A bird doesn't sing because it has an answer...

For 13 years of my life, soccer was my thing. I loved muddy knees, grass stains on my shorts and I LOVED scoring goals.  Now that I clean up muddy knees and grassy shorts all day, I have relegated myself to the sidelines,  lately watching a lot of high school and college soccer games that all take me back.  My love for soccer started when I was in 4th grade - back when only boys played during recess.  I found it extremely satisfying to slide down that Schirle Elementary hill to "save" a goal, and while my mom shook her head at my new jeans caked in playground mud, it was always worth it because I had found something I was good at.  I'm not sure how my fairy-like Mormon friend, Shayla, got roped into this madness but I remember we were the only two girls crazy enough to leave the gossip circles of the parallel bars and take on the boys.    When I started playing organized soccer in 6th grade, I learned about  THE ...

I love ironic stories. So here's one. My favorite thing about Adair Village is the city-wide garage sale weekend at the end of August. This year, we missed the good stuff on Saturday because we had to work an OSU game, but Cayden and I set out Sunday morning before church to see what we could dig up out of the picked over stuff. We scored bags of clothes, a coat and a sleeping bag for about $8 total, but the real score was right down the road. We had almost made it back to our house and were perusing our last sale when I noticed the family had a little girl about Cayden's size. In passing, I asked how old she was. "Almost a year and a half." "Oh, yeah? So is my daughter," I said, motioning to Cayden, who was busy trying to buckle the baby swing being sold on the front lawn. I continued to pick out a few articles of clothing from the table, then I asked when her birthday was. "March 7." NO WAY. And the irony kept coming. Their...