Socka Balls

I can't sleep, so you get a post on Socka Balls.

As you all know, I am married to the soccer king of the universe. Well, I understand that David Beckham might take issue with that, however, That Man is king in my book. Anyway, soccer season is upon us. UGH. I realize it's two seasons ago, but I still have visions of him breaking some poor dude's leg. Last season, a guy on his team got his face broken. Literally. The trouble with old man soccer is that they still think their bodies can do young man soccer. It can't.

Anyway, in addition to That Man playing soccer, we once again have a child in soccer. The older two played through Middle School, and now, it's B's turn. Practice starts on Tuesday. We have the uniform (which she could swim in), we have the gear, but we can't find a decent soccer ball in the right size among the thousands of soccer balls that exist in my home. Personally, I think That Man just wanted an excuse to buy a soccer ball.

We get to the sporting goods store (because God Forbid you buy a game ball at say, Target), and for $12.95, we are the proud owners of a brand new soccer ball for B. The trouble is, K spotted the ball display and started shouting, "SOCKA BALL!". I was NOT spending $12.95 on a ball for a two year old when any one of the thousands of balls we already own will do quite nicely for her. But I did feel bad, since big sister was getting all this cool stuff, and frankly, I thought she was going to kill someone if she didn't get her very own "SOCKA BALL". We had to go to Target anyway, so I told her she could get one there. SOCKA BALL at Target-$4. Happy Baby-priceless.

Except now, she won't let go of her "SOCKA BALL." She screamed bloody murder when we took her out of the car sans SOCKA BALL. In fact, she decided she needed to sleep with her SOCKA BALL. And because little sister was doing it, big sister had to. So, I present for your viewing pleasure... sleeping with our SOCKA BALLS. I am so thankful that of all the horrific things That Man does in our bed (like making it smell like man butt), he does not force me to sleep with his SOCKA BALL. He is, however, quite proud to call the girls his.

(Oh, and for the sake of pointing out that I am a proper mom, my child is clothed under that SOCKA BALL-she sleeps in her undies)