Monday, February 25, 2008

Soccer Update

Saturday, I had to take birth certificates to the soccer people so my boys could be officially signed up to play.

Aaron knew exactly where the birth certificates were.

Again people...who are we?

I'm running,

and Aaron knows where things are.

Talk about sanctification.

While standing in line with my official documents, one of the men receiving the birth certificates says to me...

"Would your husband like to coach soccer this year?"

I looked behind me.

There was no one behind me.

He was talking to me.

The me whose husband is Aaron.

Once this sunk in, I started laughing.

I said something like, " husband...he's a musician. We're not really athletic people. have no idea how big of a deal it is that I'm even standing here signing my sons up to PLAY soccer."

This man seemed unmoved.

So, I added...while trying not to snort..."I don't really know how much my husband knows about soccer."

The birth certificate man said, "He doesn't have to know much. He doesn't even need any experience to do this. We just need coaches."

I could not stop laughing or get out of that place fast enough.

Everyone was wearing wind pants.

The thick concentration of wind pants in such a small area of square footage made me feel weird.

And that many wind pants in one room is noisy.

I came home.

Aaron said, "How did it go signing the boys up for soccer?"

I had been waiting for him to ask me this question.

This was going to be He-sterical.

I had rehearsed it in my head. I knew exactly how this was going to go.

I said, "I took in the birth certificates...oh...and...they want to know if you will coach."

When I rehearsed this comedy scene in my head, right here was where I had written, in parenthesis...

(Aaron starts laughing. Then Heather starts laughing. They have a good laugh together.)

In real life...

no laughing

So I repeated myself.

He must not have heard me.

I said, "They wanted to know if you (I pointed to him for emphasis, just so we were very clear) want to coach soccer."



No laughter.

All I could think was, "This man knows where stuff is. This man is NOT laughing about coaching soccer. This man is not Aaron. Maybe aliens are real."

That's when, my non-laughing, musical husband, dressed in his emergent church pastor shirt, wearing his coffee shop glasses and his new, grunge, "I read books written by dead people" shoes said words that took my breath away.

"Do they really need coaches?"

"Yes," I said and then thought, "But what does that have to do with anything?"

Aaron said, "I'll coach."


I responded with a confused...


I tried to make it sound like, "You?" as in "You" are so busy and have so much going on in your life. "You?" as in "You" are so great at playing the guitar, and doing so many other wowmazing things.

I didn't want him to think I was saying, "You?" as in, "You?" Aaron? The man that doesn't like sports? The "You" who, even though I have a super-duper imagination, I can NOT imagine doing this...ever? "You?"

This is the man who I convinced to run with me one time. When I would stop to get a drink of water, he would stop and drink his PEPSI. I'm not kidding. PEPSI!

Aaron thought it was very funny how funny I think this is.

Twelve years of marriage and...can I just say I NEVER saw this coming?

So, we emailed the birth certificate man to tell him the good news.

Aaron will coach if they need him.

So, if your child is playing soccer in College Station, (you have until Friday to register) you can request coach Hendrick.

Coach Hendrick.

Whew! I'm sorry honey, but I just laughed again.

Last time. I want that to be my last time!

Jenn has warned me that there are "super teams" and "super dumb teams." We'll just tell you right now, in the Hendrick home, we will be perfectly fine to make up a new category..."the superest of super dumb teams."

After I stopped laughing and thought about it...well, really, after Aaron said, "Heather, I know more about soccer than a five year old, AND I can buy Soccer for Dummies AND I have Megan and Kirby to help me" I began to think that Aaron will be the greatest coach ever. He will love the kids, teach them to play, and teach them to be good sports. And, if any of the parents are obsessed with winning, Aaron may do what he's always done when faced with tricky human situations, where some sort of reprimand is needed...he will probably moon* the winning-addicted parents.

As coach's wife, my first order of business will be to make up the thing that teams say while in the huddle. "On three, everyone says go." That's so lame. How about, "On three, everyone says, word to your mother?" I've heard that one of the main jobs the coaches have is making sure all the kids get to play. Apparently, although this sounds pretty easy, it can get pretty confusing to keep up with what kids have been out on the field. I think, to solve this, we should spray a streak of paint in the hair of every kid going out to play.

I'm getting so excited about this.

Go Coach Hendrick!

How cute are you?

How MIND BOGGLING are you?

Seriously...WHO ARE WE?

He'll do so well...because Aaron is a reader and can learn ANYTHING from how to coach soccer or how to replace our alternator. If that doesn't make you sit down today with your kids and work on their reading skills, I don't know what else will do it.

I'm off to order Aaron this, and some wind pants.

Crud. I laughed again.

Last time!

*Mooning is not a method of dealing with people problems taught nor condoned at Baptist seminaries.

Sunday, February 24, 2008

Time to Confess

I want to post something new...but I also want everyone to know about the concert tonight at Com Church.

What a dilemma.


I have a secret to tell you.

I am a runner.

Did everyone just look up at the top to make sure they are reading the right blog?

I know it's crazy...but this is me...Heather Hendrick...and I just said that I'm a runner.

Quit looking around for flying pigs.

I run.


The person who vowed to hate running all of my days is now running three days a week.

Who am I?

Those of you who know me can all take your finger, reach up and manually lift your jaw back into the closed position.

My secret affair with running has been going on for about four months!

Friday, I ran the longest time (without walking) so far in my running career.

I ran 17 minutes without stopping.

17 minutes!

I know that's laughable to some running super stars, but 17 minutes for me...incredible.

go to the concert

The first time I ran was at the gym with Jenn. I got on the treadmill next to her and said, "I'm going to try and run for two minutes." I had a near death experience and saw my life flashing before my eyes.

I've gone from 2 minutes to 17 minutes...that's so exciting!

If you are like me, reading this post thinking, "Gross. Running makes me gag. I hate running," BELIEVE ME...there is hope for you!

If I can do this, ANYONE ON EARTH can do this.

I have no athletic ability or even any drive or motivation to better myself as a runner. Really! This happened naturally. I never pushed myself...because...for real...I'm just not that great of a person. I'm fine with being beat, and doing poorly in the area of exercise. In this one part of my life, it doesn't bother me at all to be a loser. I have not even one hint of self-will or desire to improve.

I went from hating running and making fun of people who did it, to...

Now craving to run. On the days when I'm not running, I'm sort of sad I don't get to run!


Who am I?

And, guess what! I don't ever have to go poo when I'm running.

Let's all clap!

Used to, just putting on tennis shoes made me have to poo.

Now, my bowels no longer try to jump out of my body when I run!

I could not be more proud.

I have no idea how far I'm running, which is sad.

I want to know!

But, I have only found one park where I can run and still see my kids the entire time. I love taking them with me and letting them ride their bikes. They even run short sections with me. day I'll figure out how far I'm running, but right now, I'm just loving the fact that I can call myself a RUNNER.

Years ago, the possibility of me becoming a runner seemed as unlikely as me becoming an African American male.

But it happened! I'm a runner.

Can you believe it?

I'm the girl who flunked the presidential athletic tests at school, could never do the 20 minute run, never did even ONE chin a matter of fact, as soon as the coach blew the whistle, I fell and hit the dirt. Really. Every year. Have I mentioned how much I hated school? Then in high school, my greatest accomplishment was perfecting the walk-run. Really, I was so good, I could walk, moving my shoulders in a very dramatic way, making the coaches think I was running. I wanted to put that on my college applications.

Now I run...for real.

go to the concert tonight.

I attribute my new found love of running to Jenn.

Did you know she ran a 1/2 marathon today?

Go tell her she's awesome!

Can you imagine running over 10 miles?

And, she only walked like 2 minutes of it.

She ran over 10 miles through nice neighborhoods in College Station.

That blows my mind.

I might could run 10 miles at 2 in the morning through the fifth ward in Houston.

Another thing that blows my mind is that I talked to her right after it was over and she sounded normal.

I think if someone called me after a half marathon, I would have sounded like I was talking on the phone while under the wheel of a UPS van or like that kid in the wheel chair on Malcolm in the Middle.

I'm SO PROUD of her.

And, I'm proud that for her, this really is a very spiritual thing.

That would not be true for me.

My only motivation for running a half marathon would be so I could walk up to everyone I saw for a month after the race and say, "In ya face."

"In ya face" would also be accompanied by my famous booty shake dance.

After the booty dance I would then start singing, "Can't Touch This" while I did the hammer.

See...NOT spiritual.

Want to run?

If you do, I think there are some things that are very important...

1. You need RUNNING shoes. I have only found these at Academy.

2. You need MUSIC. I can't run without music. It helps me keep track of how long I've run, and actually pushes me to run a little longer than I naturally feel like running. I always think, "I can make it until the end of this song." need GOOD running music. Some of your favorite songs may be lame for running. (This is the part where Kirby, Lynsey, Ashley and Staci need to shush it.)

3. Once I started running longer times, I became VERY picky about my clothes. Now, I run/walk for over 40 minutes total. Most of that time I'm running, walking only for a couple minutes between each longer set of running. I get SO in DISGUSTING sweaty. This means, there are certain types of clothes I like best. If my clothes feel too thick or too heavy...they get on my nerves.

I'm sure there are other great tips from other people who love running.

I would love to hear them.

But, like I said...

This post is for all of you who think you hate running and have no hope of ever liking it.

I prove that theory utterly, completely and thoroughly WRONG.

If I can like running, you should get up right now and jog around the block.


go to the concert tonight.

Monday, February 18, 2008

Happy President's Day

I wonder if people say, "Happy President's Day" when they see the President today.

Does George get to eat cake today? Does it have candles? Or money stuck in it? Or fireworks?

Do you say, "Happy President's Day" to someone who used to be the President, but now they aren't? Did Barbara kiss Old George on the cheek this morning and say, "Happy Presidents Day, Sweetie." I hope she did. I love that lady. When I see her, I look at my hands and imagine what I'll look like when I'm old. Then I rub my hands and imagine they have liver spots. I do.

I think, if you get an extra Happy Day every year, then that might make more people want to run for President. No wonder after four years in office, Presidents all want to be re-elected. Who would want to give up that extra Happy Day filled with balloons and cake? Not me.

Since I don't know any United States Presidents (in real life), this post is dedicated to two other people on this Monday holiday.

1. Blaire Blanchette, President of ASC

She's the only President I know. Happy President's Day, Blaire! I think you should have cake and demand that your roommates sing a Happy President Day Song to you.

2. Everyone who ever ran for Student Council President and won (oh, what the heck, I dedicate this post to anyone who has ever been the President of anything).

I ran for Student Council Treasurer in fourth grade.

I won because my mom made me cool posters and little umbrella papers to hand out to everyone that said, "Whatever the Weather, Vote for Heather."

It shouldn't surprise anyone that I became treasurer since we all know I grew up to adore math and money...and weather.

I'm pretty sure I also won because I probably said something like this in my speech...

"Vote for me, because if you do, I'll get our actual music teacher fired and get Cindi Lauper hired."

Our music teacher was named Mrs. I have no idea how to spell her name, but it was pronounced, Quay-are. She was a white lady, that for some reason painted her face even whiter like Mulan (in the scene where Mulan is trying to get married). Mrs. Quayare also made us sit on the edge of our seats, stiff as boards. She would perch on a tall stool in the middle of the room, stone faced, sort of like a gargoyle. Then she would take out her metal pitch fork, slap it in the palm of her hand (her hands were shades darker than her face...I'm tellin' ya...weird) then put that metal witches wand up to her ear, listen and proceed to pick children at random to sing this too...

"Good Morning Jessica."

That's when poor Jessica had to SING back to Mrs. Quayare, "Good Morning, Mrs. Quayare" in front of the boy who could run the fastest in our grade, and the girl with the straightest, blackest hair in all of Harris County, plus the rest of us who wished we were either faster or had straighter hair.

I feel nauseous just typing this!

The whole sick, singing situation reminds me of that awful story, The Lottery, where, when you got picked, you had to die.

This was just like that.

It's a miracle I grew up to ever sing at all. I'm shocked I even hum.

In elementary school, I would imagine that white faced lady singing, "Good Morning, Heather" and me, opening my mouth, to sing beautifully back to her, but when I opened my my imagination, vomit always came out instead of singing.

In real life, I was sweaty every day in music class, because I knew my time was coming.

One day, her bright, red lips stuck on that sheet rock plaster she called a face, were going to sing my name.

My day did come.

Twice that year.

And both times, after it was over, I remember feeling like I had the flu.

My brother had Mrs. Quayare too.

As an adult, I have always thought it would be so funny to drug him, and then wake him up and me be dressed like Mrs. Quayare. I'm sure as soon as he saw my face covered with Elmer's glue and my miniature pitch fork, Jason would sit straight up on the edge of his chair and start sweating. Mrs. Quayare had us trained like dogs.

One of my favorite elementary school memories has to do with that pitchfork.

I was on my way to the bathroom, by myself. When I got this rare treat, I took full advantage of it. I touched the walls....the a drink...skipped, did a cart wheel, opened janitor closets and looked inside...(these were all the things I wanted to do every day, but would get in trouble for if I didn't stay in line). I'll admit it was always a let down to open the janitor's closet and see it filled with ordinary things like throw up sand and brooms. I had imagined the janitor danced inside her closet and hid her boyfriend in there, so of course my made up janitor closet had a disco ball and a man smoking inside it. The real one didn't have either of those things. The janitor's closet was also NOT a warp zone to the skating rink. That was my second guess.

After getting a long drink, with no teacher saying, "Hurry, let's hurry," I walked past Mrs. Quayare's room. From the hallway, I could see her piano...and on her piano...holy doe a deer, a female deer...there sat the tuning fork, unsupervised by Mrs. Mulan.

I looked inside the room.

Mrs. Quayare was gone...or maybe she painted her whole body white and was camouflaged up against her white bulletin board.

I took the chance.

I walked in, and picked up the tuning fork.

It was cold and heavy.

I remember not expecting it to be either of those things.

I slapped it on my hand, held it to my ear and heard the noise I had been wanting to hear for two years...

It was awful.

For some reason, I had imagined there were people inside this witchy tool, that would sing when slapped.


There was nothing but a ringing noise.

The noise I hate, that happens sometimes when I'm trying to sleep.

I put the heavy fork down, and ran out of the room accelerando.

I went back to class smiling.

Until I remembered the janitor's closet.

Then I went back to hating school.

So Happy President's Day.

Who has been a president of something?

Did you have a campaign slogan?

Tell us.

I want to laugh at you laughing at yourself.

Friday, February 01, 2008

Been There, Done That, Didn't Get a T-Shirt

If you are a mom, you know...amazing things happen every day in homes, all across the world, that no one but you ever gets to see. Sometimes, it's seeing a child feel conviction, and come to you on their own and ask for forgiveness for something you never knew they did. Sometimes, it's seeing in real-life, tangible ways the growth God has brought in your heart as a mom when you notice how "no big deal" something seems that would have, a couple years ago, caused you to lose it. Sometimes those amazing things seem like nothing to the world, but in the moment, they seem incredible and worthy of celebration...or maybe just a little, quick hip hop routine.

Well, in Heatherland, those little things never go unnoticed.

If everyone got to live inside my make-believe world, they would see that one of the perks of Heatherland is that for major* accomplishments, you always get a t-shirt.

*In Heatherland, the definition of the word, major, is left entirely up to the citizens of this fabulous town.

And, your t-shirt always comes in the mail (because it's so cool to get packages in the mail).

On days when you don't get any mail, is anyone else bothered? On days when there is no mail in my mailbox, it makes me think that maybe the world has shut down and I didn't know about it because I don't read the news or watch tv much, and D.O. didn't tell the world broke, and I'm finding that out because of my empty mail box. No mail days affect me...not gonna lie.

However, missing mail days have nothing to do with this post.

Come back to Heatherland for a moment.

Like I mentioned, in Heatherland when you do something cool*, you are rewarded with a t-shirt.

*Single women, please note that your definition of "cool" suddenly changes DRASTICALLY once you become a mom. Consider yourself warned.

All t-shirts fit perfectly, never fade, are unaffected by Proactiv and are thick. I'm getting excited.

Here are some of the pretend t-shirts I have received in my pretend mailbox from the pretend world I made up, filled with pretend people who think all the lame things I think are fantastic are...well...actually fantastic.

That has only happened once in my life. I screamed with delight and clapped...and then had to explain to the very offended looking cashier that I wasn't trying to's just...she had no idea how big of a deal this was for me! I caught a math error! Me! I had a skip in my step for the rest of the week.

Here is a pretend t-shirt I sent to Melodi:

Here's one I sent Kirby:

Mindi got this pretend shirt from me months ago:

Here's one I'm putting in the pretend mail today for Kyle:

What t-shirts would you get in the mail?

What t-shirts would you send your friends?