"I totally thought we were going to get tornado'd!"

Last night Ethan had a soccer game that was two-and-a-half hours away. (Luckily, that kind of travel isn’t the norm, even for us crazy soccer schedule folks). He and I rode to the game together – five hours of good ol’ mom/son time.

As we drove out of the city and headed to the game, we remarked on our good fortune that it was a perfect, sunny, 76 degree day. “I sure wouldn’t want to drive so far and deal with bad weather,” I commented. Hello, Karmic Forces/Knock-on-Wood Patrol? I’m looking for trouble here. Come and get me!

Flash forward about three hours as sirens are sounding and the spectators for both teams have their backs to the playing field, all eyes fixed on a dark green, rotating cloud that appeared to me to be a mere 50 yards overhead. Soon after we spotted the funnel cloud-wannabe it started to rain – the kind of sideways sheets of rain that make drivers pull over on highways – and I ran for the van. The players stayed on the field, getting pelted by hail for a few minutes. The worst part was, I had to pee really bad. I called Randy and mentioned that death either by tornado or a burst bladder was imminent.

“Isn’t there a bathroom anywhere?” he asked.

“Yeah, but I’m not going in there during a tornado!” I pictured Dorothy, trapped in Auntie Em’s house, except I’d be getting thrown around a Port-a-Potty. Nope. Better to pee in my pants.

Eventually the really menacing cloud moved past, and I high-tailed it through the rain to the “facilities.” Meanwhile, the rain appeared to be causing Ethan’s already-short soccer socks to shrink down to toddler-size right there on his hairy teenager legs. (Socks have been a struggle for most of his season. His team's socks are bright yellow, but for some reason his pair faded to a light "green cheese" color after the first wash. The other moms must think I use bleach in every load. Last night he decided to bring a pair of gold socks we had in the house to the game, but when we got to the field and he put them on, his size 12 foot took up half of the sock length. Besides causing his socks to shrivel even further down his calves, the rain turned the gold color a dark orange. Any hope of not calling attention to the fact that his shin guards weren't sufficiently covered was lost).

The rain and dropping temps didn't exactly bring out the Bear Grylls in Ethan's soccer play - more like can I have a sweater and a parasol? The game finally ended almost an hour after it was scheduled to, after rain, hail and lightning delays. The score? A whopping 7-1 (or uh, 1-7 from Ethan's team's perspective). We began the two-and-a-half hour drive back home. Ethan said, "When I was on the bench I couldn't even take my eyes off that one cloud to watch the game. I totally thought we were going to get tornado'd!"

Happy Father's Day! --BLEH!

(the "bleh!" is the sound of vomiting).

Poor Randy, the best dad in the world, treated on Father's Day to his very least favorite experience in life: a puking child. The special gift came courtesy of Mira, on our drive to deliver Abby and her teammate to a soccer game. Yes, it was a van-vomit (a.k.a. big stink in a confined space). I felt like I was trapped in a sitcom (or horror movie) as Mira screamed her head off because she was covered in throw-up, Gracie buried her face in her shirt and dry-heaved because the smell was over-powering, and Danny Kaye cheerfully belted out "Thumbelina" on the CD player. Abby had her face pressed up to the one-inch "window" vent you get in the back seat of a minivan, frantically sucking fresh air. Her teammate Annika sat next to her, observing the whole thing in fascination (or was it disgust?)

Happy Father's Day, hon!

After we dropped off the girls at the field, Randy and I located a Babies R Us (forget finding a Target or even the dreaded Walmart in the snob-shop/latte district we were in) and bought a bulk-size roll of antibacterial wipes, disposable bibs and two new outfits. Randy dismantled and de-puked the back half of the van while I tried to hurry up and pay the slow-moving cashier inside the store.

"Phone number, including area code?" he monotoned.

"No, I'd rather not give it."

"Special rewards program number?"

"No, I don't have one."

"Would you like to sign up for our special rewards program today?"

"No."

"Would you like to save 10 percent and sign up for a Babies R Us Chase retail rewards credit card?"

"No."

"Are you purchasing items on a baby registry?"

"No."

"Would you like a gift receipt today?"

"No."

"Do you require batteries with your purchase?" (At this point I considered grabbing the guy by the shirt and yelling I'm buying wipes and two dresses, doofus! but I refrained).

Eventually I escaped and rejoined Randy and the miserable, stripped-down Mira in the parking lot. We finished the clean-up and returned to the soccer complex. Later, Randy spent more of his special day scrubbing vomit out of the carseat straps and seatbelts while I dealt with Ms. Miserable.

I think we owe him a Father's Day redo!