I Am the Tonjinator: coaching

14 August 2012

The Tonjinator, as Little League Cheer Coach

About six months ago, my friend, Karrie, who is the mother of Olivia's BFF, Rylee, drops the bomb that she will not have time to coach their cheer squad this fall, as both of Rylee's brothers will be playing organized sports. I must have had a lot of Coronas when I innocently said, "Since I won't be on the PTO board, maybe I can do it." WHAT WAS I THINKING?

I'll say that I was NEVER a cheerleader. Back in the day, I was something called a Cruiserette, which was a member of my high school's dance/drill team. We wore lots of sequins and white go-go boots. With the big hair and heavy makeup of the day, it was an AWESOME look. Take a look. I fell off a similar yellow box during a record 12 performances. Don't bother trying to find me in this picture, because I'm not in it, but it gives you an idea of what the ensemble was like: Late 80s hair was AH-MAZING.

WHAT THE TONJINATOR DOES

Wimps need not apply. Duties always include:

· Oscar-caliber performances of various kinds for youngsters and/or spouse;

· wiping countertops, snotty noses, and children's bottoms;

· cooking gourmet-caliber meals which are usually eaten by no one but the chef;

· transporting youngsters to schools, practices and lessons, all doctor appointments; attending all school functions such as orientations, conferences (especially fun when the spouse attends and the teacher looks like a supermodel), PTO and school board meetings;

· conquering daily mountains o’laundry, which often include clean articles of clothing which have been thrown on the floor and ended up in the laundry sorter I was supposed to stencil in the spring of 2012;

· picking up messes which “may or may not” have been made by my daughters or me;

· tolerating the weirdness that is the Tonj, who is the drumming, commercial lender of a husband. Fortunately, he picks up after himself, most of the time.

An avid reader of anything from classics to smut to trashy autobiographies to serious nonfiction. The occasional glass of wine and mani-pedis late on Saturday night – That’s how I roll.