The girl, age 11.

This could be a picture of me at her age, nose stuck in a book.

I’m so glad she’s a reader, like both her parents.

Better still, is the book she’s reading, a favorite of ours. It’s such a thrill to share beloved books with our kids, and have them appreciate them, too.

We spent part of the afternoon in a coffeeshop, she with her hot chocolate, me with a mocha, pleasantly reading, quietly passing the time together, doing what we love to do best.

Moments the girl will be mortified I’m sharing:

The girl, heading out to church on Sunday morning: “Hey, I could have sworn there were pockets in this skirt.”

It was inside-out.

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The girl leaned over to give me a hug and put her armpit right in my face. “WHEW! Did you forget deodorant today?” I said. “You stink! Take a whiff if you don’t believe me.”

The girl: (sniff, sniff) “WHOOO! There is definitely something to what you’re saying, there.”

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That’s right. My kid is the stinky one with her skirt on inside-out.

The dining room has a strange effect on the girl. She giggles. She explodes. She nearly chokes to death trying not to laugh. Once, all-too-memorably, during a dining room dinner, she spit milk all over the boy’s then-girlfriend. We cleaned milk splatter from the distant corners of the room, finding additional random splats in hidden places weeks later. I will never, as long as I live, forget the look on the girlfriend’s face.

We ate in the dining room last night because the girl’s Valentines were spread all over the kitchen table as she was mid-addressing when dinner was ready. I made polenta as a side dish with our chicken and green beans, just for something new and different.

The boy was in rare form. “Would you like some more polenta?” I asked.

“No, I would not like more placenta,” he said, glaring at me with a twinkle in his eye. “You are a sick, sick woman.”

The girl almost lost it and had to get up from the table about three times so as not to shower us with milk or bits of food. If we laugh, she laughs. If we tell her to stop laughing, she dissolves into a shivering pool of giggly Jell-o.

For some reason, “You are not allowed to laugh in the dining room,” does not do the trick.

There’s something that happens to even the most passive among us when our children play sports. For years we’ve listened to the boy’s concerts and saw him march across many a football field. Never once did I feel my blood pressure rise; never once did I scream like a lunatic.

Then the girl became a basketball player and we transitioned from the mild mannered band parents to another animal indeed: sports parents.

Wonder if Gandhi’s kids ever played sports?

My husband shot video of the last game and was replaying it across the room as I read tonight. It brought every moment of the game back as I listened to the chorus of parents cheering on the girls.

There was this moment, in particular, that I recall. The girl went for a shot and it bounced out; she caught the rebound and went for it again; out again, and here’s where I broke loose.

“PUT IT IN THERE!” I yelled, much in the manner you’d yell at a child to watch out for an oncoming car, or to stop making that infernal racket, or to escape a raging fire. I’m pretty sure the tendons on my neck stood out and my face turned red. Whoosh. A basket. “GOOD GIRL!”

It has taken me nearly 40 years but I do believe I’m becoming a sports fan.

I took the girl to get a haircut this weekend.

“Nice hair, freak,” said the boy, to his sister.

“Thanks,” she said, “I think.”

The girl stood before the open pantry, taking inventory of the items I’d brought home from the store.

“Oooh, I love those! You bought so many good snacks! Why did you buy all this stuff?”

Pause.

“Wait a minute.”

Pause.

“Are you going out of town?”

Busted.

For dinner, I browned some ground beef, threw in some Rotel with lime and cilantro, put it in a deep casserole dish, topped it with shredded cheddar and then, a layer of cornbread mix. I baked it in the oven and tried to decide what to call it. I went with Mexican Shepherd’s Pie. And then I panicked and called it tamale pie because it was kind of close to a tamale pie recipe. I also baked an apple pie because after my day yesterday, I am the happy homemaker.

Yesterday, since you asked, I took a vacation day and cleaned, shopped and puttered about the house. I did a trillion loads of laundry and even mopped the floors. I removed cobwebs, dudes. It was a full day and I loved it.

The girl, when I put her plate of delicious food before her, made a FACE. You know the face. I knew she would put up a fuss, but I said, as I always do, just eat it. It’s really all my fault. When she was young and I worked too much and far away from home, I didn’t want to deal with the tantrums and so spoiled her by throwing together a different dinner for her (something she would eat) while cooking dinner for the rest of the family. Every night. I was stupid and I know better. But I did it, and it has taken years to undo. She eats much better than she used to — sometimes she just swallows bites whole with a milk chaser — but there are still times when I question my ability to provide my family food that is edible. No, I’m not a great cook — I’m a survival cook most of the time, but I DO cook, nearly every night. So don’t give me that FACE.

How have you dealt with the fussy eaters in your house? Made any mistakes you wish you could undo?

The girl played in her first ever basketball game today. They won! Final score: 32-6.

Guess which one is the girl?

Photos courtesy of Bill (player #1’s dad).

It’s hard to believe it’s over. We’ve been band parents now for nearly eight years, ever since that first fifth grade concert when I became teary-eyed with pride. Who knew the boy could play like that? Who knew it would become his passion? Last night he marched for the last time in high school and no, I didn’t cry; I laughed, I danced and clapped; I yelled WHOO HOOO! It was a night of great joy. We’re still band parents of course, with several concerts to come and likely a whole college career devoted to music in our future, but now we’re not just band parents.

We’ve become basketball parents.

The girl started playing a week ago and her first game will be in December. Basketball parents are a more intense, tighter-knit group than band parents. For one thing, there are less of them so you’re going to interact with one another. Secondly, we’re all parents of fifth-grade girls. That’s binding, especially when said girls are fouling and wrestling for the ball all over the court. The girl has a unique basketball style I call, “The Flamingo.” Her leg wings out when she shoots and she runs, grinning, the entire time. She’s having a blast.

I’ve always believed kids need a “thing” — a sport or an instrument, a club or an ongoing project — it doesn’t matter what just so they’re involved and have a group to which they belong. It made all the difference with our move and has given my kids an outlet besides school that has made them more focused and organized. Plus, having something to go to where they have friends and something to do has been FUN for them.

What are your kids into?

Aliens abducted my children and replaced them with exact, giant replicas that are NICE to each other.

Creepin’ me out, man.

Yesterday, the girl was disappointed because I couldn’t ditch work and take her up to the school to shoot hoops. (side note: the girl begins her illustrious basketball career tomorrow. Look for the Air Jaggers shoe (sizes 11 and up, only) in a store near you, soon). When the boy got home, she asked him to take her.

AND HE DID.

But first, he insisted on filling her ball with more air. And then he walked her to the school and gave her pointers while she practiced.

“And then he laid down and watched me for awhile.” Well, that’s normal, anyway.

Freaky kids. I think I like it.