I'm behind on updating on lots of little things, like:

* Dylan's burgeoning soccer career

* Garden update

* Part III of our family vacation.

We'll see how many of these I can write about before I have to get up off my ass and start making dinner (during which I will attempt to fool my ENTIRE ZUCCHINI HATING FAMILY into eating zucchini fritters, bwah ha ha ha!).

Dylan started first grade yesterday. I do not have pictures because it was a choice between taking a picture or being on time, and I decided he should be on time.  He was anxious about it, which meant that I was anxious about it. He had the idea that 1st grade was going to be way harder than kindergarten, since he would have homework. I'm hoping to get him into the habit of doing homework as soon as he gets home. 

Dylan also started playing soccer in a community league (as opposed to the uber-pricey Arena Sports). So far something at each practice has made him cry. At the first practice he was disappointed that he couldn't kick a goal and burst into tears. He came and sat down for a few minutes and I reminded him of how frustrated he used to get when he wrote his name and couldn't do it perfectly, but then he went to kindergarten and had to practice and got better! And then I shoved him back out on the field. After the game, the tears re-appeared in the car on the way home. I went through my reassuring speech again about the power of practice and not having to be perfect, etc. I told the little vignette about writing again and he wailed, "I HATE writing! Growing up is HARD!"

It was all I could do not to start laughing. And I couldn't bring myself to tell him that it probably won't get a lot easier (hell, I'm still having a hard time growing up). But I pulled another comforting soliliquy out of my ass and talked to him about all the cool stuff he can do because he's a big almost-seven-year-old, and how much more fun stuff he can do than Conrad, etc.

(His declaration that he hated writing really panicked me - I asked him later if he really hated writing, and he said, "Well, it's hard. But I guess I don't hate it." Whew.)

He's on a team with his best pal, and the team name is the Racing Tigers. I haven't seen a game (because I'm still working Saturdays... like I have been... since 1999... not that I'm bitter) yet, but Jonny said that the first game was barely restrained chaos. They don't keep score, although the Sharks apparently slaughtered the Racing Tigers. But Dylan got a goal, so we're counting the whole thing as a success. I'll take a little of the credit - I practiced playing soccer (bad knees, cranky feet and all) with him while we were on vacation. We did some practice dribbling and I revealed the secret to kicking a goal -- get a little closer to the goal first. And we had a moment at the end of our practice session where I told him that no matter what happened at his game, as far as I was concerned he is AWESOME.

Playing soccer with him made me miss my dad a lot. I remember being little and watching dad kick the soccer ball around. Neither Michelle or I played at all, but Dad coached PYVA soccer for years. There are still dozens of guys who remember him yelling "Hustle! Hustle!" at them during the games. Many of them were faintly puzzled by this, because Dad's French accent kind of made it sound like, "Asshole! Asshole!"

Anyhow. Dad would have love, love, loved to kick a soccer ball around with Dylan. 

So, that's soccer and the start of school. And Jonny is home, so I need to get started on my, um.... veggie fritters. Yeah, veggie fritters. Hee hee hee.