

Picture 53: To perfect your balance, you must first understand the laws of equilibrium.

Picture 54: Ask your coach. It is important for you to know WHY things happen.

Wait, what? To dribble I have to understand the laws of equilibrium? Isn’t this something to do with chemistry, and nothing to do with soccer? This sucks since I am the soccer coach, now I need to study this, since at practice tonight, perhaps one of the 8 year olds will ask me about it. Damn. Thanks for nothing, Pele. Thanks for nothing, Flipp Tipps.

What else can I say? Really, don’t buy this. It’s $3.99, American, that you’ll never get back. And instead of buying this, at the same store for only a dollar more, I could have bought band-aids that look like bacon.
How cool would that have been? Hannah has been totally chastising me since I got back for not buying those instead. Now she wants them for her birthday. She’s adorable, isn't she?

Blogging is Easy!

A few of you have asked me how I have kept writing a blog all this time, and I always say blogging is easy! Mostly I say this because I want you to guest-blog for me, so I can have a week off and sit around eating chocolates. But it is true. Here are my tips for blogging, with apologies to Steve Martin, from whom I stole the idea.

You have to start somewhere, so I suggest starting with a person. People like reading about people, especially if it is gossip about a person they know. So how about this:

You know, there was this guy.

The’ you know’ part is just folksy fluff, but it hints to the reader that they might actually know the guy, even if they don’t. They might think that perhaps they can learn something secret about someone. But it isn’t quite enough. We need to use an adjective. Writers use adjectives all the time. So, let’s insert one here. A fancy one.

You know, there was this fancy guy.

Now, you might be getting bored already. I get it. Even if a guy is fancy, most readers have an absurdly short attention span, so now it might be time to insert a picture. Real writers would describe how the guy was fancy, but not bloggers. We don’t have the skills. Instead, go to Google images and find a picture of a fancy guy. Because it is a soccer blog, let’s make it a picture of a fancy soccer guy. Probably it will give you a picture of Cristiano Ronaldo or David Beckham, which is fine, since they are indeed fancy, and you can sit back and enjoy the picture along with your readers. An example:


Now it is probably time for some lunch.

Okay, after lunch, it is time to really get working on this blog thing. We already have a person, and an adjective and an image of our fancy guy. Let’s have him take some action, so we can also use a verb:

You know, there was this fancy guy who scored a goal on Saturday.

See what we did there? Our fancy guy isn’t just sitting around. He is doing stuff. And you know what people doing stuff does to bloggers-- it pisses them off. Why? Because bloggers usually never do anything themselves. They just complain about stuff that other people do. But don’t worry, it’s all good, because we can use this. Here’s our opportunity to complain:

You know, there was this fancy guy who scored a goal on Saturday. Can you believe it? What a jerk.

Why is he a jerk? Who cares? It is only important that bloggers have opinions, not reasons to back them up. Now since the blog should probably be a little longer, we can then write a few more sentences. Perhaps some vague complaining stuff, some rhetorical questions, and finally, for emphasis: when we really want to make a point, we can create a paragraph out of a sentence that probably shouldn’t have its own paragraph.

Like this.

See how important that makes it seem, when it is all on its own? Italics help too. Although don’t overuse them, like me, because then when you emphasize everything, you really don’t end up emphasizing anything at all.

Okay, I think we’re ready to add a video now. Videos from youtube are a bloggers best friend because they do all the work. Good god, why read something when you can watch it, right? I’m fairly certain there’s video somewhere of our fancy guy, the jerk, scoring that goal. Post it and you’re done.

See, blogging is easy! Besides, no one is reading it anyway.

Coaching is Hard

Coach Sandra has this thing she does where she puts her finger on her nose, and all the kids know to gather round, look at her, and listen. It is the end of practice and she does just that. It works like a charm.

“Did we have FUN today?” she asks loudly, leaning in.

“Yeah!” they all respond.

“What?” she says, hand behind her ear. “I can’t hear you…”

“YEAH!!!” they all scream excitedly. I am there and even I scream, just like an 8 year old. I did have fun. How does she do it? Is it her voice? This is the mysterious power of Coach Sandra.

I do not have that power. When I am in charge of the practice, it is less fun, and it goes more like this:

Me: “Okay, Scotia, grab a ball and dribble it over to the centre circle and back.”

Scotia, unmoving: “Where is Coach Sandra?”

Or

Me: “Monica, c’mere, let me put some tape on your earrings.” (They aren’t supposed to wear earrings.)

Monica, wincing, looking around: “Can anyone else do it?”

And, of course, at the end of practice, I put my finger on my nose but I’m just standing there like an idiot. No one gathers around. “Hey!” I yell, but it sounds muffled, since I’m pressing down harder on my nose, as though that would help. “Gather round!” I finally bellow. I sound angry. They gather.

“Did we have FUN today?” I ask.

No one says anything. Finally from Sophie, my daughter, a mumble: “I guess.” Nice. This, from my own flesh and blood. Perhaps when we get home I will force her to count my stretch marks. “Fine. Go home.” I say to the team. And then, as an afterthought, as they are all walking away, “Hey, uh, good practice. See you Sunday.” Wow. Did I make even that sound mean?

The thing is, coaching is hard. Even Coach Sandra has a rough time of it sometimes. You have no idea how much time we spend during games, yelling things like “SARAH! YOU’RE FORWARD! FORWARD! NO! ON THE LEFT SIDE! UP HERE!” or, when they get the ball and start dribbling, “NO! THE OTHER WAY! THE OTHER WAY!” I’ve almost run into parents while pacing frantically down the side of the field. I think sometimes I even kick the air when I want the girls to kick the ball, just like I use my imaginary brakes on the passenger side of the car while Steve is driving.

It is also pretty tough to learn how you can spend half a practice coaching something really thoroughly, only to have them completely forget it a few days later. We taught them three basic things about throw-ins: put the ball behind your head, don’t lift your feet when you throw it, and throw it right away, before the other team is ready. We did this over and over and over. At practice, they had it down. Then during the game, I painfully watch Holly holding the ball forever on the sidelines, only to lift her foot when she finally does the throw-in. Sigh. And don’t misinterpret me -- I’m not complaining about other people’s kids- mine’s the worst for this. It’s like she thinks she gets a free pass and doesn’t have to listen or learn anything because Mom’s one of the coaches.

Once after a particularly rough week at practice I rented the Will Ferrell movie Kicking and Screaming, in which Ferrell is an ineffectual soccer coach. Just as I use parts of his holiday movie Elf as advice to guide me through Christmas (“…try to stick to the four food groups: candy, candy canes, candy corns, and syrup”), I was hoping for some delightful coaching insights. Nope. You know how his team wins, at the end? He tells his team to forget everything he taught them during the season. They emerge triumphant. How is that supposed to help me? They already forget everything I teach them anyway.

Well, almost everything. Every once in a while Maya will take a smokin’ corner kick or Maddy will quickly do the perfect throw-in, and, temporarily, all is well with the world. I guess this is why coaches keep coming back year after year. I know it’s not for the money.

Wrong Side of the Fence

Have you heard that Steve Nash also likes to play soccer? Apparently he's quite good--I know his brother played for the Whitecaps-- but he might not be good enough to play with Landon Donovan, America's biggest soccer star. Check out this commercial they did together for an EA Sports FIFA videogame. How Nash feels here is exactly how I feel about getting back on the field.

Faking It

Why are so many women I know injuring themselves these days? In a heartbeat I can think of 10 women I know who have been on crutches in the last 2 years. My physiotherapist says close to 60 percent of the injured people he treats are middle aged women. What gives? Is this what we women get stuck with now for a mid-life crisis? No Corvettes or Rogaine for us, just crutches. It sucks.

Of course, some of us have bragging rights to go along with our injuries-- it was really a matter of time before I hurt myself I suppose, what with regularly hurtling myself towards metal goalposts in the middle of a group of tall, fit, young men trying to head in a corner kick-- but we women even hurt ourselves seriously by walking in our yard, or down some stairs. It's like our bones are made of balsa wood or our ligaments are as weak as tiny newborn kittens. And when we do get injured, life turns completely upside down, usually for at least a year. We would never, ever, fake something like this.

This is why it is especially troubling when professional soccer players fake serious injuries to get free kicks. My friend Frank sent me this short montage called 'Football Idiots'. Try to get past the horrible music:



Now, after watching this I wanted to write something pithy about soccer injuries but I can't say it any better than this quote I found from British author Nick Hornby, author of High Fidelity, About a Boy, and my favourite, his soccer memoir Fever Pitch. He wrote this piece as an open letter to Americans, in response to the idea that they hate soccer because they can't stand the fake injuries:

"...I understand that Americans have come to refer contemptuously to the more theatrical World Cup injuries as the "flop and bawl"-- the implication being, I think, that these players are feigning their distress. First of all, you must understand that the rest of the world is more susceptible to pain than you. Our smoking, our poor diets, and our heightened sensitivities (to both literature and life) mean that even a slight push in the back can send excruciating agony coursing through our bodies. You, however, because of your all-meat diet and your status as a bullying superpower, feel nothing, either emotionally or physically, at any time. So you can sneer at our floppers and bawlers if you want, but what does that say about you?.....And secondly, these players are terrible, awful cheats."

Hee hee. At least we can laugh while we recover.

Ref like a Girl

Youtube exploded early this week with the audio recording of two English soccer sportscasters, Andy Gray and Richard Keys, whose conversation about a female linesman was inadvertently recorded before a Liverpool vs Wolverampton game on Saturday. Before the game had even started, this is what they said about 25 year old female linesman Sian Massey:

Keys: Somebody better get down there and explain offside to her.

Gray: Can you believe that? A female linesman. Women don’t know the offside rule.

Keys: Didn’t we have (a female linesman) before? Wendy Toms?

Gray: Yeah. She was f*&^%$ ing hopeless as well.

Keys: The game’s gone mad.

Initially each received a one game suspension for their remarks. Interestingly, Sian Massey herself, who made fans angry over a tough offside call during the game but was later vindicated by replay footage, was also asked to suspend her referring duties for a game, due to the controversy created by Gray and Keys.

Why’d they have to go and say that? And why did all the bloggers and commenters supporting the sportscasters have to say stuff like “Yeah, they were right, women should stay in the kitchen where they belong!” They are, by association, helping ruin reputations everywhere for the good guys who support women in sport—the dads who get their hands dirty every Sunday morning putting up nets for their daughter’s teams; for the ones who play goalie in the backyard even though they’re tired and would rather be inside, flaked out, while their daughters take shots at them; even for the ones I play with who pass to me and the other women during pickup games without hesitation. Both Gray and Keys have kids. Can’t they see how young and nervous Massey looks out there in her first big outing as a premier league linesman? Couldn’t they have given her a chance, before assuming without having seen her work, that she is ‘hopeless as well’?

Despite a shoddy apology in which Gray says “I am very sorry that certain comments made by me have caused offence,” he has now been sacked by Sky Sports, because of additional footage of him behaving inappropriately towards a female co-worker last month. Richard Keys resigned today.

Good riddance. Keys says he apologized directly to Sian Massey and they ‘enjoyed some banter’ and ‘left on good terms’. If that’s true, she’s a better woman than I am. If it were me, I would find it hard not to mention the widely reported fact that he has such freakishly hairy hands he has sought laser treatment to remove it. “Really, now Keys,” I would say. “You had to pay for its removal? I am surprised the hair doesn’t just wear off when you drag your knuckles on the ground, walking around.”

But Mrs. Kelly Cates, a former Sky Sports newscaster herself who now works for ESPN said it best. Yesterday on Twitter she posted “Phew. Am exhausted. Just read about something called “the offside rule”. Too much for my tiny brain. Must be damaged from nail polish fumes.”