Long ago, and, actually, pretty far away, there was a magical Christmas. It was the Christmas before we were married, when we both sang in the choir at church. In the weeks preceding Christmas, at rehearsal, we sang so many beautiful hymns that I had never heard before. At least one in Italian, which I thought was particularly beautiful (I would sing it at nap time to the children for whom I was a nanny), and others with simple, elegant melodies and harmonies. I was a member of the alto section; Guy, a tenor. As a whole, the choir could sound quite lovely, and rarely did we have a soloist.
The week of Christmas, our director, Jim, listed for us the songs and hymns that had been selected for the special services. One in particular, I was surprised about. We had not rehearsed it, and I had no recollection of ever having heard it. Now, of course, I am surprised by this, but when I hear it on the radio, I can see why. It's the kind of song that was on the choral albums of my youth, and tends to remind me of "Climb Ev'ry Mountain" from The Sound of Music: a wonderfully meaningful message, but not terribly exciting to listen to as a kid. I probably had heard it a hundred times, and simply tuned it out.
I remember Jim giving us special instructions about this song, and I remember being relieved that it would actually be sung by a soloist. Somehow, though, I remember being a tad confused. Everyone else seemed to know what was going on, but not me. Later, I asked Guy if he understood the instructions; in all honesty, I was relieved that he didn't get it either.
Christmas night, however, I was amazed.
The song was "O Holy Night," and the presentation at our church could not have been more astounding. The song will never be the same for me. You see, at our pretty little church, "O Holy Night" was sung by Santa, in a strong, clear, and completely unamplified voice that reached every rafter, every corner, every church mouse. As the music began, Santa entered through the front door, singing from one end of the aisle to the other, bearing the Christ child to place in our Manger, under the altar. His bright red suit and shiny black boots stood out from everyone in the church, and were complimented by the poinsettias and the large Christmas tree adorning the area around the altar.
I was completely mesmerized. His voice was so beautiful, I could understand each and every word, and his personage added special meaning to all of them. Obviously, this was a well-rehearsed event, because the timing was impeccable. Who would expect any less from Santa Claus? As he reached the words, "Fall on your knees," Santa had arrived at the step to the altar, and did, indeed, fall to his knees. And at the words, "Oh night when Christ was born," he lovingly, gently placed the figure in the Manger.
That was the first time I had ever seen Santa elevated to the status of a religious figure. I know he started out that way, obviously, he is a saint and all, but I grew up hearing how "commercial" Christmas had become, and how all 'us kids' had ever cared about was what Santa was going to bring, rather than what Christmas is really about. I grew up feeling guilty for looking forward to getting Christmas presents, and yet feeling overjoyed at going shopping for others. And yet, I did understand where it all started; I did want to see a clear--or at least, reasonable--link between Santa, cookies and stockings, and the birth of Jesus.
Santa gave me that gift. And I will never forget.
Sunday, December 25, 2011
Saturday, December 10, 2011
(loss of) clarity and vision
Helping my aging mother is hard. "Handling" her has always been difficult for me; we clash on everything, beginning with personality, and ranging all the way to lettuce. This is really nothing new, and I am truly not surprised, and I find myself--often--wishing.
Her sight has deteriorated, and with it her feeling that life is worth living. Time and again, she has told us that there is nothing without seeing. She alternately tells strangers that she is legally blind (which may or may not be the case) and wonders why people think she can't see (because she doesn't attempt to focus on people's voices at times).
Guy asked her one evening if she believes sight is the most important of the senses. "Of course!!" she responded. "What other sense is?" She went on to say that it is the most important because it's the only one that makes everything possible: with out perfect vision, she won't be able to cook, or to read, or to talk to people. No one else except blind people have trouble with these things, she said. So we started asking her questions.....So, if you are missing a hand, and therefore some sense of touch, you can cook? Oh, yes, she said. It's hard, but you could do it. So people who are deaf can converse anywhere? Oh, yes, they can learn to read lips, or do sign language. They can overcome that loss.
And so it went, with her "proving" that no sense was as "important" as sight. No "handicap" was as bad.
Why and how, then, can people who are blind from birth live full and productive lives. "They probably can't," she said, " because they can't see." Nothing has made me so sad as hearing that sentiment. In the conversation, the question finally came up--
"Don't you think that acceptance plays a part in dealing with any handicap?"
Her reply: "Probably. But I am not accepting of much."
Ain't that the truth! She has not yet accepted my father's death, nearly 5 years ago. (I'm not happy about his death, and I miss him terribly, and talk to him often, but I have accepted it, and am able to live my life without him) In their relationship, he was the hunter/gatherer, and she was the gardener; even when it came to friendships. She does not do well in new situations, or in groups of strangers, no matter how big or small. My father, on the other hand, shone in a room full of strangers. I always marvelled, and still do, at his ability to befriend anyone, and put them at ease in any situation--even when afterwards he might say that he couldn't stand them. Somewhere in my mind, I always knew that he was the light who attracted people like moths, and Mom was the one who maintained, somehow. He was the icebreaker. Because I'd known this my whole life, I mistakenly assumed that she knew, too. When she moved here and insisted on meeting her own friends, rather than getting to know any of ours, I thought perhaps she was hoping to transform herself; to go outside her comfort zone, and reach out to others.
Instead, she expected others to reach out to her.
She would come home from Church, and tell me that the people were so unfriendly. No one had asked her if she was new in town. None of her new neighbors had come to her door and introduced themselves (except for the ones on this side of the house, and on that side, and the two across the street....). No one had invited her to come over (again, except for the ones across the street, and those ones there...). At the grocery store, no one came up to her and asked about the melons. When I pointed out that she had not engaged anyone else, either, she told me, time and again, that she shouldn't have to; that she should be approached. And still, she did not want to meet any of our friends' parents, or spend any time conversing with our friends. Why? She didn't want to have to explain where Dad is. That's what she's told me. As if, at 74, there is some kind of shame in being a widow, or it's not "normal."
And now, with failing sight, she sees little value in talking to others. She has difficulty reading, but won't just say, "Please use a bigger and bolder font when you email me." (something my godmother asked me to do once when responding to one of my 12-font emails.) "Please use a bold marker to write to me, instead of a pen." "Please use black ink on unlined white paper." She wants no one to accommodate for her, and she does not want to accommodate.
And, as always, there is little I can say that is "right." When I last told her that she should do something other than sit by herself, she told me that I expect too much. I expect too much that my perfectly healthy, yet somewhat vision-impaired, only 74-year-old mother should live her life, instead of sitting around waiting to die?? Yes, she said.
And so, I take her to the grocery store, and do it wrong. We take her to Church each week, but she feels isolated there. I take her to doctor appointments, and she complains that I am not keeping track of the mileage. She thanks me now, and tells me she appreciates all that I do, but I still am wincing from the gentleman who asked how my grandmother is, and was stunned to learn she is my mother. (I tried to believe it was because I looked young, but I know I don't look that young!)
The other day, she told me she keeps praying for courage and strength, and doesn't understand why God won't give it to her, and keeps making this so hard; and that she'd read that one cannot pay for their sins by suffering here on earth. I asked her, once again, what makes this "suffering." She can still listen--to the books on tape that the Association for the Blind sends her, or to books on tape we could get her from the Library; she can still talk with the boys, on the phone with her children and far-off friends and relatives. She can still live, and that, perhaps, God would like her to rejoice in the things she could still do. And she responded that she does, all the time, think about all the things she could do, at one time, but can't do now. I could only bite my tongue and grieve silently.
After all, I had already told her, when you pray for strength and courage, what you get are challenges to make yourself stronger and face your fears. Prayers of Thanksgiving are so much more effective.
Her sight has deteriorated, and with it her feeling that life is worth living. Time and again, she has told us that there is nothing without seeing. She alternately tells strangers that she is legally blind (which may or may not be the case) and wonders why people think she can't see (because she doesn't attempt to focus on people's voices at times).
Guy asked her one evening if she believes sight is the most important of the senses. "Of course!!" she responded. "What other sense is?" She went on to say that it is the most important because it's the only one that makes everything possible: with out perfect vision, she won't be able to cook, or to read, or to talk to people. No one else except blind people have trouble with these things, she said. So we started asking her questions.....So, if you are missing a hand, and therefore some sense of touch, you can cook? Oh, yes, she said. It's hard, but you could do it. So people who are deaf can converse anywhere? Oh, yes, they can learn to read lips, or do sign language. They can overcome that loss.
And so it went, with her "proving" that no sense was as "important" as sight. No "handicap" was as bad.
Why and how, then, can people who are blind from birth live full and productive lives. "They probably can't," she said, " because they can't see." Nothing has made me so sad as hearing that sentiment. In the conversation, the question finally came up--
"Don't you think that acceptance plays a part in dealing with any handicap?"
Her reply: "Probably. But I am not accepting of much."
Ain't that the truth! She has not yet accepted my father's death, nearly 5 years ago. (I'm not happy about his death, and I miss him terribly, and talk to him often, but I have accepted it, and am able to live my life without him) In their relationship, he was the hunter/gatherer, and she was the gardener; even when it came to friendships. She does not do well in new situations, or in groups of strangers, no matter how big or small. My father, on the other hand, shone in a room full of strangers. I always marvelled, and still do, at his ability to befriend anyone, and put them at ease in any situation--even when afterwards he might say that he couldn't stand them. Somewhere in my mind, I always knew that he was the light who attracted people like moths, and Mom was the one who maintained, somehow. He was the icebreaker. Because I'd known this my whole life, I mistakenly assumed that she knew, too. When she moved here and insisted on meeting her own friends, rather than getting to know any of ours, I thought perhaps she was hoping to transform herself; to go outside her comfort zone, and reach out to others.
Instead, she expected others to reach out to her.
She would come home from Church, and tell me that the people were so unfriendly. No one had asked her if she was new in town. None of her new neighbors had come to her door and introduced themselves (except for the ones on this side of the house, and on that side, and the two across the street....). No one had invited her to come over (again, except for the ones across the street, and those ones there...). At the grocery store, no one came up to her and asked about the melons. When I pointed out that she had not engaged anyone else, either, she told me, time and again, that she shouldn't have to; that she should be approached. And still, she did not want to meet any of our friends' parents, or spend any time conversing with our friends. Why? She didn't want to have to explain where Dad is. That's what she's told me. As if, at 74, there is some kind of shame in being a widow, or it's not "normal."
And now, with failing sight, she sees little value in talking to others. She has difficulty reading, but won't just say, "Please use a bigger and bolder font when you email me." (something my godmother asked me to do once when responding to one of my 12-font emails.) "Please use a bold marker to write to me, instead of a pen." "Please use black ink on unlined white paper." She wants no one to accommodate for her, and she does not want to accommodate.
And, as always, there is little I can say that is "right." When I last told her that she should do something other than sit by herself, she told me that I expect too much. I expect too much that my perfectly healthy, yet somewhat vision-impaired, only 74-year-old mother should live her life, instead of sitting around waiting to die?? Yes, she said.
And so, I take her to the grocery store, and do it wrong. We take her to Church each week, but she feels isolated there. I take her to doctor appointments, and she complains that I am not keeping track of the mileage. She thanks me now, and tells me she appreciates all that I do, but I still am wincing from the gentleman who asked how my grandmother is, and was stunned to learn she is my mother. (I tried to believe it was because I looked young, but I know I don't look that young!)
The other day, she told me she keeps praying for courage and strength, and doesn't understand why God won't give it to her, and keeps making this so hard; and that she'd read that one cannot pay for their sins by suffering here on earth. I asked her, once again, what makes this "suffering." She can still listen--to the books on tape that the Association for the Blind sends her, or to books on tape we could get her from the Library; she can still talk with the boys, on the phone with her children and far-off friends and relatives. She can still live, and that, perhaps, God would like her to rejoice in the things she could still do. And she responded that she does, all the time, think about all the things she could do, at one time, but can't do now. I could only bite my tongue and grieve silently.
After all, I had already told her, when you pray for strength and courage, what you get are challenges to make yourself stronger and face your fears. Prayers of Thanksgiving are so much more effective.
Saturday, November 26, 2011
silver and gold
"Twelve months ago, I was told I was no good...."
So began the words spoken to the parents gathered after early morning practice on Thanksgiving morning. I don't think Coach intended to get emotional saying his words of thanks to us. From what I have seen of him in front of us, he tends more towards matter-of-fact when talking to parents. With the team, I hear he is pretty controlled, but does, on occasion, show some strong emotions.
Either which way, the words gave me chills when I heard them, and have been echoing through my mind ever since...
After all, a year ago, that's pretty much what the former coach had said about this very team of boys.
Last year, the team record was 1 and 9. The year before, 2 and 8. That coach's 'intensity' was something I personally found to be painful to watch. I expect coaches to be, shall we say, "excited," on the sideline, but he always seemed angry, irritable and frustrated. By the end of last season, I was keeping my own stats: counting how many times he had thrown something, screamed or waved his clipboard in someone's face, and judging what my son's mood would be on Saturday morning by how red the coach's face was. Around mid-season every year, there would be a rumor that it would be his last; he would retire at the end of the season. Among my friends in the stands, there was a certain hopefulness that went along with the rumor, but also a general, "I'll believe it when I see it" attitude.
The season ended last year with his retirement--and him saying that he had no desire to attend a football banquet. He went on to say that he wasn't even sure the boys deserved a banquet, after the season they had. He implied that we would be lucky to get a second-rate coach; that no one would want to work with these kids.
We pushed on. We had the banquet, and he did attend. None of us who knew what he'd said were happy about it, and would have loved to 'forget' his invitation, but we wanted--needed--to do the right thing for the players. As parents and fans, we had to stand behind our boys, no matter what. And we hoped for the future....
Our prayers were answered with a match made in heaven, it seems. A Coach who wasn't wanted and a team that was thrown away managed to finish the season with a more than respectable 7 and 5 record. More than that, they learned more from their new Coach than they had ever learned from the previous one. They learned that what they need is inside them. They learned to trust each other; to support each other. To take credit modestly, and to own up to mistakes with dignity.
They learned to be a team.
They learned, along with their new Coach, that their worth is not counted only in wins and losses, but in who they are--to each other, to the community, to themselves. They may have lost their championship final game, and brought home silver medals, but I still say that they are all, without a doubt, worth their weight in GOLD.
The season reads like a movie script, and I heard someone say before the last game that must mean they need a happy ending, a win, to finish it out. I almost agreed; I wanted a win, too. But, in reality, the happy ending for these guys is just beginning. The lessons they've learned are going to change their lives, and the lives of an entire community--just you wait.....
So began the words spoken to the parents gathered after early morning practice on Thanksgiving morning. I don't think Coach intended to get emotional saying his words of thanks to us. From what I have seen of him in front of us, he tends more towards matter-of-fact when talking to parents. With the team, I hear he is pretty controlled, but does, on occasion, show some strong emotions.
Either which way, the words gave me chills when I heard them, and have been echoing through my mind ever since...
After all, a year ago, that's pretty much what the former coach had said about this very team of boys.
Last year, the team record was 1 and 9. The year before, 2 and 8. That coach's 'intensity' was something I personally found to be painful to watch. I expect coaches to be, shall we say, "excited," on the sideline, but he always seemed angry, irritable and frustrated. By the end of last season, I was keeping my own stats: counting how many times he had thrown something, screamed or waved his clipboard in someone's face, and judging what my son's mood would be on Saturday morning by how red the coach's face was. Around mid-season every year, there would be a rumor that it would be his last; he would retire at the end of the season. Among my friends in the stands, there was a certain hopefulness that went along with the rumor, but also a general, "I'll believe it when I see it" attitude.
The season ended last year with his retirement--and him saying that he had no desire to attend a football banquet. He went on to say that he wasn't even sure the boys deserved a banquet, after the season they had. He implied that we would be lucky to get a second-rate coach; that no one would want to work with these kids.
We pushed on. We had the banquet, and he did attend. None of us who knew what he'd said were happy about it, and would have loved to 'forget' his invitation, but we wanted--needed--to do the right thing for the players. As parents and fans, we had to stand behind our boys, no matter what. And we hoped for the future....
Our prayers were answered with a match made in heaven, it seems. A Coach who wasn't wanted and a team that was thrown away managed to finish the season with a more than respectable 7 and 5 record. More than that, they learned more from their new Coach than they had ever learned from the previous one. They learned that what they need is inside them. They learned to trust each other; to support each other. To take credit modestly, and to own up to mistakes with dignity.
They learned to be a team.
They learned, along with their new Coach, that their worth is not counted only in wins and losses, but in who they are--to each other, to the community, to themselves. They may have lost their championship final game, and brought home silver medals, but I still say that they are all, without a doubt, worth their weight in GOLD.
The season reads like a movie script, and I heard someone say before the last game that must mean they need a happy ending, a win, to finish it out. I almost agreed; I wanted a win, too. But, in reality, the happy ending for these guys is just beginning. The lessons they've learned are going to change their lives, and the lives of an entire community--just you wait.....
Thursday, November 24, 2011
giving thanks
Today is Thanksgiving--my favorite of all holidays. That says a lot, because I am not much for "favorites." My favorite color depends on so many things: my mood, the season, the day of week...same goes for my favorite food, flower, whatever. But Thanksgiving is different. I can say, honestly, that I just love everything about it.
First of all, the weather doesn't much matter, since food is the attraction, and I love food. Then there is the fact that there are not many Thanksgiving commercials, ads or sales. Decorating for Thanksgiving is pretty simple, too, and doesn't just apply to the one day. There isn't a whole lot of buildup.
And that, quite frankly, is the biggest attraction to me: it's a low-key holiday. Just some food and football, and a lot of time and space for introspection.
I am a lucky woman. I have a wonderful husband; we've spent literally half our lives together, and I'm so looking forward to enjoying at least as many more years together. We've made a lovely home, even if our house is quite a mess at times! Life here is good--we laugh, we cry, we play....I wouldn't want it any other way. The boys light up my life, truly. They make me crazy sometimes, but their spirit drives me forward. Watching them grow and mature has been a gift. Their futures intrigue me, and the unfolding is fascinating.
I am so very grateful for our extended family--sisters and brothers, cousins, aunts and uncles, and all those who make up their households. Each and every one of them is so very special to me; I could never imagine life without them. Aside from the warmth of familial love, each of them adds so much joy to my life. Visits with our family members from the far corners of the country always result in the most amazing memories. I am grateful for all those memories each and every day.
Living apart from family has led to a different dimension in our friendships, and I am so very grateful for the friends we have that are like family to us. There are times when I cannot adequately express my thankfulness for these people in my life. I have friends that I can count on to do more than just visit--we watch out for each other's kids, and we understand and accept each other's idiosyncrasies. Some of these friends have never been within a mile of our home, and yet their place in my heart is fixed fast. Some I have known since childhood, and some just a few months, and yet each and every one of them has become a part of the quilt of my life--a life that I appreciate so much for all the loose threads and even the occasional mismatched seam.
My life is warm and comfortable and colorful, just the way I like it. At Thanksgiving, especially, I wrap myself in this life-quilt and remember how lucky I am. I have health, a home, a job I like, people I both enjoy and admire, and enough joy to share. What more could I ask for?
First of all, the weather doesn't much matter, since food is the attraction, and I love food. Then there is the fact that there are not many Thanksgiving commercials, ads or sales. Decorating for Thanksgiving is pretty simple, too, and doesn't just apply to the one day. There isn't a whole lot of buildup.
And that, quite frankly, is the biggest attraction to me: it's a low-key holiday. Just some food and football, and a lot of time and space for introspection.
I am a lucky woman. I have a wonderful husband; we've spent literally half our lives together, and I'm so looking forward to enjoying at least as many more years together. We've made a lovely home, even if our house is quite a mess at times! Life here is good--we laugh, we cry, we play....I wouldn't want it any other way. The boys light up my life, truly. They make me crazy sometimes, but their spirit drives me forward. Watching them grow and mature has been a gift. Their futures intrigue me, and the unfolding is fascinating.
I am so very grateful for our extended family--sisters and brothers, cousins, aunts and uncles, and all those who make up their households. Each and every one of them is so very special to me; I could never imagine life without them. Aside from the warmth of familial love, each of them adds so much joy to my life. Visits with our family members from the far corners of the country always result in the most amazing memories. I am grateful for all those memories each and every day.
Living apart from family has led to a different dimension in our friendships, and I am so very grateful for the friends we have that are like family to us. There are times when I cannot adequately express my thankfulness for these people in my life. I have friends that I can count on to do more than just visit--we watch out for each other's kids, and we understand and accept each other's idiosyncrasies. Some of these friends have never been within a mile of our home, and yet their place in my heart is fixed fast. Some I have known since childhood, and some just a few months, and yet each and every one of them has become a part of the quilt of my life--a life that I appreciate so much for all the loose threads and even the occasional mismatched seam.
My life is warm and comfortable and colorful, just the way I like it. At Thanksgiving, especially, I wrap myself in this life-quilt and remember how lucky I am. I have health, a home, a job I like, people I both enjoy and admire, and enough joy to share. What more could I ask for?
Thursday, November 17, 2011
thanks, coach
Dear Coach~
You are quite a motivational speaker. The first time I met you, you had been working with my son and the team for a short time. They had been lifting weights a bit, nothing really serious, as I recall, but you had taken the time to get to know them a little. A couple of the assistant coaches from the previous years had remained on your staff, and I was impressed that they shared so much information about the boys' talents, strengths and weaknesses with you. And also impressed that you had listened, but said that you were committed to making your own judgements.
In fact, there were many things you told us you were committed to that evening. You talked about so many different ways you wanted to change things with this team, and you promised to be accessible to us, as well as to the boys. Some things didn't materialize (this year. I have every confidence that this will grow and continue to develop.), but other things took off. That first evening, though, what most amazed me is still that I left the meeting excited about the football season.
Coach, you promised that you would take our boys and help them to become men. You promised that they would, by the end of the season, be a team, a family. You even were so bold as to promise that they would have a winning season, probably even a playoff season. I hope you understood how difficult that was to swallow. I, for one, had seen my son's team lose far more than win, and I'd never expected to meet an approachable football coach. But, somehow, you convinced me.
With your guidance, these boys have changed. You told them, in the early weight room sessions, that they can't give up in the third quarter; that the game isn't over until the clock winds down. When I run now, I break the route down into rough quarters, and tell myself the same thing. And I've watched as the team has played--really played--until the very end of the game; they just don't give up. It's great to see.
One thing you have held fast to is their position as role models in the community. At first, it didn't seem they realized, or cared, that community members recognized them. They wore their jerseys the same as they always had. Now, just three months later, they carry themselves differently in their jerseys. It's difficult to explain, but they have a new bearing. They care. All those weeks of reading that the upperclassmen did really got through to them: these kids know them. The questions the kids ask are real, and make the boys think on their feet. They've seen the support that comes from admiration, and they began to understand the responsibility associated with wearing any uniform. They then passed that self-respect on to the underclassmen. The end result is an entire team that looks forward to being able to read to kids.
Your view of pregame meals and Senior dinners has been simple genius. Sitting down to a meal is different from grabbing some food on the run. Despite the buffet style so necessary or efficient in feeding so many at one time, the team sits together and talks. Decompresses. Relaxes a little. Calms those nerves.
Coach, I would like to thank you for coming to our team. I believe in what you have started here: the new traditions, the ideas you have, the dreams you see coming true. Most of all, I would like to say that I appreciate the mutual respect you have fostered. These guys, as you promised, look out for each other. I've heard them extend credit to other team members when paid a compliment. I've heard them say that they have learned from mistakes made in practice or in games, and that the next one will be even better. And I've heard you commend the team, rather than take compliments for yourself. More than once, you have thanked us, as parents, for the sons we have raised. We--the parents, and you--the coaches, have become a good team, too. Thank you.
Thank you for believing. Thank you for pushing. Thank you for your faith in a bunch of people who you'd never met. Thank you for being honest--with us and with our children. Thank you for being the type of coach who really does do this job for the love of the kids first, and the game second. Thank you for an unforgettable season. The winning, I'd like to say, is just icing on the cake, but I'd be lying. Without the winning, the rest would still have been there, but it might have been harder to see. So thanks for that, too.
Warmly,
a converted Football Mom
You are quite a motivational speaker. The first time I met you, you had been working with my son and the team for a short time. They had been lifting weights a bit, nothing really serious, as I recall, but you had taken the time to get to know them a little. A couple of the assistant coaches from the previous years had remained on your staff, and I was impressed that they shared so much information about the boys' talents, strengths and weaknesses with you. And also impressed that you had listened, but said that you were committed to making your own judgements.
In fact, there were many things you told us you were committed to that evening. You talked about so many different ways you wanted to change things with this team, and you promised to be accessible to us, as well as to the boys. Some things didn't materialize (this year. I have every confidence that this will grow and continue to develop.), but other things took off. That first evening, though, what most amazed me is still that I left the meeting excited about the football season.
Coach, you promised that you would take our boys and help them to become men. You promised that they would, by the end of the season, be a team, a family. You even were so bold as to promise that they would have a winning season, probably even a playoff season. I hope you understood how difficult that was to swallow. I, for one, had seen my son's team lose far more than win, and I'd never expected to meet an approachable football coach. But, somehow, you convinced me.
With your guidance, these boys have changed. You told them, in the early weight room sessions, that they can't give up in the third quarter; that the game isn't over until the clock winds down. When I run now, I break the route down into rough quarters, and tell myself the same thing. And I've watched as the team has played--really played--until the very end of the game; they just don't give up. It's great to see.
One thing you have held fast to is their position as role models in the community. At first, it didn't seem they realized, or cared, that community members recognized them. They wore their jerseys the same as they always had. Now, just three months later, they carry themselves differently in their jerseys. It's difficult to explain, but they have a new bearing. They care. All those weeks of reading that the upperclassmen did really got through to them: these kids know them. The questions the kids ask are real, and make the boys think on their feet. They've seen the support that comes from admiration, and they began to understand the responsibility associated with wearing any uniform. They then passed that self-respect on to the underclassmen. The end result is an entire team that looks forward to being able to read to kids.
Your view of pregame meals and Senior dinners has been simple genius. Sitting down to a meal is different from grabbing some food on the run. Despite the buffet style so necessary or efficient in feeding so many at one time, the team sits together and talks. Decompresses. Relaxes a little. Calms those nerves.
Coach, I would like to thank you for coming to our team. I believe in what you have started here: the new traditions, the ideas you have, the dreams you see coming true. Most of all, I would like to say that I appreciate the mutual respect you have fostered. These guys, as you promised, look out for each other. I've heard them extend credit to other team members when paid a compliment. I've heard them say that they have learned from mistakes made in practice or in games, and that the next one will be even better. And I've heard you commend the team, rather than take compliments for yourself. More than once, you have thanked us, as parents, for the sons we have raised. We--the parents, and you--the coaches, have become a good team, too. Thank you.
Thank you for believing. Thank you for pushing. Thank you for your faith in a bunch of people who you'd never met. Thank you for being honest--with us and with our children. Thank you for being the type of coach who really does do this job for the love of the kids first, and the game second. Thank you for an unforgettable season. The winning, I'd like to say, is just icing on the cake, but I'd be lying. Without the winning, the rest would still have been there, but it might have been harder to see. So thanks for that, too.
Warmly,
a converted Football Mom
Wednesday, November 16, 2011
lion pride :)
Texting with a friend today, I had to admit that "I'm going to spend the entire day/night [Friday] crying, what with all this 'proud of them' I have in my heart." Friday night is a playoff game. A game that, back in the spring, Coach seemed sure we could see, even though many of us parents had our doubts. So much has happened since then.....
At the time, our boys had been coming off not just one, but 3 or more losing seasons. They had never really played as a united team. Watching them, and listening to my son talk about the team, it really sounded like three disparate groups trying to come together for just two hours each week. We didn't know how anyone could overcome that. I remember distinctly one dad saying, "Coach, what you have here is a team of smart kids, but not necessarily gifted athletes." He went on to say that they all had their athletic abilities, and they all had heart, but, when all is said and done, they are more brainy than brawny. We all hoped, to some degree, that the boys' hearts would not be broken.....
Since that day, I've watched and listened, as a mom, as a school employee, and as a fan, and what I've seen has amazed and impressed me. Looking back at that first meeting in the spring, when I left thinking, "I like him. I really like him!" I realize that as he spoke to us parents, he reminded me of Debbie Allen at the beginning of the "Fame" episodes: "You've got big dreams...right here's where you start paying--in sweat." Coach assured us that the boys were ready for the challenge, that they could make it to playoffs, that they were going to be a team. A real, honest-to-goodness team. All the parents I talked to seemed to agree--we liked what he had to say, but wondered if he was being realistic.
All summer, the boys worked out together in the weight room. As they got stronger, they also got to know each other, as well as the coaching staff. By the time practice started for the season, the boys were beginning to 'team up,' to know that they needed each other to get through the tough stuff. Coach made minor changes to the day-to-day stuff, too: no soda, zero tolerance for trouble or fading grades, insistence on knowing the playbook, and not just faking it. Coach insisted they be "real;" that they be honest with him, with each other, with themselves.
The transformation I've witnessed goes far beyond the field, where they have shone like stars. As a whole, they boys have learned some unexpected lessons. Coach asked that they read to the elementary students--their youngest fans--and through that, the boys have learned that facing something new, anything new, can be equally intimidating as facing a defensive line. Coach told them back in those weight room days not to give up in the third quarter, and the boys discovered that they could outplay their opponents by tiring them out. Coach asked that we feed the team a "nice, sit-down meal" before the home games. As the season has progressed, I've come to realize that the intent has been to feed their souls and psyches as much as their bodies, and the result is that they have become family. As for those brains, Coach has guided them to a point of understanding the game; these boys out-think many of their opponents, adapting their game to counter the other teams'.
In an interview, Coach cited a pivotal 4th quarter win mid-season as the point at which "they" started to trust him. Ostensibly, he was referring to the boys on the team. In reality, I suspect he was including the parents and other fans, as well. Prior to that game, there was some appreciation for his methods, but I think there was still a feeling that not much had changed with this new coach. I recall being asked more than once if I thought this new guy would stay if the season continued as it was. I did think so, but I also found myself wondering if he was more disappointed than he was admitting to.
Heading into playoffs....In a later text today, I added that "I've never felt so wrapped up in anything that I can remember. just might explode!" It's true. I've watched. I've learned. I've even become a fan--something I never imagined. Just like playoffs. I told another friend today that I am impressed with how the boys are handling this success, too. They are being "real:" far from modest--they know they have done something amazing--they are, however, being a team. They give credit where it's due, they admit to their own shortcomings on the field (if not necessarily other places--they are just kids, after all!), and they are getting excited about the game. Even I am getting excited about the game. I might manage not to cry, but I doubt it. I really have never been so excited about a football game. Thanks, Coach. Good luck, boys!
At the time, our boys had been coming off not just one, but 3 or more losing seasons. They had never really played as a united team. Watching them, and listening to my son talk about the team, it really sounded like three disparate groups trying to come together for just two hours each week. We didn't know how anyone could overcome that. I remember distinctly one dad saying, "Coach, what you have here is a team of smart kids, but not necessarily gifted athletes." He went on to say that they all had their athletic abilities, and they all had heart, but, when all is said and done, they are more brainy than brawny. We all hoped, to some degree, that the boys' hearts would not be broken.....
Since that day, I've watched and listened, as a mom, as a school employee, and as a fan, and what I've seen has amazed and impressed me. Looking back at that first meeting in the spring, when I left thinking, "I like him. I really like him!" I realize that as he spoke to us parents, he reminded me of Debbie Allen at the beginning of the "Fame" episodes: "You've got big dreams...right here's where you start paying--in sweat." Coach assured us that the boys were ready for the challenge, that they could make it to playoffs, that they were going to be a team. A real, honest-to-goodness team. All the parents I talked to seemed to agree--we liked what he had to say, but wondered if he was being realistic.
All summer, the boys worked out together in the weight room. As they got stronger, they also got to know each other, as well as the coaching staff. By the time practice started for the season, the boys were beginning to 'team up,' to know that they needed each other to get through the tough stuff. Coach made minor changes to the day-to-day stuff, too: no soda, zero tolerance for trouble or fading grades, insistence on knowing the playbook, and not just faking it. Coach insisted they be "real;" that they be honest with him, with each other, with themselves.
The transformation I've witnessed goes far beyond the field, where they have shone like stars. As a whole, they boys have learned some unexpected lessons. Coach asked that they read to the elementary students--their youngest fans--and through that, the boys have learned that facing something new, anything new, can be equally intimidating as facing a defensive line. Coach told them back in those weight room days not to give up in the third quarter, and the boys discovered that they could outplay their opponents by tiring them out. Coach asked that we feed the team a "nice, sit-down meal" before the home games. As the season has progressed, I've come to realize that the intent has been to feed their souls and psyches as much as their bodies, and the result is that they have become family. As for those brains, Coach has guided them to a point of understanding the game; these boys out-think many of their opponents, adapting their game to counter the other teams'.
In an interview, Coach cited a pivotal 4th quarter win mid-season as the point at which "they" started to trust him. Ostensibly, he was referring to the boys on the team. In reality, I suspect he was including the parents and other fans, as well. Prior to that game, there was some appreciation for his methods, but I think there was still a feeling that not much had changed with this new coach. I recall being asked more than once if I thought this new guy would stay if the season continued as it was. I did think so, but I also found myself wondering if he was more disappointed than he was admitting to.
Heading into playoffs....In a later text today, I added that "I've never felt so wrapped up in anything that I can remember. just might explode!" It's true. I've watched. I've learned. I've even become a fan--something I never imagined. Just like playoffs. I told another friend today that I am impressed with how the boys are handling this success, too. They are being "real:" far from modest--they know they have done something amazing--they are, however, being a team. They give credit where it's due, they admit to their own shortcomings on the field (if not necessarily other places--they are just kids, after all!), and they are getting excited about the game. Even I am getting excited about the game. I might manage not to cry, but I doubt it. I really have never been so excited about a football game. Thanks, Coach. Good luck, boys!
Sunday, November 6, 2011
precious and few
My two favorite pictures of the entire season. That joy, pride, admiration, and, yes, relief, that we all felt after the last regular season win, is more than just evident in these pictures. It's palpable. The game ended, and Jon walked toward us with tears in his eyes and his face all screwed up with the effort of not crying out loud, and hugged me, holding me tight and swaying while my heart exploded with a mixture of pride for him, his teammates, and his coaches, and relief that he made it through the regular season injury-free, though he played hard. As he hugged me, I had so many thoughts going through my head, but there were no words for the moment. There really aren't in moments like this. He released me and turned to Guy. Like all the post-game pictures I take, I snapped the picture without even looking at the viewfinder, hoping against hope that I would even capture them in the frame. I'm not one for taking posed pictures; my preference is taking pictures that capture something. When I opened this picture of Guy and Jon, my heart skipped a beat. What I saw was my husband and our firstborn son in a moment that said everything (I thought) that could ever be said about the final steps in a journey from a 1-9 season to a 6-4 season. Everything that could possibly be said about looking forward to playoffs, while keeping in mind the first steps our son ever took. What else could express the joy and awe at turning, now, toward the post-season, and a first playoff game on the team's home field? Then I opened this other picture...
As brothers, Henry and Jon have had their inseparable moments. Football, however, has been Jon's thing. Henry went to most of the games, and cheered on his brother and, of course, his other friends on the team. But after that win--the one that so many said wouldn't happen--the first thing Henry wanted to do was hug his brother. This is one of those moments I feel blessed to have captured!! Happy, proud, joyful, excited--any emotion possible is displayed in Henry's face, and I'm left with the memory of how long they stood that way--long enough for me to get two shots, and to stand in awe of that mystery to me of Brother Love.
And after my heart started beating normally, and I could settle in and focus on downloading the photos into the appropriate file folders on the computer, it hit me. I'm not in any such pictures. And I doubt that I ever will be. I know there is a chance, because I do have one picture of Dad giving me one of my favorite one-armed hugs, from my high school graduation. He loved those unposed, unplanned, one-of-a-kind snapshots, too, so I have lots and lots of them--without him.
When Jon's kids look back at these pictures, how will they see the absence of my face, my emotions? How will he? Will he remember the hug that I gave him, too, or will it be lost without 'proof'? As I got older, I began taking pictures of Dad when he wasn't looking, but those moments didn't include me. When I think about them, or see pictures of amazing moments, I do still feel that arm of his over my shoulder. Will Jon? Will any of my boys? I hope so.
In the meantime, I will gaze at these two pictures and be warmed by the tide of memories from the whole season that wash over me. From a whole lifetime.
Wednesday, November 2, 2011
your turn--yes, you
by special request....
Dear Me (because I don't want to forget),
What you do today will be emulated. Don't think that no one is paying attention. While you sit here typing this blog, someone is thinking they should be like you. They don't always even know that's what they are thinking--or, quite possibly, they are looking at you and telling themselves that they never want to do what you do. They will. They may beat themselves up about it afterwards, or they may praise you for showing you the way--but that is up to you. Now. And always.
You've been telling your kids how you expect them to behave since they were small babies. Making sure they say "Please" and "Thank you" to everyone, and encouraging them to hold doors open for others. Are you sure that's all you've been showing them?
I remember how amazed and touched I was when my eldest son and my niece both said that going back to college to finish my degree was "so cool!" There was a part of me that worked even harder because I knew they were now depending on me to show them how important college is, and how they would want to know how I was going to prioritize school and life, and if anything would change in regard to how I felt about them. Through some classes, that is what sustained me and kept me from giving up. I need to remember to thank them for that.
I remember, too, the day that my son said to me, "I'm glad you've made some new friends. I've noticed you drink more now, and have fun." That was a blow. Actually, more than that--it made me wonder which made more of an impression on him: my earning a college degree, or the fact that I was consuming more wine than he had ever seen me drink. It wasn't terribly excessive--just a glass or two a couple of times a week, but considering that he had only ever seen me drink wine on holidays, the change was huge. I was shocked. More that it was noticeable enough for him to notice and comment on than because of anything else.
Honestly, I've made changes since that day not long ago. I'd like you to help me make good choices. Just like you expect from the kids. And since you are me, we can work together. There is medical evidence that some alcohol consumption may be beneficial, but that doesn't mean finishing up a bottle of wine just so it "won't go to waste" or because "there's only a little bit left." You know full well that if the wine "skunks" from sitting in the fridge too long, or doesn't taste as good the next day, it will be a perfect flavoring for that stew, risotto, or other fabulous dinner you like to make. We can let it go, and even plan the dinner to put it in.
That glass of wine, or even two, if you're not going anywhere, is something altogether different from a bottle or two. Very different. Keep that in mind. Anything beyond the first few sips, and your kids are watching to see how you are behaving. I've seen it. Shoot, we've even joked about it! So far, I've stopped long before I got stupid, but they are looking for any change in behavior, reaction time, anything. One of the teens, I fear, is watching so he can figure out how to hide it when/if he drinks; the other is just willing to use it as fodder if he ever needs it. The others are not as sure about what they are watching for, but they are training hawk eyes on us just the same.
And for God's sake--every one of those things you have told those kids to do or not do--FOLLOW YOUR OWN ADVICE!! If you ever expect your kid to actually call you when someone has had too much to drink, or is high, or is even just too tired to drive, you had better call them if you find yourself in the same situation. Or call a cab. Or stay put. Or walk home, if there is no body of water or highway along the way. They will do what you do, no matter what you say. No matter what you say.
Remember that time you lost your temper about something really nonsensical, and hoped it would be forgotten (even though you couldn't forget it)? Yeah, that's what showed up in that argument between two of your kids the other day. Did you hear yourself? Thought so. How'd that make you feel? Much different than how they felt when you blew up? It hurt again when you told them to knock it off, too, didn't it? No? That's right, it made you feel guilty.....
And that was not the worst thing you've shown them, was it? But now, do you see what I mean? What you do, how you behave, how you live, that's what makes an impression. Every day. Yeah, it's hard work, and sometimes it's not fun, but they are your kids, your friends' kids, your kids' friends, and they are all watching.
I've always believed that I have as much to learn from my kids as I have to teach them. Why else would God have sent us four boys?? I'm a tough case, and have a heck of a lot to learn!! (I'm only half serious there. I am completely aware that our activities had at least as to do with them being here--and there being four of them!--as any grand plan!) One of the most important things we need to remember at this point is that decisions need to be made with a clear mind, and a clear conscience. We've spent years and so much energy trying to make sure our kids understand that impairment begins with the first drink. Do we? Because we are going to ask our teens if drinking together is really necessary to socialize, we need to ask ourselves the same question. Perhaps there is a problem in the presentation.....
For me, a glass of wine now, as a 42-year-old, self-confident woman, means something very different than the glass I had as a 21-year-old newlywed with my in-laws. Then, admittedly, I had a glass of wine for reasons in addition to liking the wine. I wanted to fit in, and I still felt uncomfortable in this family that I was only beginning to blend into. When I hear kids say they drink to fit in, to be like "everyone else," I honestly do understand. I also know that it didn't work. Instead, I still felt not quite comfortable, and worried that I might have a little too much and do or say something I would regret. Or worse, would embarrass my new husband. I was lucky. None of those things happened. I was LUCKY: any of those things could have happened, or worse. Part of that luck came from the fact that my husband just plain didn't drink. And, although I was a bit insecure then, I was still willing to hold myself accountable. Now when I have a glass of wine or two, the flavor and the experience associated with it are thought out. I am aware of, and take notice of, the taste (a minor thing, really) as well as the physical effects. I am aware. And I purposely stop while I am still aware.
They are watching. Be someone you want them to see.
Sincerely,
Me.
Dear Me (because I don't want to forget),
What you do today will be emulated. Don't think that no one is paying attention. While you sit here typing this blog, someone is thinking they should be like you. They don't always even know that's what they are thinking--or, quite possibly, they are looking at you and telling themselves that they never want to do what you do. They will. They may beat themselves up about it afterwards, or they may praise you for showing you the way--but that is up to you. Now. And always.
You've been telling your kids how you expect them to behave since they were small babies. Making sure they say "Please" and "Thank you" to everyone, and encouraging them to hold doors open for others. Are you sure that's all you've been showing them?
I remember how amazed and touched I was when my eldest son and my niece both said that going back to college to finish my degree was "so cool!" There was a part of me that worked even harder because I knew they were now depending on me to show them how important college is, and how they would want to know how I was going to prioritize school and life, and if anything would change in regard to how I felt about them. Through some classes, that is what sustained me and kept me from giving up. I need to remember to thank them for that.
I remember, too, the day that my son said to me, "I'm glad you've made some new friends. I've noticed you drink more now, and have fun." That was a blow. Actually, more than that--it made me wonder which made more of an impression on him: my earning a college degree, or the fact that I was consuming more wine than he had ever seen me drink. It wasn't terribly excessive--just a glass or two a couple of times a week, but considering that he had only ever seen me drink wine on holidays, the change was huge. I was shocked. More that it was noticeable enough for him to notice and comment on than because of anything else.
Honestly, I've made changes since that day not long ago. I'd like you to help me make good choices. Just like you expect from the kids. And since you are me, we can work together. There is medical evidence that some alcohol consumption may be beneficial, but that doesn't mean finishing up a bottle of wine just so it "won't go to waste" or because "there's only a little bit left." You know full well that if the wine "skunks" from sitting in the fridge too long, or doesn't taste as good the next day, it will be a perfect flavoring for that stew, risotto, or other fabulous dinner you like to make. We can let it go, and even plan the dinner to put it in.
That glass of wine, or even two, if you're not going anywhere, is something altogether different from a bottle or two. Very different. Keep that in mind. Anything beyond the first few sips, and your kids are watching to see how you are behaving. I've seen it. Shoot, we've even joked about it! So far, I've stopped long before I got stupid, but they are looking for any change in behavior, reaction time, anything. One of the teens, I fear, is watching so he can figure out how to hide it when/if he drinks; the other is just willing to use it as fodder if he ever needs it. The others are not as sure about what they are watching for, but they are training hawk eyes on us just the same.
And for God's sake--every one of those things you have told those kids to do or not do--FOLLOW YOUR OWN ADVICE!! If you ever expect your kid to actually call you when someone has had too much to drink, or is high, or is even just too tired to drive, you had better call them if you find yourself in the same situation. Or call a cab. Or stay put. Or walk home, if there is no body of water or highway along the way. They will do what you do, no matter what you say. No matter what you say.
Remember that time you lost your temper about something really nonsensical, and hoped it would be forgotten (even though you couldn't forget it)? Yeah, that's what showed up in that argument between two of your kids the other day. Did you hear yourself? Thought so. How'd that make you feel? Much different than how they felt when you blew up? It hurt again when you told them to knock it off, too, didn't it? No? That's right, it made you feel guilty.....
And that was not the worst thing you've shown them, was it? But now, do you see what I mean? What you do, how you behave, how you live, that's what makes an impression. Every day. Yeah, it's hard work, and sometimes it's not fun, but they are your kids, your friends' kids, your kids' friends, and they are all watching.
I've always believed that I have as much to learn from my kids as I have to teach them. Why else would God have sent us four boys?? I'm a tough case, and have a heck of a lot to learn!! (I'm only half serious there. I am completely aware that our activities had at least as to do with them being here--and there being four of them!--as any grand plan!) One of the most important things we need to remember at this point is that decisions need to be made with a clear mind, and a clear conscience. We've spent years and so much energy trying to make sure our kids understand that impairment begins with the first drink. Do we? Because we are going to ask our teens if drinking together is really necessary to socialize, we need to ask ourselves the same question. Perhaps there is a problem in the presentation.....
For me, a glass of wine now, as a 42-year-old, self-confident woman, means something very different than the glass I had as a 21-year-old newlywed with my in-laws. Then, admittedly, I had a glass of wine for reasons in addition to liking the wine. I wanted to fit in, and I still felt uncomfortable in this family that I was only beginning to blend into. When I hear kids say they drink to fit in, to be like "everyone else," I honestly do understand. I also know that it didn't work. Instead, I still felt not quite comfortable, and worried that I might have a little too much and do or say something I would regret. Or worse, would embarrass my new husband. I was lucky. None of those things happened. I was LUCKY: any of those things could have happened, or worse. Part of that luck came from the fact that my husband just plain didn't drink. And, although I was a bit insecure then, I was still willing to hold myself accountable. Now when I have a glass of wine or two, the flavor and the experience associated with it are thought out. I am aware of, and take notice of, the taste (a minor thing, really) as well as the physical effects. I am aware. And I purposely stop while I am still aware.
They are watching. Be someone you want them to see.
Sincerely,
Me.
Monday, October 31, 2011
quit kidding yourself
an open letter to.....
Dear Parent of "Not My Kid,"
I would say that it's nice to meet you, but, honestly, you just make me shake my head after we part company. There are too many of you out there for me to truly believe that your kid exists. If every single one of you has that kid, why are there so many teenagers who die in alcohol-related accidents each year? According to the MADD website, one in five teens binge drinks. That's 1 in 5. In my son's graduating class of 112 students, about 22 kids; and in my sophomore son's class of 123, about 25. In the entire high school, 85 kids, statistically speaking, are binge drinking. From the numbers, you can see that is almost an entire grade level at our little school in our small, "close-knit" community. MADD also points out that only one in 100 parents believes that their child binge drinks. From my experience with you and your adamant "Not MY Kid" attitude, I would have to say that sounds about right. Is there anyone in our town who thinks their kid might be drinking at all, let alone excessively? I suspect my kid, and after the stories I've heard lately, you can bet your bottom dollar I'll be making some changes.
Recently, I heard a mom talking about how she checked up on her kid. He had a cell phone, but she always instructed him to call her the old fashioned way, from a land line, when he got where he was going, and when he protested that some of his friends didn't have a land line at their house, she told him to call from the parent's cell phone. Ingenious! Foolproof? No. When, for whatever reason, it wasn't feasible, she would stop by on her way somewhere else, just to say she was passing by--but not every time. And, on occasion, she would call a parent out of the blue to thank them for their hospitality, generosity, etc. There were times when backpedalling was necessary for any of the parties involved. Not every friend, obviously, lives on the way to somewhere reasonable, but just how much arguing can a kid do? Did her kid stay out of trouble? Not completely, but she sure did reduce the amount. She parented.
Ah, but you say your son or daughter will not trust you if you don't let them go and do whatever it is that teens do?? Do you really not remember what it was like to be a teen? Do you not remember at all that feeling that you were invincible; that you were young and alive, and always would be? I do. I remember the risky behavior I participated in, and that horrible feeling in the pit of my stomach when I realized--not once, but twice--that I may have totally screwed up the rest of my life this time. Not my reputation, or my college opportunities, but seriously my entire future. All for a little bit of fun. Maybe 3 or 4 hours at a time.
Teenagers are stupid and reckless. They are designed that way. They are also designed, in theory, with a fail safe switch called "parents." Not friends. Friends are the people who encourage teens to do things that may or may not be good choices. Friends are there for fun, for listening when teens complain about their parents, teachers and grades, for reflecting, or rather, mirroring. Teenage years are the second set of Monkey See, Monkey Do years. Parenting requires that you guide your children to adulthood, not to mostly adulthood. Teenagers are not adults. I really don't care how "intelligent" they are, or how "responsible" and "trustworthy," there are times when they will falter. Remember those binge drinkers? They started somewhere, sometime. Where were you?
Sure, it's easy to look at your kids' friends and pick out the ones you think are the troublemakers, the partiers, the ringleaders, but who are those kids' parents picking out for each category? Are you being realistic? Objective? Do you want to be? Heck, no, I don't! I want to believe that my kid will always stick to his guns, always do what I expect from him, and will always make me proud. Unfortunately for me (and for my kids) I'm a bit more of a realist than that. So, I'm following another route. Beginning today, I'm checking on my kids more. Yes, that's right, I may show up at your house if any of my kids told me he would be there, or I might call your land line and expect to speak to him. They already know that they're supposed to call me when they goes somewhere, change locations or plans, or if they need assistance of any kind. Unfortunately, when push comes to shove, my kid is not likely to call unless he's alone.
It seems you, in your delusion of your kid being so trustworthy and responsible, do not require these calls from your kid. You believe, or kid yourself, that because your kid has a cell phone, you know where he or she is at all times. That a text is just as good as a phone call--or even better, because then friends don't know it's you! Did you never lie to your parents? Ever?? Don't you think, isn't it possible, that a cell phone might just make it a little bit easier to lie, or at the very least, hide the truth a little? Especially through text.
Don't get me wrong: a cell phone is a great tool in the fight against teenage stupidity, but it is an extra-sharp double-edged sword. And can only be used properly with training and practice. And I also know from my own experience that there is a delicate balance between too much and too little. But I also know that in the end, a little more is appreciated far more than a little less. One of my friends recently told me about taking her son's car. He was out an hour past curfew, with no call (from his cell phone or any other phone), so she and her husband went and got his car. Not him, just his car. Half an hour later, he called, frantic at first, and later angry, and didn't speak to them for two whole days, but he has since told them that "nothing good happens after 11." Pure genius.
I know what you are thinking now, "You don't trust your own kids!" Damn straight. I'm working on giving them opportunities to earn trust. I'm not just giving it away. Are you kidding? It's worth too much! Until it actually happens that my kid calls me from a party and says, "Come get me" instead of telling me afterward that he probably should have, or thought about it, there's no reason to give him a blank check of trust. I love them all too much for that. And I respect them all too much for that, too. Bottom line, I'm not here to befriend them. I enjoy their company, their stories, their friends (even the ones I really think are not the best ones to be hanging around with), and I like them at least as much as I love them, but I have a job to do.
Realizing that my kids will make stupid decisions does not mean that they are excused when they do--or when I find out because they've been caught. It just keeps me from being blindsided. It's much easier to come out standing that way. Take your head out of the sand, stop being so naive, and get on top of your kid so I can stay on mine. That whole "takes a village" concept goes way beyond pre-school carpools.
Sincerely,
Maybe My Kid
Dear Parent of "Not My Kid,"
I would say that it's nice to meet you, but, honestly, you just make me shake my head after we part company. There are too many of you out there for me to truly believe that your kid exists. If every single one of you has that kid, why are there so many teenagers who die in alcohol-related accidents each year? According to the MADD website, one in five teens binge drinks. That's 1 in 5. In my son's graduating class of 112 students, about 22 kids; and in my sophomore son's class of 123, about 25. In the entire high school, 85 kids, statistically speaking, are binge drinking. From the numbers, you can see that is almost an entire grade level at our little school in our small, "close-knit" community. MADD also points out that only one in 100 parents believes that their child binge drinks. From my experience with you and your adamant "Not MY Kid" attitude, I would have to say that sounds about right. Is there anyone in our town who thinks their kid might be drinking at all, let alone excessively? I suspect my kid, and after the stories I've heard lately, you can bet your bottom dollar I'll be making some changes.
Recently, I heard a mom talking about how she checked up on her kid. He had a cell phone, but she always instructed him to call her the old fashioned way, from a land line, when he got where he was going, and when he protested that some of his friends didn't have a land line at their house, she told him to call from the parent's cell phone. Ingenious! Foolproof? No. When, for whatever reason, it wasn't feasible, she would stop by on her way somewhere else, just to say she was passing by--but not every time. And, on occasion, she would call a parent out of the blue to thank them for their hospitality, generosity, etc. There were times when backpedalling was necessary for any of the parties involved. Not every friend, obviously, lives on the way to somewhere reasonable, but just how much arguing can a kid do? Did her kid stay out of trouble? Not completely, but she sure did reduce the amount. She parented.
Ah, but you say your son or daughter will not trust you if you don't let them go and do whatever it is that teens do?? Do you really not remember what it was like to be a teen? Do you not remember at all that feeling that you were invincible; that you were young and alive, and always would be? I do. I remember the risky behavior I participated in, and that horrible feeling in the pit of my stomach when I realized--not once, but twice--that I may have totally screwed up the rest of my life this time. Not my reputation, or my college opportunities, but seriously my entire future. All for a little bit of fun. Maybe 3 or 4 hours at a time.
Teenagers are stupid and reckless. They are designed that way. They are also designed, in theory, with a fail safe switch called "parents." Not friends. Friends are the people who encourage teens to do things that may or may not be good choices. Friends are there for fun, for listening when teens complain about their parents, teachers and grades, for reflecting, or rather, mirroring. Teenage years are the second set of Monkey See, Monkey Do years. Parenting requires that you guide your children to adulthood, not to mostly adulthood. Teenagers are not adults. I really don't care how "intelligent" they are, or how "responsible" and "trustworthy," there are times when they will falter. Remember those binge drinkers? They started somewhere, sometime. Where were you?
Sure, it's easy to look at your kids' friends and pick out the ones you think are the troublemakers, the partiers, the ringleaders, but who are those kids' parents picking out for each category? Are you being realistic? Objective? Do you want to be? Heck, no, I don't! I want to believe that my kid will always stick to his guns, always do what I expect from him, and will always make me proud. Unfortunately for me (and for my kids) I'm a bit more of a realist than that. So, I'm following another route. Beginning today, I'm checking on my kids more. Yes, that's right, I may show up at your house if any of my kids told me he would be there, or I might call your land line and expect to speak to him. They already know that they're supposed to call me when they goes somewhere, change locations or plans, or if they need assistance of any kind. Unfortunately, when push comes to shove, my kid is not likely to call unless he's alone.
It seems you, in your delusion of your kid being so trustworthy and responsible, do not require these calls from your kid. You believe, or kid yourself, that because your kid has a cell phone, you know where he or she is at all times. That a text is just as good as a phone call--or even better, because then friends don't know it's you! Did you never lie to your parents? Ever?? Don't you think, isn't it possible, that a cell phone might just make it a little bit easier to lie, or at the very least, hide the truth a little? Especially through text.
Don't get me wrong: a cell phone is a great tool in the fight against teenage stupidity, but it is an extra-sharp double-edged sword. And can only be used properly with training and practice. And I also know from my own experience that there is a delicate balance between too much and too little. But I also know that in the end, a little more is appreciated far more than a little less. One of my friends recently told me about taking her son's car. He was out an hour past curfew, with no call (from his cell phone or any other phone), so she and her husband went and got his car. Not him, just his car. Half an hour later, he called, frantic at first, and later angry, and didn't speak to them for two whole days, but he has since told them that "nothing good happens after 11." Pure genius.
I know what you are thinking now, "You don't trust your own kids!" Damn straight. I'm working on giving them opportunities to earn trust. I'm not just giving it away. Are you kidding? It's worth too much! Until it actually happens that my kid calls me from a party and says, "Come get me" instead of telling me afterward that he probably should have, or thought about it, there's no reason to give him a blank check of trust. I love them all too much for that. And I respect them all too much for that, too. Bottom line, I'm not here to befriend them. I enjoy their company, their stories, their friends (even the ones I really think are not the best ones to be hanging around with), and I like them at least as much as I love them, but I have a job to do.
Realizing that my kids will make stupid decisions does not mean that they are excused when they do--or when I find out because they've been caught. It just keeps me from being blindsided. It's much easier to come out standing that way. Take your head out of the sand, stop being so naive, and get on top of your kid so I can stay on mine. That whole "takes a village" concept goes way beyond pre-school carpools.
Sincerely,
Maybe My Kid
Sunday, October 30, 2011
what you've heard really is true
I have very few regrets in my life, and, fortunately, the ones I do have are more related to opportunities I've passed up rather than things I have done that I shouldn't have. Still, there are lessons I've learned, and truths that have been revealed along the way. Nobody wants to hear anyone say, "some day you'll understand," but if I could write a letter to my younger self....
Dear Teenage Me,
There are so many things you need to know about yourself--far more than you think you already know. You will change. Your life will change, and life will change you, and there is no way to know which is affecting which more, or what the end result will be. That much you know, although the extent is unknown to all but the Spirit you most believe in.
For now, be true to yourself. I know you think "fitting in" is all-important, but I've come to realize that everyone else in the room has the same goal. None of your friends has cornered the market on what is "cool" or "fresh" or "legit" or whatever it is you and your friends call it. Neither has the media. Your parents may seem old-fashioned--and in some ways they are, to be sure!--but they did live through the same pressures that you did. Really, they did. Absolutely, "things were different then," but that doesn't change the fact that every adolescent has had to deal with severe and difficult peer pressure. Not many people make it through High School without some kind of story to tell, and even fewer would say that they would do it all exactly the same way, given the choice. Or that they would want the same experience for the children in their lives. Unfortunately, in an effort to forget the pain and difficulties of being a teenager, far too many adults say, "You don't know how easy you have it." But instead of tuning them out, or getting annoyed with them, ask questions. And drop the attitude when you ask; listen for a real answer, and if you don't get one, ask again.
As adults, we don't really like to be questioned. We'll try to brush off the questions; to give you easy answers that don't really tell you anything. Ask anyway.
Don't ask questions that you don't really want the answers to. Ask what will help you. Ask how we dealt with peer pressure, with bullying, with breakups and first love. Ask if the risks were worth it; how they might have changed our lives, our ideas about ourselves, our parenting now. And listen carefully to how we feel about reputations back then--whether it still matters what those friends thought of us at the time.
Be true to yourself. You may think that you are, because you are doing what you want to do instead of what your parents want you to do, but are you really? How important is it, really, to do what someone else is doing? To wear what someone else is, to act like someone else? Does it really make that person your friend? As a little kid, the game of Follow the Leader is fun and silly, but as a teenager, it can become confusing, frightening, and downright dangerous. Don't always follow. I've learned that wearing and doing what I like has led to people saying that I have "a great sense of style," even on the days when I am just wearing sweats and a t-shirt. Dressing like the fashion magazines, pop stars, or the popular kids at school just adds up to a uniform. Trust me on that.Yes, it's fun to have new clothes and to be fashionable, but only if it is both flattering and comfortable to do so, otherwise, you might as well be a lemming.
And don't risk your own self for the sake of what someone will think of you. If he breaks up with you because you won't have sex, he'd just have broken your heart some other way, but at least he won't have taken a piece of your being with you. If she teases you for being a sentimental boy, she may not be comfortable enough with her own feelings to allow you yours. Is that worth your heart? If others' behavior is risky, obscene, or just plain idiotic, they are not strong enough themselves to be someone to emulate. Those who respect themselves are the ones who people remember and respect the most in the long run.
You will be told, "Everyone is...." You will tell your parents, "Everyone is....." When you say it to your parents, you know it's a lie; therefore, you should probably consider that when you hear it, too. That's the hard part. I mean it, that is the hardest part.
The things you do to try to fit in, and that can only be explained with that reason, are usually the things that will get you into trouble. End of story. Those who are at the top of that food chain don't even really want to get to know the real you. Spend more time worrying about how you want to be remembered later than about what will be said tonight. Remember that no matter how big or small your school/neighborhood/town might be, it really is tiny, and news about regrettable acts travels far faster than that of strength and character.
Strive to be YOU. And remember that your kids will ask you questions, too. Live the way you want to answer them. Yes, you will make mistakes, and you will do things that don't fit your own view of yourself. Best to admit them, face them, and allow the people who truly have your best interests at heart to help you sort through them. That's not likely to be anyone in that crowd who was with you at the time. No, it's more likely to be your parents, a teacher, an adult you trust--someone who's been there and has had time to reflect.
You probably stopped reading a long time ago. I remember feeling preached to, and zoning out and ignoring any advice from adults. I hope, if that's the case, with all my heart, that you make better choices than your peers. That you become a leader, or even a lone wolf, because you believe in yourself.
Because I believe in you.
I really do.
And I'm here for you.
Warmly,
Me
Dear Teenage Me,
There are so many things you need to know about yourself--far more than you think you already know. You will change. Your life will change, and life will change you, and there is no way to know which is affecting which more, or what the end result will be. That much you know, although the extent is unknown to all but the Spirit you most believe in.
For now, be true to yourself. I know you think "fitting in" is all-important, but I've come to realize that everyone else in the room has the same goal. None of your friends has cornered the market on what is "cool" or "fresh" or "legit" or whatever it is you and your friends call it. Neither has the media. Your parents may seem old-fashioned--and in some ways they are, to be sure!--but they did live through the same pressures that you did. Really, they did. Absolutely, "things were different then," but that doesn't change the fact that every adolescent has had to deal with severe and difficult peer pressure. Not many people make it through High School without some kind of story to tell, and even fewer would say that they would do it all exactly the same way, given the choice. Or that they would want the same experience for the children in their lives. Unfortunately, in an effort to forget the pain and difficulties of being a teenager, far too many adults say, "You don't know how easy you have it." But instead of tuning them out, or getting annoyed with them, ask questions. And drop the attitude when you ask; listen for a real answer, and if you don't get one, ask again.
As adults, we don't really like to be questioned. We'll try to brush off the questions; to give you easy answers that don't really tell you anything. Ask anyway.
Don't ask questions that you don't really want the answers to. Ask what will help you. Ask how we dealt with peer pressure, with bullying, with breakups and first love. Ask if the risks were worth it; how they might have changed our lives, our ideas about ourselves, our parenting now. And listen carefully to how we feel about reputations back then--whether it still matters what those friends thought of us at the time.
Be true to yourself. You may think that you are, because you are doing what you want to do instead of what your parents want you to do, but are you really? How important is it, really, to do what someone else is doing? To wear what someone else is, to act like someone else? Does it really make that person your friend? As a little kid, the game of Follow the Leader is fun and silly, but as a teenager, it can become confusing, frightening, and downright dangerous. Don't always follow. I've learned that wearing and doing what I like has led to people saying that I have "a great sense of style," even on the days when I am just wearing sweats and a t-shirt. Dressing like the fashion magazines, pop stars, or the popular kids at school just adds up to a uniform. Trust me on that.Yes, it's fun to have new clothes and to be fashionable, but only if it is both flattering and comfortable to do so, otherwise, you might as well be a lemming.
And don't risk your own self for the sake of what someone will think of you. If he breaks up with you because you won't have sex, he'd just have broken your heart some other way, but at least he won't have taken a piece of your being with you. If she teases you for being a sentimental boy, she may not be comfortable enough with her own feelings to allow you yours. Is that worth your heart? If others' behavior is risky, obscene, or just plain idiotic, they are not strong enough themselves to be someone to emulate. Those who respect themselves are the ones who people remember and respect the most in the long run.
You will be told, "Everyone is...." You will tell your parents, "Everyone is....." When you say it to your parents, you know it's a lie; therefore, you should probably consider that when you hear it, too. That's the hard part. I mean it, that is the hardest part.
The things you do to try to fit in, and that can only be explained with that reason, are usually the things that will get you into trouble. End of story. Those who are at the top of that food chain don't even really want to get to know the real you. Spend more time worrying about how you want to be remembered later than about what will be said tonight. Remember that no matter how big or small your school/neighborhood/town might be, it really is tiny, and news about regrettable acts travels far faster than that of strength and character.
Strive to be YOU. And remember that your kids will ask you questions, too. Live the way you want to answer them. Yes, you will make mistakes, and you will do things that don't fit your own view of yourself. Best to admit them, face them, and allow the people who truly have your best interests at heart to help you sort through them. That's not likely to be anyone in that crowd who was with you at the time. No, it's more likely to be your parents, a teacher, an adult you trust--someone who's been there and has had time to reflect.
You probably stopped reading a long time ago. I remember feeling preached to, and zoning out and ignoring any advice from adults. I hope, if that's the case, with all my heart, that you make better choices than your peers. That you become a leader, or even a lone wolf, because you believe in yourself.
Because I believe in you.
I really do.
And I'm here for you.
Warmly,
Me
Wednesday, October 26, 2011
reading, writing and running around
Sometimes we know the impact we have on another person, and sometimes we don't. Frequently, we hope that we might have an impact, or that we might even be remembered.
I am blessed to be able to facilitate a reading program at school wherein the Junior and Senior football players visit elementary classrooms to read, answer questions, and generally visit with the younger students. There are many intentions of the program, ranging from public speaking experience and team building, to mentoring and volunteerism. As I watch these huge guys sit in rocking chairs and on stools to read rhyming stories and other picture books, I am impressed and amazed at their natural air with the kids. Some reluctant readers have been the best presenters--they practice reading their stories, and even practice their reactions to the pictures or the words. All the players remember the basics of making eye contact and projecting, some of which they learned from the very teachers whose classrooms they are now visiting.
But what I didn't quite expect is the wondrous reaction of the youngsters. Their eyes get wide when they see the size of the boys walking in the door, and their excitement sometimes keeps them from sitting still and waiting their turn to ask questions. At first, the players and I were amused by the questions, ranging from "What's your favorite color?" to "How heavy are the pads you have to wear?" Now, we know what to expect, to a certain extent--first and second graders will probably ask about colors, food, and "Do you know my brother/sister/neighbor/babysitter?" while third through fifth graders start to ask about scoring, positions, and "Do you know my brother/sister/neighbor/babysitter?" What I really didn't expect is how dramatically the kids have all changed.
The big kids are clearly more sure of themselves with kids than they were at the beginning, or at least more comfortable in a classroom setting. They are leading more, anticipating some of the questions and answering in a way that makes the younger kids feel important in asking, and even analyzing the experience afterwards--though I'm not positive they realize that's what they are doing. The little kids are, interestingly, becoming more awestruck each week. I had thought that by the end of the season, they would feel like the visits would be old hat, just one more thing to expect each week, like art, library and gym; but the opposite has happened.
Usually, we head out during study halls and lunch on Friday afternoon; the players in their jerseys, and thinking about the game that night. This week, however, there is no school on game day, so the boys have been reading all week. In and out of the schools, I've heard many comments about the program, mostly involving an excited kid talking about the football player who visited his or her classroom. Today, though, I had to work, and two other football moms accompanied our two readers to their classrooms. And that's how I came to realize just how deep this whole thing goes.
In one classroom, the book was about a little old lady who decides she is not too old to play in the football game, so she gets herself to the field, gets suited up, and plays. After the story was over, as is typical, the players ask the class if they have any questions, about the story or anything else. A little girl, an immigrant from Egypt, asked what a football is. After some difficulty in understanding the question, and some assistance in answering in terms she could understand, he managed to help her learn not only what a football is, but what a "granny" is, too. The little girl proceeded to ask the reader to sign her bookmark. I was moved to tears when I heard.
And that's not all: the school nurse had to send a boy home sick yesterday. As he left, she told us he said, "I have to go home sick, and we're having a famous football player come read to us." A high school teacher emailed me one day to relate what she saw after a reading day: a little girl being picked up from school saw her reader walking down the sidewalk and ran up to him to give him a hug and meet her mommy--three huge grins! And impromptu autograph session after reading one day--kids asking their teacher if they can get their shirts signed, and having to be required to stick to paper products! At the Homecoming pep rally at the elementary school, nearly all the kids calling players by name to come sit by them. The Superintendent stopping in and saying that he thinks the team's good season could really be attributed in part to the boys' reading: "focusing on what's important before every game." Teachers telling me that the kids have been asking for an autograph session with the team, and asking first thing Monday morning to see the pictures they know I have sent over the weekend. The class that wrote thank you notes to their reader, bringing the lesson full circle.
When I first heard Coach talk about this reading program, it brought tears to my eyes and tugged at my heart. Everything he said about it was something I could get behind, something I truly believed in. I volunteered to help with it since he works in another District, and, being new to the team, didn't have the contacts to make it fly. I struggled with it a bit at the beginning, but now I know for sure that I will miss it terribly when the games, and therefore the reading days, are over. The teachers and the winter sports teams are interested in keeping it going, and I'll be happy to pass the torch, although I do plan on working with the football team again next year.
Because I once was taller than all the team, I will always see them as the boys they were in addition to the men they are becoming, but I see something else now, too. There is, in the physical act of looking up to see someone, a natural admiration when there is an age difference. Now, when I look up into the faces of these players, these gentle giants, these tough guys, I see the heroes they are to a few hundred kids who want to follow in their footsteps--in the classroom, on the field, and in life.
I am blessed to be able to facilitate a reading program at school wherein the Junior and Senior football players visit elementary classrooms to read, answer questions, and generally visit with the younger students. There are many intentions of the program, ranging from public speaking experience and team building, to mentoring and volunteerism. As I watch these huge guys sit in rocking chairs and on stools to read rhyming stories and other picture books, I am impressed and amazed at their natural air with the kids. Some reluctant readers have been the best presenters--they practice reading their stories, and even practice their reactions to the pictures or the words. All the players remember the basics of making eye contact and projecting, some of which they learned from the very teachers whose classrooms they are now visiting.
But what I didn't quite expect is the wondrous reaction of the youngsters. Their eyes get wide when they see the size of the boys walking in the door, and their excitement sometimes keeps them from sitting still and waiting their turn to ask questions. At first, the players and I were amused by the questions, ranging from "What's your favorite color?" to "How heavy are the pads you have to wear?" Now, we know what to expect, to a certain extent--first and second graders will probably ask about colors, food, and "Do you know my brother/sister/neighbor/babysitter?" while third through fifth graders start to ask about scoring, positions, and "Do you know my brother/sister/neighbor/babysitter?" What I really didn't expect is how dramatically the kids have all changed.
The big kids are clearly more sure of themselves with kids than they were at the beginning, or at least more comfortable in a classroom setting. They are leading more, anticipating some of the questions and answering in a way that makes the younger kids feel important in asking, and even analyzing the experience afterwards--though I'm not positive they realize that's what they are doing. The little kids are, interestingly, becoming more awestruck each week. I had thought that by the end of the season, they would feel like the visits would be old hat, just one more thing to expect each week, like art, library and gym; but the opposite has happened.
Usually, we head out during study halls and lunch on Friday afternoon; the players in their jerseys, and thinking about the game that night. This week, however, there is no school on game day, so the boys have been reading all week. In and out of the schools, I've heard many comments about the program, mostly involving an excited kid talking about the football player who visited his or her classroom. Today, though, I had to work, and two other football moms accompanied our two readers to their classrooms. And that's how I came to realize just how deep this whole thing goes.
In one classroom, the book was about a little old lady who decides she is not too old to play in the football game, so she gets herself to the field, gets suited up, and plays. After the story was over, as is typical, the players ask the class if they have any questions, about the story or anything else. A little girl, an immigrant from Egypt, asked what a football is. After some difficulty in understanding the question, and some assistance in answering in terms she could understand, he managed to help her learn not only what a football is, but what a "granny" is, too. The little girl proceeded to ask the reader to sign her bookmark. I was moved to tears when I heard.
And that's not all: the school nurse had to send a boy home sick yesterday. As he left, she told us he said, "I have to go home sick, and we're having a famous football player come read to us." A high school teacher emailed me one day to relate what she saw after a reading day: a little girl being picked up from school saw her reader walking down the sidewalk and ran up to him to give him a hug and meet her mommy--three huge grins! And impromptu autograph session after reading one day--kids asking their teacher if they can get their shirts signed, and having to be required to stick to paper products! At the Homecoming pep rally at the elementary school, nearly all the kids calling players by name to come sit by them. The Superintendent stopping in and saying that he thinks the team's good season could really be attributed in part to the boys' reading: "focusing on what's important before every game." Teachers telling me that the kids have been asking for an autograph session with the team, and asking first thing Monday morning to see the pictures they know I have sent over the weekend. The class that wrote thank you notes to their reader, bringing the lesson full circle.
When I first heard Coach talk about this reading program, it brought tears to my eyes and tugged at my heart. Everything he said about it was something I could get behind, something I truly believed in. I volunteered to help with it since he works in another District, and, being new to the team, didn't have the contacts to make it fly. I struggled with it a bit at the beginning, but now I know for sure that I will miss it terribly when the games, and therefore the reading days, are over. The teachers and the winter sports teams are interested in keeping it going, and I'll be happy to pass the torch, although I do plan on working with the football team again next year.
Because I once was taller than all the team, I will always see them as the boys they were in addition to the men they are becoming, but I see something else now, too. There is, in the physical act of looking up to see someone, a natural admiration when there is an age difference. Now, when I look up into the faces of these players, these gentle giants, these tough guys, I see the heroes they are to a few hundred kids who want to follow in their footsteps--in the classroom, on the field, and in life.
Thursday, October 20, 2011
it all comes back
Watching my boys (which includes Guy) as they participate in their various activities is one of the joys of my life. The sidelines are a great place for me to be: I can see what's going on, gauge my own level of participation to my a) understanding of the event, and b) to my desire to be noticed or not. I can choose whether to cheer out loud, or just within myself, and oftentimes I do both at the same event. It matters little whether the event is sports- or school-related, team or individual; I like to see my boys doing what they do, and the associated reactions and interactions.
There are times, however, when watching brings back memories that I hope my children never have. Yesterday, at Drew's soccer game, I was suddenly struck with the realization of why I didn't do team sports. Sure, there are the "reasons" that I was given when I would ask about playing softball, but in all honesty, when I was told the schedule didn't fit the family's schedule, or Mom was 'against' team sports, I was secretly relieved.
You see, I was on a kickball team when I was a kid, and it was one of the worst experiences of my life. Oh, I tried to love it! I packed my shorts, shirt and sneakers in my bag every week for practice, and I walked with the team from our school over to the public school where we would practice, and I would run the laps for warm-up, but inside, I was terrified. First of all, my bag for my gear was a plastic shopping bag from Izard's department store--a very cool bag, to be sure, as it was covered with this patchwork of 'newspaper' clippings and ads, and it was in the days when it was pretty unusual to have a plastic shopping bag, but it was really not the best device for carrying gym clothes. It didn't take long for the bag, my shoes and my kickball clothes to permanently develop the scent of Frito's. No one ever said a thing, so I have no idea if anyone ever even noticed, but I sure did.
Truly, that was the least of my worries. I was a dancer. A dancer dances. A dancer does not stand behind home base in a "ready position" and catch a kickball, all the while saying, "Come on, come on, we can do this." And a dancer certainly doesn't stand at first base and get hit in the stomach and chest by a line drive kick, and actually hold on to the ball! (The latter fact one that our coach picked up on rather quickly.) Oddly enough, a dancer can quite easily manage to kick the ball backwards, on the floor, toward the opposing team's catcher. Pretty consistently, too, I might add. I worried that our uniform shirts, which came from the Champion outlet, were not as nifty as the other teams' shirts, and that my shorts, which came from the irregular bin in the same outlet (the tag was missing), might not match everyone else's--or worse, were backwards (remember, no tag!) and would not stay up where they were supposed to. And we had to wear tube socks. I have never been a fan of the tube sock, and I think that is probably also related to kickball.
Anyway, back to Drew's game. As I watched, I could see how they have improved over the course of the season. They were communicating with each other quite a bit--telling each other to cover this side, take it to the corner, get away from the center--and passing to each other in the mid-field. Just as I was thinking that they were showing some nice teamwork, one of the boys clearly started to hog the ball. And that's when it hit me. Some kids are just going to take the spotlight, no matter what. This kid reminds me, in so very many ways, of one of the players on my kickball team. She was also in my class. I think she might have been the pitcher--and she was, still is, in some ways, my tormentor.
She was bigger than me, and she was meaner than me, and it turns out, when I talk to our classmates, she left everyone with memories somewhere between uncomfortable and downright painful. She took my friends from time to time, but really took my self-image. Before I started dancing in second grade, I was a chubby little thing ("little"--HA! I was not little at all. As tall as most of the boys...), but for years--until 5th grade? 6th?--she would taunt me about being fat. I wore hand-me-downs (except for what I got at Champion), and I heard about that all the time. I was from a family of 6 kids, and so she told me I must be poor, and that's why we lived in the country. And when I didn't kick the home run I was so obviously big enough to kick, I never lived it down.
I remember standing at the door, waiting for the bus, and telling Mom I never wanted to go to school again. That this girl was making me miserable, and that she was probably right about all the things she'd said about me. Mom's response was, "She's just jealous." (Her standard response, along with, "If you miss the bus, you're walking to school.") When I asked what she could possibly be jealous of (remember: fat, clumsy, friendless, poor, and therefore stupid), she simply repeated herself. Oddly, she did not tell me none of it was true. I went to school. I survived. I found a friend or two who would not be swayed--or would no longer be swayed--and I started to write poetry and a book. Boys started to think I was funny and fun to be around, but since we'd spent every day together from the time we were in first grade, they didn't "like" me, so even though the actual comments stopped, in my head, I still heard them all.
In 7th and 8th grades, I began to have some confidence in my intelligence, mostly due to my writing style, and because I had both boys and girls as friends, I also began to feel less alone (although not necessarily less lonely--I still struggle with that at times) and less concerned about Champion shirts, since I only wore them for gym class anyway. But it took years for me to understand that I was anywhere near healthy. I clearly remember the day in high school, walking to the library from school, and having to walk past her house in town to get there, when I realized that all that time, she was fatter than me by a long shot. (She also was from a rather large family--at least 6 kids.) Yet, I still struggle with my self-image.
Not all ball hogs are like that. Some hog the ball because they don't know any better, and some just look like they are hogging it, but in reality, everyone is giving it to them; probably because they have a real talent or knack. Some sports require one or two members of the team to handle the ball more than anyone else, and in those cases, there may be either showboating or a graceful generosity that sets a player apart. I have trouble watching team sports when true teamwork is not apparent. I get uncomfortable, solely due to my own experiences. Myopic, I know, since it was one team, a very long time ago, but it was an experience that stunted a part of me, I now understand.
In the soccer game of life, I am one of the ball boys, but only if it's my turn. I have little desire to be in the middle of the field. I want to see what's going on, help out where I can, but hide my insecurities, my inabilities, my fears about belonging and fitting in. Inside, I am both strong and fragile, and not always wise enough to protect myself. Seeing my boys with their respective teammates fills me with hope that their experiences are better than mine; that they are being built up, rather than torn apart. And that through their experience, there will be strength of mind, body and spirit.
And I hope they know that as I watch them from the sidelines, my sometimes silence is due to my respect and admiration for who they are, what they have accomplished, and where they are headed.
Go Team Tanguay!
There are times, however, when watching brings back memories that I hope my children never have. Yesterday, at Drew's soccer game, I was suddenly struck with the realization of why I didn't do team sports. Sure, there are the "reasons" that I was given when I would ask about playing softball, but in all honesty, when I was told the schedule didn't fit the family's schedule, or Mom was 'against' team sports, I was secretly relieved.
You see, I was on a kickball team when I was a kid, and it was one of the worst experiences of my life. Oh, I tried to love it! I packed my shorts, shirt and sneakers in my bag every week for practice, and I walked with the team from our school over to the public school where we would practice, and I would run the laps for warm-up, but inside, I was terrified. First of all, my bag for my gear was a plastic shopping bag from Izard's department store--a very cool bag, to be sure, as it was covered with this patchwork of 'newspaper' clippings and ads, and it was in the days when it was pretty unusual to have a plastic shopping bag, but it was really not the best device for carrying gym clothes. It didn't take long for the bag, my shoes and my kickball clothes to permanently develop the scent of Frito's. No one ever said a thing, so I have no idea if anyone ever even noticed, but I sure did.
Truly, that was the least of my worries. I was a dancer. A dancer dances. A dancer does not stand behind home base in a "ready position" and catch a kickball, all the while saying, "Come on, come on, we can do this." And a dancer certainly doesn't stand at first base and get hit in the stomach and chest by a line drive kick, and actually hold on to the ball! (The latter fact one that our coach picked up on rather quickly.) Oddly enough, a dancer can quite easily manage to kick the ball backwards, on the floor, toward the opposing team's catcher. Pretty consistently, too, I might add. I worried that our uniform shirts, which came from the Champion outlet, were not as nifty as the other teams' shirts, and that my shorts, which came from the irregular bin in the same outlet (the tag was missing), might not match everyone else's--or worse, were backwards (remember, no tag!) and would not stay up where they were supposed to. And we had to wear tube socks. I have never been a fan of the tube sock, and I think that is probably also related to kickball.
Anyway, back to Drew's game. As I watched, I could see how they have improved over the course of the season. They were communicating with each other quite a bit--telling each other to cover this side, take it to the corner, get away from the center--and passing to each other in the mid-field. Just as I was thinking that they were showing some nice teamwork, one of the boys clearly started to hog the ball. And that's when it hit me. Some kids are just going to take the spotlight, no matter what. This kid reminds me, in so very many ways, of one of the players on my kickball team. She was also in my class. I think she might have been the pitcher--and she was, still is, in some ways, my tormentor.
She was bigger than me, and she was meaner than me, and it turns out, when I talk to our classmates, she left everyone with memories somewhere between uncomfortable and downright painful. She took my friends from time to time, but really took my self-image. Before I started dancing in second grade, I was a chubby little thing ("little"--HA! I was not little at all. As tall as most of the boys...), but for years--until 5th grade? 6th?--she would taunt me about being fat. I wore hand-me-downs (except for what I got at Champion), and I heard about that all the time. I was from a family of 6 kids, and so she told me I must be poor, and that's why we lived in the country. And when I didn't kick the home run I was so obviously big enough to kick, I never lived it down.
I remember standing at the door, waiting for the bus, and telling Mom I never wanted to go to school again. That this girl was making me miserable, and that she was probably right about all the things she'd said about me. Mom's response was, "She's just jealous." (Her standard response, along with, "If you miss the bus, you're walking to school.") When I asked what she could possibly be jealous of (remember: fat, clumsy, friendless, poor, and therefore stupid), she simply repeated herself. Oddly, she did not tell me none of it was true. I went to school. I survived. I found a friend or two who would not be swayed--or would no longer be swayed--and I started to write poetry and a book. Boys started to think I was funny and fun to be around, but since we'd spent every day together from the time we were in first grade, they didn't "like" me, so even though the actual comments stopped, in my head, I still heard them all.
In 7th and 8th grades, I began to have some confidence in my intelligence, mostly due to my writing style, and because I had both boys and girls as friends, I also began to feel less alone (although not necessarily less lonely--I still struggle with that at times) and less concerned about Champion shirts, since I only wore them for gym class anyway. But it took years for me to understand that I was anywhere near healthy. I clearly remember the day in high school, walking to the library from school, and having to walk past her house in town to get there, when I realized that all that time, she was fatter than me by a long shot. (She also was from a rather large family--at least 6 kids.) Yet, I still struggle with my self-image.
Not all ball hogs are like that. Some hog the ball because they don't know any better, and some just look like they are hogging it, but in reality, everyone is giving it to them; probably because they have a real talent or knack. Some sports require one or two members of the team to handle the ball more than anyone else, and in those cases, there may be either showboating or a graceful generosity that sets a player apart. I have trouble watching team sports when true teamwork is not apparent. I get uncomfortable, solely due to my own experiences. Myopic, I know, since it was one team, a very long time ago, but it was an experience that stunted a part of me, I now understand.
In the soccer game of life, I am one of the ball boys, but only if it's my turn. I have little desire to be in the middle of the field. I want to see what's going on, help out where I can, but hide my insecurities, my inabilities, my fears about belonging and fitting in. Inside, I am both strong and fragile, and not always wise enough to protect myself. Seeing my boys with their respective teammates fills me with hope that their experiences are better than mine; that they are being built up, rather than torn apart. And that through their experience, there will be strength of mind, body and spirit.
And I hope they know that as I watch them from the sidelines, my sometimes silence is due to my respect and admiration for who they are, what they have accomplished, and where they are headed.
Go Team Tanguay!
Thursday, October 13, 2011
letters, words, memories....
Dear Dad,
I miss you lately. Some days I miss you more than others, but most "miss you" days lately are comforting rather than difficult. I'm sure you know how busy and crazy life is with football, soccer and swim team, let alone the rest of everything (like eating!), and there are times when I can see you snickering and shaking your head at the comings and goings. Makes me smile way deep down when I think of it.
There are still times, though, when the comforting feeling is accompanied by hot tears, and, quite honestly, I feel confused. Those are the times when I wish. The wishes are always different, because the occasions are always different. These days, the tears are related to those one-armed hugs. I can feel them, and I miss them all at the same time. Usually, when I get to see Andy or Mike, I can manage to get one from them, but it's just not the same. When I feel you there beside me, reaching your left arm around me in a quick squeeze, I can hear you saying just what I need to hear, "You done good, kid."
I'm so glad to have Guy and the boys everyday. I see and hear you in them in so many ways, so many little things that make my heart dance. I probably shouldn't keep those reminders to myself, the way I do. I know it would comfort them to know that you are there--a lasting part of each of them, but the moments pass so quickly, and I lose the 'how' to say it. Funny, huh? Me, at a loss for words.
You were, and still are, the best Dad I ever had. :) I love that I can say that, and when I do, I can hear, in a huge rush, all the variations of that I ever heard you say to anyone you loved, including the "secret" ones! I also hear you say it now, to others you never got to meet, but who have come into our lives. I love that you are the only one ever to call me "Stephania," and I miss the way you would hold your toe when you crossed your ankle over your knee.
I miss our pajama-clad coffee talks, and seeing you try to find the right tools and materials to fix things here. I miss hearing you say, "Dog!" when Twilight would nudge you, and I wonder what you would have thought of Rusty, who Henry refers to as "Dope," making me hear you in his voice. When Jonathan reads to elementary students, I see a vignette of you reading to Celeste and me, thinking you were tricking us out of watching TV. Drew leans back in your chair and reads as if he doesn't even notice that the spring has been shot for probably 45 years. Who does that remind you of? Joseph misses you so very much. He really wanted more time with you. I still read to Joseph and Drew, and I promise, next time we snuggle up together, to tell him about you reading to us. It's been a while since I told them about that.
The greatest gift, though, is the blessings you bestowed on Guy and me together. I admire, still, the easy way you had with each other. The banter, the jokes, the serious times. The way you hugged each other with your whole beings, as if you'd known each other forever. I miss seeing you clap him on the shoulder, and the way you'd both make "man hug" noises. He and Mike share that, and I can't wait to see it again.
Thank you for watching over us, and for being on the other side of that beautiful star that is the first one I see in the sky. Thank you for blessing me with your sense of humor (even though it gets me in trouble sometimes--or maybe because it gets me in trouble sometimes!). And thank you for believing in me when it was right, and questioning me when I needed to be questioned. Know that you, like all those I love, are always in my heart and on my mind. Thank you for always encouraging me to move forward; to look ahead, not back, unless there was a lesson to be remembered. Most of all, thank you for being a part of the spiral that is life.
I love you!
I miss you!
Love,
Stephania
I miss you lately. Some days I miss you more than others, but most "miss you" days lately are comforting rather than difficult. I'm sure you know how busy and crazy life is with football, soccer and swim team, let alone the rest of everything (like eating!), and there are times when I can see you snickering and shaking your head at the comings and goings. Makes me smile way deep down when I think of it.
There are still times, though, when the comforting feeling is accompanied by hot tears, and, quite honestly, I feel confused. Those are the times when I wish. The wishes are always different, because the occasions are always different. These days, the tears are related to those one-armed hugs. I can feel them, and I miss them all at the same time. Usually, when I get to see Andy or Mike, I can manage to get one from them, but it's just not the same. When I feel you there beside me, reaching your left arm around me in a quick squeeze, I can hear you saying just what I need to hear, "You done good, kid."
I'm so glad to have Guy and the boys everyday. I see and hear you in them in so many ways, so many little things that make my heart dance. I probably shouldn't keep those reminders to myself, the way I do. I know it would comfort them to know that you are there--a lasting part of each of them, but the moments pass so quickly, and I lose the 'how' to say it. Funny, huh? Me, at a loss for words.
You were, and still are, the best Dad I ever had. :) I love that I can say that, and when I do, I can hear, in a huge rush, all the variations of that I ever heard you say to anyone you loved, including the "secret" ones! I also hear you say it now, to others you never got to meet, but who have come into our lives. I love that you are the only one ever to call me "Stephania," and I miss the way you would hold your toe when you crossed your ankle over your knee.
I miss our pajama-clad coffee talks, and seeing you try to find the right tools and materials to fix things here. I miss hearing you say, "Dog!" when Twilight would nudge you, and I wonder what you would have thought of Rusty, who Henry refers to as "Dope," making me hear you in his voice. When Jonathan reads to elementary students, I see a vignette of you reading to Celeste and me, thinking you were tricking us out of watching TV. Drew leans back in your chair and reads as if he doesn't even notice that the spring has been shot for probably 45 years. Who does that remind you of? Joseph misses you so very much. He really wanted more time with you. I still read to Joseph and Drew, and I promise, next time we snuggle up together, to tell him about you reading to us. It's been a while since I told them about that.
The greatest gift, though, is the blessings you bestowed on Guy and me together. I admire, still, the easy way you had with each other. The banter, the jokes, the serious times. The way you hugged each other with your whole beings, as if you'd known each other forever. I miss seeing you clap him on the shoulder, and the way you'd both make "man hug" noises. He and Mike share that, and I can't wait to see it again.
Thank you for watching over us, and for being on the other side of that beautiful star that is the first one I see in the sky. Thank you for blessing me with your sense of humor (even though it gets me in trouble sometimes--or maybe because it gets me in trouble sometimes!). And thank you for believing in me when it was right, and questioning me when I needed to be questioned. Know that you, like all those I love, are always in my heart and on my mind. Thank you for always encouraging me to move forward; to look ahead, not back, unless there was a lesson to be remembered. Most of all, thank you for being a part of the spiral that is life.
I love you!
I miss you!
Love,
Stephania
Monday, October 10, 2011
a wonderous avocation
The Buddha says, "Your work is to discover your world and then with all your heart give yourself to it." I have the quote hanging on my mirror, and I've seen it every day for about a year. Yet the full meaning didn't occur to me until yoga class today.
~~this little light of mine~~
One of the differences between going to a yoga class and practicing at home on my own is the prompt to set an intention for the day's practice. At home alone, it's so easy to forget, or even purposely skip this important step in the process. Today, we were encouraged to set an intention related to something we love to do, and that we would like to make our life's work, or if we are already working at our life's dream, how we can more fully open up to the universal ability to find true happiness. As I considered this, Shani went on to encourage us to open up and search less diligently, thereby allowing that for which we search to appear before us.
~~I'm gonna let it shine~~
I love practicing yoga because there is peace and stillness inside me that I don't always recognize or honor. Some days, I'm too busy or rushed to sneak in the 20-30 minutes from Yoga Download, even though when I do fit it in, I feel like a better person. The focus on balance and breathing brings me back to my center, back to the me that I like to be. When I am centered and balanced, I can see my happiness, and it's not in 'stuff' at all. My life's work, my world, is to create. I am at peace with the possibility that I may not ever make enough money to live off of, but it is very important for me to give myself to creating.
~~this little light of mine~~
In the meditation today, we were encouraged to surround ourselves with people and circumstances that make our life's work possible. Without realizing that I was working toward this moment, I have been so surrounding myself since my father died. A friend who is a minister told me one day, when I confided that I was getting a little tired of people saying they knew 'exactly' how I felt, and that I should just 'move on,' that if they were not being kind, there was no reason to keep them. Ever since, I've been a bit more selective. More guarded, at times, but really just more aware of the fact that I am me, and I intend always to be me, and only me. As a result, I create more for fun, and I also have "discovered" two opportunities to find homes for my creations (as random and varied as they may be), and I have a blog. What more could I ask for?
~~I'm gonna let it shine~~
Why did this strike such a chord with me, since I was well on my way on my own? All because of one big, wonderful, daunting word. My Buddha quote tells me that I should find my heart's happiness, but this morning, this was posed as our "responsibility." That changes everything! All this time, I've been looking rather nonchalantly--yet finding success, albeit moderate success. Imagine if I had seen creating--my world--as a responsibility rather than as something I find to be fun, entertaining, relaxing, centering. My life could change, and I am open to it, open to the universal aid of those before me and those ahead. Good things will happen, I'm sure of it, and in my spare time, to boot.
~~let it shine, let it shine, let it shine!~~
~~this little light of mine~~
One of the differences between going to a yoga class and practicing at home on my own is the prompt to set an intention for the day's practice. At home alone, it's so easy to forget, or even purposely skip this important step in the process. Today, we were encouraged to set an intention related to something we love to do, and that we would like to make our life's work, or if we are already working at our life's dream, how we can more fully open up to the universal ability to find true happiness. As I considered this, Shani went on to encourage us to open up and search less diligently, thereby allowing that for which we search to appear before us.
~~I'm gonna let it shine~~
I love practicing yoga because there is peace and stillness inside me that I don't always recognize or honor. Some days, I'm too busy or rushed to sneak in the 20-30 minutes from Yoga Download, even though when I do fit it in, I feel like a better person. The focus on balance and breathing brings me back to my center, back to the me that I like to be. When I am centered and balanced, I can see my happiness, and it's not in 'stuff' at all. My life's work, my world, is to create. I am at peace with the possibility that I may not ever make enough money to live off of, but it is very important for me to give myself to creating.
~~this little light of mine~~
In the meditation today, we were encouraged to surround ourselves with people and circumstances that make our life's work possible. Without realizing that I was working toward this moment, I have been so surrounding myself since my father died. A friend who is a minister told me one day, when I confided that I was getting a little tired of people saying they knew 'exactly' how I felt, and that I should just 'move on,' that if they were not being kind, there was no reason to keep them. Ever since, I've been a bit more selective. More guarded, at times, but really just more aware of the fact that I am me, and I intend always to be me, and only me. As a result, I create more for fun, and I also have "discovered" two opportunities to find homes for my creations (as random and varied as they may be), and I have a blog. What more could I ask for?
~~I'm gonna let it shine~~
Why did this strike such a chord with me, since I was well on my way on my own? All because of one big, wonderful, daunting word. My Buddha quote tells me that I should find my heart's happiness, but this morning, this was posed as our "responsibility." That changes everything! All this time, I've been looking rather nonchalantly--yet finding success, albeit moderate success. Imagine if I had seen creating--my world--as a responsibility rather than as something I find to be fun, entertaining, relaxing, centering. My life could change, and I am open to it, open to the universal aid of those before me and those ahead. Good things will happen, I'm sure of it, and in my spare time, to boot.
~~let it shine, let it shine, let it shine!~~
Sunday, October 2, 2011
heartaches
Friday nights, I go to the field to watch our football team. Every week, I arrive with great anticipation for a joyous victory. The boys have been playing hard, and have tremendous spunk; yet points have been elusive. It's been rough, and each game ends with waves of emotion flowing from the team to the fans and back again. The ripples of emotion last all week; I feel them at home and in the hallways at school.
On Friday afternoons, I take some of the football players to read at our elementary schools. My heart swells with pride as I watch these soon-to-be men of the world sitting in rocking chairs, on stools, in easy chairs or on the floor with 20 or so awestruck children. The introductions are simple--"My name is so-and-so, and I play fullback." Or cornerback. Center. Wide receiver. Quarterback. Tackle. No matter what position they mention, I know they have others they play as well on our small team. The children ooh and aah, and then listen intently to the story. Afterwards, I am always impressed at how well the players answer questions from their little fans. What's your favorite color? Who's your favorite team? Do you like hockey? Do you know my neighbor? Each question is answered honestly, and without batting an eye--even when the question is silly. "Isn't the quarterback the guy who runs backwards and then throws the ball to the 'retreiver'?" My heart and my spirit soar at the simplicity, the easy manner in which these two age groups are able to banter. We leave with a heartfelt "Thank you" in both directions, and instructions to "Cheer for me when you go to the game!" or "Look for my number on the field!" The teachers tell me that on Mondays, the kids come in talking about the game, seeing their reader play, hearing his name and number announced, or seeing his stats in the paper. The connection to the community makes my heart sing.
As a result, I now know more of the players on the field. I used to know their names; maybe recognize their faces. But now, I've heard a little about their hopes, their wishes, their views on football, school, classes. I've spoken with them about colleges, majors, what they like for lunch. When I see them on the field, my heart opens up; flowering at the joy I know they feel because they play, because they are a team.
As a result of knowing more of the players, my heart jumps at the start of every play, every whistle, every huddle and time out. I understand a little more of the game than I did, and I still have so many questions, but I know enough to have my heart break a little each time a pass is incomplete, or deflected. My heart stops with each tackle, particularly when we can't clearly see who has possession of the ball. Cramps, calls for water, and injuries cause my heart to squeeze tightly into a little ball, so tight I can hardly breathe; and when I saw two players from the sideline go to an injured player on the field to help him off, half my heart cried with concern for the injured, while the other half cried with joy at the tenderness of his friends and teammates.
Every game is a roller coaster of emotion, not just for me, but for all the parents, the families, the fans. I know the players feel it, too, but I also know that they are so keenly focused on the action, and executing as they've been taught, that their energy plays with their emotion as well. I hope, with all my heart, that the players know just how emotionally invested we, as parents and fans, truly are. I hope they can understand that we want to share in their feelings, we want to hear their feedback about the game, too. More than anything, I know that my perspective is going to be different than my player/son's, and I just want to share in his joys, his pains and sorrows, his laughter and his stories from the game, and from his life.
With each goal the opposing team scores, my heart sinks to depths I didn't even know I had within me. Likewise, with each point our team scores, my heart soars to the top of the goalposts, and I feel as though I could fly. At the end of every game, I feel as though I've been wrung out, twisted, shaken, torn apart and put back together again. All that's missing from the workout I've had is the sweat. After each game, the parents go to the edge of the track to wait for the team to come back from their post-game huddle. There is a silence borne, I'm sure, of that mutual emotional exhaustion we all feel, but are loathe to talk about for fear of seeming too sentimental, invested, dramatic, or being judged as one who is living vicariously through our sons.
As they walk towards us on the sidelines, there is always applause, cheering, and, most importantly, a mass of open arms. The first time, my son told me he was too sweaty to hug me. My heart broke clean in half--and fell right out of my chest when I saw another player's mom walk right up to my son and hug him. A former me would have kept this inside, and gone home with half her heart lying in pieces on the field. This incarnation of me turned him right around and hugged him, hard. He smelled terrible, and really was far sweatier even than he looked, but nothing else on God's green earth could possibly have repaired my heart.
I hope, with all my heart, that those boys, those soon-to-be men of the world, my own son especially, understand how much they touch my heart. I hope they understand that when I say they will be forever in my heart, I mean it. Truly I do.
On Friday afternoons, I take some of the football players to read at our elementary schools. My heart swells with pride as I watch these soon-to-be men of the world sitting in rocking chairs, on stools, in easy chairs or on the floor with 20 or so awestruck children. The introductions are simple--"My name is so-and-so, and I play fullback." Or cornerback. Center. Wide receiver. Quarterback. Tackle. No matter what position they mention, I know they have others they play as well on our small team. The children ooh and aah, and then listen intently to the story. Afterwards, I am always impressed at how well the players answer questions from their little fans. What's your favorite color? Who's your favorite team? Do you like hockey? Do you know my neighbor? Each question is answered honestly, and without batting an eye--even when the question is silly. "Isn't the quarterback the guy who runs backwards and then throws the ball to the 'retreiver'?" My heart and my spirit soar at the simplicity, the easy manner in which these two age groups are able to banter. We leave with a heartfelt "Thank you" in both directions, and instructions to "Cheer for me when you go to the game!" or "Look for my number on the field!" The teachers tell me that on Mondays, the kids come in talking about the game, seeing their reader play, hearing his name and number announced, or seeing his stats in the paper. The connection to the community makes my heart sing.
As a result, I now know more of the players on the field. I used to know their names; maybe recognize their faces. But now, I've heard a little about their hopes, their wishes, their views on football, school, classes. I've spoken with them about colleges, majors, what they like for lunch. When I see them on the field, my heart opens up; flowering at the joy I know they feel because they play, because they are a team.
As a result of knowing more of the players, my heart jumps at the start of every play, every whistle, every huddle and time out. I understand a little more of the game than I did, and I still have so many questions, but I know enough to have my heart break a little each time a pass is incomplete, or deflected. My heart stops with each tackle, particularly when we can't clearly see who has possession of the ball. Cramps, calls for water, and injuries cause my heart to squeeze tightly into a little ball, so tight I can hardly breathe; and when I saw two players from the sideline go to an injured player on the field to help him off, half my heart cried with concern for the injured, while the other half cried with joy at the tenderness of his friends and teammates.
Every game is a roller coaster of emotion, not just for me, but for all the parents, the families, the fans. I know the players feel it, too, but I also know that they are so keenly focused on the action, and executing as they've been taught, that their energy plays with their emotion as well. I hope, with all my heart, that the players know just how emotionally invested we, as parents and fans, truly are. I hope they can understand that we want to share in their feelings, we want to hear their feedback about the game, too. More than anything, I know that my perspective is going to be different than my player/son's, and I just want to share in his joys, his pains and sorrows, his laughter and his stories from the game, and from his life.
With each goal the opposing team scores, my heart sinks to depths I didn't even know I had within me. Likewise, with each point our team scores, my heart soars to the top of the goalposts, and I feel as though I could fly. At the end of every game, I feel as though I've been wrung out, twisted, shaken, torn apart and put back together again. All that's missing from the workout I've had is the sweat. After each game, the parents go to the edge of the track to wait for the team to come back from their post-game huddle. There is a silence borne, I'm sure, of that mutual emotional exhaustion we all feel, but are loathe to talk about for fear of seeming too sentimental, invested, dramatic, or being judged as one who is living vicariously through our sons.
As they walk towards us on the sidelines, there is always applause, cheering, and, most importantly, a mass of open arms. The first time, my son told me he was too sweaty to hug me. My heart broke clean in half--and fell right out of my chest when I saw another player's mom walk right up to my son and hug him. A former me would have kept this inside, and gone home with half her heart lying in pieces on the field. This incarnation of me turned him right around and hugged him, hard. He smelled terrible, and really was far sweatier even than he looked, but nothing else on God's green earth could possibly have repaired my heart.
I hope, with all my heart, that those boys, those soon-to-be men of the world, my own son especially, understand how much they touch my heart. I hope they understand that when I say they will be forever in my heart, I mean it. Truly I do.
Tuesday, September 27, 2011
the story I knew about
One of Guy's aunts used to live on Long Island, and when Joseph was about 2, we went to visit. Their home was our base for a long weekend in New York. We had a wonderful time visiting with them, touring Yankee stadium, riding the subway trains, and enjoying a free performing arts festival at Lincoln Center. But there was one thing that made the trip truly unforgettable and different from any other trip I've made to the City.
One of the things I insisted on was to take the Staten Island Ferry and see Battery Park. On our last day, we left early, drove all the way around to Staten Island and rode in on the water. We did some of the usual park things: watched performers, had a 'name' painted by a street artist, perused the merchandise. Then we walked up to Ground Zero.
As we approached, there was still a silence, a reverence in the area; memorial flowers, notes and ribbons fluttered in the fence. At first, we were a little surprised that the fence was so high and the portholes through it so few, but the closer we got, the harder it was to focus through our tears, through the collective conscienceness' pain that still hung in the air. It was more than a little disconcerting to see the mess, the rubble and cracked pavement that could still be seen; and yet a little church across the street was unscathed. We were a somewhat somber group heading back to the ferry to go home. It's hard to be lost in thought for long with a toddler and 3 other young children while visiting an unfamiliar city, though.
Back on the Ferry, I sat on a bench and watched Guy with the boys, lifting them one at a time to the rail to get a better look, and eventually putting Joseph on his shoulders. I tried not to be too nervous about the whole scene before me, since I was tired and glad for the break. A woman sitting next to me asked if they were all mine. "All five," I answered, with a smile, and that warm feeling of mingled pride and admiration at our family. "It's so nice to see families come to the City again," she remarked. Until that point, I had not even considered that she was from the area.
Raised in Upstate New York, I had always heard adjectives ranging from "standoffish and aloof" to "downright unfriendly" used to describe New Yorkers (what we called those from the City). Living in Rhode Island, I had learned that city folks could be a bit bristly, but, in all reality, the city people I'd been in contact with were simply people--busy people with someplace to go all the time, but people nonetheless. This woman was striking up a conversation with me, a total stranger--and obviously an out-of-towner at that. I turned my head to look at her and asked, "Have there been fewer visitors?" In reality, life in Pennsylvania had gone on since September 11th; tourism was moderately affected locally.
She told me that people had started to come back, but for a while--a long while--there were far fewer tourists. Something she noticed particularly on the Ferry. Then she told me about that day. She told me about the boats--hundreds of them--ferrying people from Manhattan to the shores of Staten Island. She told me about thousands of people, dusty, dirty, dazed, in shock, streaming off the boats. For hours. She told me, too, about the Staten Islanders greeting them all.
That was the part of the story that got to me. The part that made me proud to be listening to this woman I sat next to by chance. The part that made me feel an unexplained kinship to her. She told me that the citizens of Staten Island--at the docks at first to get a glimpse of what atrocities had happened across the harbor, like any red-blooded American rubbernecker--became the greeters. Like the Maine Troop Greeters of Bangor, ME, the members of this community gathered at the terminal with blankets, soup, coffee, fresh water, and, most importantly, open arms, shoulders to lean on, and a willingness to listen, to comfort, to cry. And they kept it up for the entire evacuation. Afterwards, many of the shopkeepers and innkeepers on the island offered rooms and goods to the people who didn't know where to go, or who couldn't get home. The Staten Islanders opened more than their arms that day; they opened their hearts wide. They made a difference. They did what needed to be done, without even thinking about how hard it might be, how dangerous, how frightening. They opened themselves, and they grew as a consequence.
I asked the woman if the tone in New York and on Staten Island had changed. She told me that there was a new respect for survival; a new feeling of oneness, if not family. She said there was obviously more generosity of spirit, and more willingness to make eye contact with strangers, and not the suspicious stare-down familiar on TV and in the movies. She said the City had become friendlier, more open, more inviting, without losing its identity. This was what she found most telling. The ability to learn something fundamental about the very depths of your being and still manage to stay who you are impressed her....and me. New York was still New York, only more so. What also impressed me was how humble she was. According to Boatlift, a film short chronicling the rescue efforts, half a million people were ferried off Manhattan island to various locations nearby. A half a million people. The woman had told me that they did what they should; nothing more and certainly nothing less.
As for myself, I was changed by the encounter. We exchanged nothing but some conversation. I don't know her name, and I cannot remember anything at all about what she looked like or her voice. Only her words, and the intense feelings behind them. At the beginning of the Boatlift film, there is a quote: "A hero is a man who does what he can." (Romain Rolland). When I shared the video on my Facebook page, I said that "This is what Character looks like." Riding on that Ferry, out of earshot of my family, a Hero spoke to me. A real Character. And I am all the better for it.
One of the things I insisted on was to take the Staten Island Ferry and see Battery Park. On our last day, we left early, drove all the way around to Staten Island and rode in on the water. We did some of the usual park things: watched performers, had a 'name' painted by a street artist, perused the merchandise. Then we walked up to Ground Zero.
As we approached, there was still a silence, a reverence in the area; memorial flowers, notes and ribbons fluttered in the fence. At first, we were a little surprised that the fence was so high and the portholes through it so few, but the closer we got, the harder it was to focus through our tears, through the collective conscienceness' pain that still hung in the air. It was more than a little disconcerting to see the mess, the rubble and cracked pavement that could still be seen; and yet a little church across the street was unscathed. We were a somewhat somber group heading back to the ferry to go home. It's hard to be lost in thought for long with a toddler and 3 other young children while visiting an unfamiliar city, though.
Back on the Ferry, I sat on a bench and watched Guy with the boys, lifting them one at a time to the rail to get a better look, and eventually putting Joseph on his shoulders. I tried not to be too nervous about the whole scene before me, since I was tired and glad for the break. A woman sitting next to me asked if they were all mine. "All five," I answered, with a smile, and that warm feeling of mingled pride and admiration at our family. "It's so nice to see families come to the City again," she remarked. Until that point, I had not even considered that she was from the area.
Raised in Upstate New York, I had always heard adjectives ranging from "standoffish and aloof" to "downright unfriendly" used to describe New Yorkers (what we called those from the City). Living in Rhode Island, I had learned that city folks could be a bit bristly, but, in all reality, the city people I'd been in contact with were simply people--busy people with someplace to go all the time, but people nonetheless. This woman was striking up a conversation with me, a total stranger--and obviously an out-of-towner at that. I turned my head to look at her and asked, "Have there been fewer visitors?" In reality, life in Pennsylvania had gone on since September 11th; tourism was moderately affected locally.
She told me that people had started to come back, but for a while--a long while--there were far fewer tourists. Something she noticed particularly on the Ferry. Then she told me about that day. She told me about the boats--hundreds of them--ferrying people from Manhattan to the shores of Staten Island. She told me about thousands of people, dusty, dirty, dazed, in shock, streaming off the boats. For hours. She told me, too, about the Staten Islanders greeting them all.
That was the part of the story that got to me. The part that made me proud to be listening to this woman I sat next to by chance. The part that made me feel an unexplained kinship to her. She told me that the citizens of Staten Island--at the docks at first to get a glimpse of what atrocities had happened across the harbor, like any red-blooded American rubbernecker--became the greeters. Like the Maine Troop Greeters of Bangor, ME, the members of this community gathered at the terminal with blankets, soup, coffee, fresh water, and, most importantly, open arms, shoulders to lean on, and a willingness to listen, to comfort, to cry. And they kept it up for the entire evacuation. Afterwards, many of the shopkeepers and innkeepers on the island offered rooms and goods to the people who didn't know where to go, or who couldn't get home. The Staten Islanders opened more than their arms that day; they opened their hearts wide. They made a difference. They did what needed to be done, without even thinking about how hard it might be, how dangerous, how frightening. They opened themselves, and they grew as a consequence.
I asked the woman if the tone in New York and on Staten Island had changed. She told me that there was a new respect for survival; a new feeling of oneness, if not family. She said there was obviously more generosity of spirit, and more willingness to make eye contact with strangers, and not the suspicious stare-down familiar on TV and in the movies. She said the City had become friendlier, more open, more inviting, without losing its identity. This was what she found most telling. The ability to learn something fundamental about the very depths of your being and still manage to stay who you are impressed her....and me. New York was still New York, only more so. What also impressed me was how humble she was. According to Boatlift, a film short chronicling the rescue efforts, half a million people were ferried off Manhattan island to various locations nearby. A half a million people. The woman had told me that they did what they should; nothing more and certainly nothing less.
As for myself, I was changed by the encounter. We exchanged nothing but some conversation. I don't know her name, and I cannot remember anything at all about what she looked like or her voice. Only her words, and the intense feelings behind them. At the beginning of the Boatlift film, there is a quote: "A hero is a man who does what he can." (Romain Rolland). When I shared the video on my Facebook page, I said that "This is what Character looks like." Riding on that Ferry, out of earshot of my family, a Hero spoke to me. A real Character. And I am all the better for it.
Monday, September 26, 2011
ouch
My son's shoulder hurts. Hurts as in, has a feeling that can only be described by words that are supposed to be attributed to sounds. Words like "grind," "crackle" and the like. Because he is a swimmer, this is a bad thing. Because he is a very good swimmer, this is a BAD THING. And at the moment, I'm taking it rather personally. I know this is silly, but I'm his mom. I'm supposed to keep him safe, or at the very least, be able to make it all better. Instead, I all I can do is check with our insurance to see what, if any, physical therapy might be available. He went for PT last spring.
Being his mom means that I probably should have nagged him more about wearing his backpack the right way; high on his shoulders and tight to his back. Not that there is much in his backpack, or rather, was much in there in the past. This year, he has more work to do. He's being more conscientious about his schoolwork. I'm proud of him for realizing how important his education is, and I'm thrilled that I don't have to get on him to get his work done. Yet I still feel guilty for 'choosing my battles' and deciding that the whole backpack thing would make sense to him before college, when he really will have loads of books to cart around. (Who am I kidding--college when he gets there will probably mean just a computer, and one that is far lighter than my laptop!)
Being his mom means that I probably should have been more involved in his swim program. There is no real, comprehensive dryland program with it. They run some, but no stretching, no strength training, nothing that I, as a dancer, consider to be important in balancing the muscles he uses to swim. And when he went to PT, I should probably have insisted that the therapist give him a comprehensive progression of exercises to go beyond what they had worked on to keep him interested in the program. When he does the exercises they gave him for "homework" and ongoing therapy, I get bored, so I can understand why he rushes through them with little to no regard for form. And, because I am his mom and he is 15, he doesn't really want to hear from me about how to properly do them.
Being his mom means that I probably should be more forceful in limiting his computer time, mostly because he sits with his computer on his lap, his arms completely unsupported. At least he puts pillows under his knees like I told him he should when he started to complain about his knees hurting. Because I am his mom, I am hurting, too. I wish I knew how to make it all better; how to not only make the pain go away, but also how to make it stay better.
Tomorrow, I'll call the insurance company and ask if he can go back to PT. Then I suppose I'll have to call the doctor to get a referral. I wish there was a better way. I believe in PT, but I know full well from my own experience that sticking with the exercises just doesn't happen. PT does not lead to the lifestyle change that he'll need to continue swimming at the level he wants to swim.
Until then, I'll wonder how else I could have done things. What else I could have done or said. Why? Because I am his mom. It's what I do. And we'll see what we can do for Henry's shoulder.
Being his mom means that I probably should have nagged him more about wearing his backpack the right way; high on his shoulders and tight to his back. Not that there is much in his backpack, or rather, was much in there in the past. This year, he has more work to do. He's being more conscientious about his schoolwork. I'm proud of him for realizing how important his education is, and I'm thrilled that I don't have to get on him to get his work done. Yet I still feel guilty for 'choosing my battles' and deciding that the whole backpack thing would make sense to him before college, when he really will have loads of books to cart around. (Who am I kidding--college when he gets there will probably mean just a computer, and one that is far lighter than my laptop!)
Being his mom means that I probably should have been more involved in his swim program. There is no real, comprehensive dryland program with it. They run some, but no stretching, no strength training, nothing that I, as a dancer, consider to be important in balancing the muscles he uses to swim. And when he went to PT, I should probably have insisted that the therapist give him a comprehensive progression of exercises to go beyond what they had worked on to keep him interested in the program. When he does the exercises they gave him for "homework" and ongoing therapy, I get bored, so I can understand why he rushes through them with little to no regard for form. And, because I am his mom and he is 15, he doesn't really want to hear from me about how to properly do them.
Being his mom means that I probably should be more forceful in limiting his computer time, mostly because he sits with his computer on his lap, his arms completely unsupported. At least he puts pillows under his knees like I told him he should when he started to complain about his knees hurting. Because I am his mom, I am hurting, too. I wish I knew how to make it all better; how to not only make the pain go away, but also how to make it stay better.
Tomorrow, I'll call the insurance company and ask if he can go back to PT. Then I suppose I'll have to call the doctor to get a referral. I wish there was a better way. I believe in PT, but I know full well from my own experience that sticking with the exercises just doesn't happen. PT does not lead to the lifestyle change that he'll need to continue swimming at the level he wants to swim.
Until then, I'll wonder how else I could have done things. What else I could have done or said. Why? Because I am his mom. It's what I do. And we'll see what we can do for Henry's shoulder.
Thursday, September 22, 2011
yes, we need it. no, it's not for your coffee
Over the past month, I've been asked no less than four times, by four different people, when we will be able to have a library "with no card catalog." My answer, in a nutshell, is that it's not possible. And each time, I am met with an incredulous stare. I've been asked why on earth we use the Dewey decimal system, instead of the Library of Congress system. I've even been asked how I feel about not having kids check out books at all. I'm not even a librarian, though I came this close to starting my Master's in Library Science.
Working in the library had been a dream come true for me. Many times, I've wished that someone--anyone--had known me well enough in high school to suggest looking into the field. My interests are about as diverse as they come, and if I could make a living as a "learner," I would be in heaven! Being surrounded by information about any topic imaginable is alternately overwhelming and exhilarating. Some may argue that all the same information can be found just as easily on YouTube or by Googling it, but it's been my experience that without the proper key words, my searches wind up feeling like just that--searches. In a library, I can hone in on topics more quickly. Admittedly, I was completely lost in the stacks for most of my life. Why on earth would Dewey put cookbooks so close to the pet books, and how could poetry, plays and even some prose belong in the non-fiction side of the library?? Why (I still wonder) do people describe fiction as being "untrue" so that non-fiction would then be "not untrue?"
Tuesday, the sixth grade came to visit the library. I asked how many had never been in a library before, and truly had no reason to be surprised at the number of hands that went up. Our elementary schools have been restructuring in order to accommodate larger numbers of students, as well as a move to a new building -- two new buildings, actually. As a result, their libraries have been packed, unpacked, repacked, stored and/or on a cart for a while. Although they had library class, some of the kids had been a little overwhelmed by the new library last January. Plus, our library looks very different from that one; our stacks are double the height, and we have easily double the books, at least.
Janet used to do the sixth grade orientation, and I had seen it enough to feel pretty comfortable showing them around. I found a video about the Dewey decimal system that they tried not to be amused by, and told them about our expectations of them, and showed them around. But the moment they'd been waiting for--the one thing all four classes asked about--was checking out books. Just try to stop them! I told them we have two card catalogs; one in a great big case on the floor, and one on the computer. Most of the kids who wanted to look for something specific, when told to look it up first, went the the physical version rather than the virtual one. And, interestingly, their searches were quicker than the computer searches. On the computer, they have to log on, find the card catalog on the desktop, click on the appropriate school, then type in what they are looking for. It works, for sure, but by the time they did all that, the kids who did it the "old-fashioned" way had already found their books, and were queued up at the check-out desk. Which kids had time to start reading their books before the bell rang?
Why do we need the big piece of furniture in the middle of the room? In addition to being quick if you aren't already logged on to a computer, it never crashes, it never loses power or connectivity, doesn't get corrupted, and it has those nifty drawers. I've been told it looks like a dinosaur (ridiculous because it is cube-shaped!) and does not fit in with the information age. Maybe. And maybe it's not necessary for kids to know how to search for something on their own, without the aid of an engine. But the sixth grade now knows that cookbooks fall under Dewey's broad category of "technology" (so do cats,but I'm not sure I understand that part yet), and biographies are part of history. And they also know that fiction IS imaginary, made-up, fantastical (although the supernatural is non-fiction), and non-fiction IS factual, proven or theorized, real, true, and that art --poems, plays and some prose-- and legends, myths and fairy tales are all considered non-fiction.
We'll always need to have a card catalog in some form or another, and I hope that when the digital age pulls the library in completely, as I think it could, and maybe should in some ways, I hope the name stays, even if the piece of furniture is forgotten. There will always be a need to find the information for oneself; to be able to see the other points of view nearby--how closely related world religions are on a bookshelf, or how similar the covers of books about neighboring countries at war can look. As long as there ARE books, they will be checked out of libraries. That sense of sharing, that trust in stewardship, is necessary to the survival of humankind. I really believe that.
It used to be, when I worked with Janet the Librarian, that I had a long list of books to check out sometime. She was regularly adding new books to the collection, and part of my job was to type up the cards for the card catalog, as well as covering the new books on their way into circulation. Now I make up the cards for the books in the library that had been purchased but not yet catalogued. I have far more interuptions than we had before--the student flow has been changed, and requires much more 'hovering' at times. It has its good points and bad points, but kids still check out books every day. And they use the card catalog. Many of them still need help with both alphabetical and alphanumeric order, but I need help with the Macs, so it all evens out in the end.
I love my job, and I love that libraries are evolving and changing and staying relevant--a tradition in place since Ben Franklin. I love that Dewey still "works" even if it is a little wacky until you get the hang of it. (Watch the video, it's really quite clever!) So don't ask me if the library will be "necessary" in years to come, or if people really "care" if it's there. I do. And I'm not alone.
Working in the library had been a dream come true for me. Many times, I've wished that someone--anyone--had known me well enough in high school to suggest looking into the field. My interests are about as diverse as they come, and if I could make a living as a "learner," I would be in heaven! Being surrounded by information about any topic imaginable is alternately overwhelming and exhilarating. Some may argue that all the same information can be found just as easily on YouTube or by Googling it, but it's been my experience that without the proper key words, my searches wind up feeling like just that--searches. In a library, I can hone in on topics more quickly. Admittedly, I was completely lost in the stacks for most of my life. Why on earth would Dewey put cookbooks so close to the pet books, and how could poetry, plays and even some prose belong in the non-fiction side of the library?? Why (I still wonder) do people describe fiction as being "untrue" so that non-fiction would then be "not untrue?"
Tuesday, the sixth grade came to visit the library. I asked how many had never been in a library before, and truly had no reason to be surprised at the number of hands that went up. Our elementary schools have been restructuring in order to accommodate larger numbers of students, as well as a move to a new building -- two new buildings, actually. As a result, their libraries have been packed, unpacked, repacked, stored and/or on a cart for a while. Although they had library class, some of the kids had been a little overwhelmed by the new library last January. Plus, our library looks very different from that one; our stacks are double the height, and we have easily double the books, at least.
Janet used to do the sixth grade orientation, and I had seen it enough to feel pretty comfortable showing them around. I found a video about the Dewey decimal system that they tried not to be amused by, and told them about our expectations of them, and showed them around. But the moment they'd been waiting for--the one thing all four classes asked about--was checking out books. Just try to stop them! I told them we have two card catalogs; one in a great big case on the floor, and one on the computer. Most of the kids who wanted to look for something specific, when told to look it up first, went the the physical version rather than the virtual one. And, interestingly, their searches were quicker than the computer searches. On the computer, they have to log on, find the card catalog on the desktop, click on the appropriate school, then type in what they are looking for. It works, for sure, but by the time they did all that, the kids who did it the "old-fashioned" way had already found their books, and were queued up at the check-out desk. Which kids had time to start reading their books before the bell rang?
Why do we need the big piece of furniture in the middle of the room? In addition to being quick if you aren't already logged on to a computer, it never crashes, it never loses power or connectivity, doesn't get corrupted, and it has those nifty drawers. I've been told it looks like a dinosaur (ridiculous because it is cube-shaped!) and does not fit in with the information age. Maybe. And maybe it's not necessary for kids to know how to search for something on their own, without the aid of an engine. But the sixth grade now knows that cookbooks fall under Dewey's broad category of "technology" (so do cats,but I'm not sure I understand that part yet), and biographies are part of history. And they also know that fiction IS imaginary, made-up, fantastical (although the supernatural is non-fiction), and non-fiction IS factual, proven or theorized, real, true, and that art --poems, plays and some prose-- and legends, myths and fairy tales are all considered non-fiction.
We'll always need to have a card catalog in some form or another, and I hope that when the digital age pulls the library in completely, as I think it could, and maybe should in some ways, I hope the name stays, even if the piece of furniture is forgotten. There will always be a need to find the information for oneself; to be able to see the other points of view nearby--how closely related world religions are on a bookshelf, or how similar the covers of books about neighboring countries at war can look. As long as there ARE books, they will be checked out of libraries. That sense of sharing, that trust in stewardship, is necessary to the survival of humankind. I really believe that.
It used to be, when I worked with Janet the Librarian, that I had a long list of books to check out sometime. She was regularly adding new books to the collection, and part of my job was to type up the cards for the card catalog, as well as covering the new books on their way into circulation. Now I make up the cards for the books in the library that had been purchased but not yet catalogued. I have far more interuptions than we had before--the student flow has been changed, and requires much more 'hovering' at times. It has its good points and bad points, but kids still check out books every day. And they use the card catalog. Many of them still need help with both alphabetical and alphanumeric order, but I need help with the Macs, so it all evens out in the end.
I love my job, and I love that libraries are evolving and changing and staying relevant--a tradition in place since Ben Franklin. I love that Dewey still "works" even if it is a little wacky until you get the hang of it. (Watch the video, it's really quite clever!) So don't ask me if the library will be "necessary" in years to come, or if people really "care" if it's there. I do. And I'm not alone.
Friday, September 16, 2011
if at first you don't succeed, so what
Once upon a time, my mother told me, rather bluntly, that trying was a waste of time. I was a teenager at the time, and I have no idea what the circumstances were, but, as teenagers tend to do, I got mad , and was offended, and asked what on earth she meant by that. Her response was something to the effect of "you'll never get anywhere by trying.When you try, you allow yourself to fail." It gnawed at me for many, many years: the 'fact' that my own mother didn't believe in my efforts. Then one day, it hit me--
I can't get anywhere if I try. Especially if I try really, really hard.
Finally, I understood that there was some truth in what she said. I don't believe one can never get anywhere by trying, but I am beginning to think that with the things one does regularly, frequently, or with an abundance of emotional or physical energy, it is quite possible to muck it up by trying too hard. I've seen it in myself when I run, when I am frustrated, and even when I'm dancing. But these are small things that really only have any bearing on myself. What about when someone else is counting on me? When I need to be patient, it's easier to lose my head and blame it on "trying to be patient" than it is to "be" patient. And yet, the times when I allow myself the luxury of being, the resulting harmony is almost palpable.
Tonight, I watched as a team of young men tried, in unison, again and again. They didn't fail, but the trying was so clear. As the mother of one of those young men, I started to become discouraged--I can only imagine what they may have felt. At the time, I didn't make the connection; even though "they are trying so hard" could be heard throughout the stands. They really were trying with all their might to play well.
I didn't make the connection when my friend told me about her son on that same field who was trying so hard to write his college application essays, and, despite his marvelous use of language in his everyday speech, couldn't make his own voice shine through. Instead of putting 2 and 2 together, I mentioned some of the flaws with the way kids are taught to write, about the need to "make it good" and get it done the first time, or maybe the second. We tossed around some ideas that might help. Although it was on the tip of my tongue, I couldn't quite figure how "trying" applied.
Something changed in the second half of the game. The boys played. They played, and it looked good. There were still things that could have gone differently, plays that didn't go off as planned, but on the whole, they were one united team. They Played, and there was no more talk of them "trying hard" in the stands. It's a subtle difference, and one that not everyone would notice or even understand. I'm so proud of those boys I could burst, but I still didn't make the connection with trying.
It was after the game was done, we'd greeted our boys coming off the field, chatted briefly with other emotionally spent parents, made our way to the car, and even stopped for ice cream that I realized: They stopped trying to play against that team. After half-time, they played because that is what they went there to do, and that's what they do. Our team scored twice against a team easily twice the size. A team that has an O team and a D team, plus what looked like at least one of each in reserve. Most of our guys play both sides of the ball, and many have to be ready to play multiple positions within those parameters. I can't help but be impressed and proud. But truly what awes me is when they just stop trying and play.
I have no idea what the coaches told them, but I know what I have seen. Trial and error is good. Trying new things is good. But when you are about to do something that you know matters to you, just let go and do it. Write your essay, or jot down notes and stick them all over the refrigerator, or record your thoughts and go back later to write them down--exactly the way you've said them. Play your game, trusting that your knowledge, your practice, your perseverance won't let you down. Tackle those dance steps, lead or be lead, and enjoy the movement and the music. Run until you just plain can't anymore. Be yourself. Believe in yourself.
And shine.
I can't get anywhere if I try. Especially if I try really, really hard.
Finally, I understood that there was some truth in what she said. I don't believe one can never get anywhere by trying, but I am beginning to think that with the things one does regularly, frequently, or with an abundance of emotional or physical energy, it is quite possible to muck it up by trying too hard. I've seen it in myself when I run, when I am frustrated, and even when I'm dancing. But these are small things that really only have any bearing on myself. What about when someone else is counting on me? When I need to be patient, it's easier to lose my head and blame it on "trying to be patient" than it is to "be" patient. And yet, the times when I allow myself the luxury of being, the resulting harmony is almost palpable.
Tonight, I watched as a team of young men tried, in unison, again and again. They didn't fail, but the trying was so clear. As the mother of one of those young men, I started to become discouraged--I can only imagine what they may have felt. At the time, I didn't make the connection; even though "they are trying so hard" could be heard throughout the stands. They really were trying with all their might to play well.
I didn't make the connection when my friend told me about her son on that same field who was trying so hard to write his college application essays, and, despite his marvelous use of language in his everyday speech, couldn't make his own voice shine through. Instead of putting 2 and 2 together, I mentioned some of the flaws with the way kids are taught to write, about the need to "make it good" and get it done the first time, or maybe the second. We tossed around some ideas that might help. Although it was on the tip of my tongue, I couldn't quite figure how "trying" applied.
Something changed in the second half of the game. The boys played. They played, and it looked good. There were still things that could have gone differently, plays that didn't go off as planned, but on the whole, they were one united team. They Played, and there was no more talk of them "trying hard" in the stands. It's a subtle difference, and one that not everyone would notice or even understand. I'm so proud of those boys I could burst, but I still didn't make the connection with trying.
It was after the game was done, we'd greeted our boys coming off the field, chatted briefly with other emotionally spent parents, made our way to the car, and even stopped for ice cream that I realized: They stopped trying to play against that team. After half-time, they played because that is what they went there to do, and that's what they do. Our team scored twice against a team easily twice the size. A team that has an O team and a D team, plus what looked like at least one of each in reserve. Most of our guys play both sides of the ball, and many have to be ready to play multiple positions within those parameters. I can't help but be impressed and proud. But truly what awes me is when they just stop trying and play.
I have no idea what the coaches told them, but I know what I have seen. Trial and error is good. Trying new things is good. But when you are about to do something that you know matters to you, just let go and do it. Write your essay, or jot down notes and stick them all over the refrigerator, or record your thoughts and go back later to write them down--exactly the way you've said them. Play your game, trusting that your knowledge, your practice, your perseverance won't let you down. Tackle those dance steps, lead or be lead, and enjoy the movement and the music. Run until you just plain can't anymore. Be yourself. Believe in yourself.
And shine.
Sunday, September 11, 2011
never forget; ever
September 11. 9/11. However you say it, the memories and emotions come with the same intensity. A single day, but one that impacted even those who like to think it didn't.
That day, 10 years ago, was a beautiful, clear early autumn Tuesday. We walked Jonathan to school, then dropped Drew at preschool, having no idea that in that time, the world had changed. I remember that when I got home, I called Guy at work and he told me that someone flew into a building in Manhattan. I figured small, single engine plane--barnstormer-type--muttered what an idiot the pilot had to be, and began to tell him about my morning with the boys, as usual. He insisted that I had to see what was going on, so I reluctantly turned on the TV. I was completely stunned by what I saw: smoke, clouds of dust, a gaping hole in a magnificent building--and then I saw the most horrible thing of all. As I watched, the second plane flew into the South Tower. 'Stunned' does not even begin to describe how I felt. The wind had been knocked out of me; the very life force. I believe strongly in the collective conscience of mankind, and it was fractured beyond measure. I felt emptiness, deep to the bottom of my soul, along with dread and terror. Clearly, this was the intended reaction.
I stayed on the phone with Guy for a time, but with the announcement that another plane--Flight 93--was off course, I couldn't stay on the phone with him. Shortly thereafter, I was on the phone again with my sister in Atlanta, who very plainly stated that this could very well be our last conversation. What I hadn't thought about were possible targets. I was trapped in a "right now" cycle of thought--perhaps because my family was not securely together. Guy was at work, two boys were at two different schools, and I was at home with the other two. My thoughts had been tied to rounding everyone up when the right time came. Celeste pointed out that if the terrorists were wise, they would strike communications centers next--CNN, for example--in order to increase the feeling of panic: no news=fear of the unknown, a thought far more devastating at that moment than being able to see and hear what was going on in real time. She went on to say that the next targets would be military bases, such as the one in North Dakota where my brother-in-law was stationed.
My soul limped with me to preschool to collect Drew. The parents in the hall outside the classroom were all equally pained. Not one of us knew what to expect, how to cope, where to turn, but each of us knew that for our 3-year-olds, we needed to be strong and optimistic. The teachers had not been apprised of any details, just that there was something happening that would be difficult to face in the hours, days, months and years to follow.
I remember the silence in the days that followed. No planes in the air, only fear, grief, even faithlessness. I remember picking Jonathan up at school, and the pretty Muslim mother stopped wearing her veil, and I felt ashamed that she should be fearful of her own identity. And yet, I did not speak with her; did not introduce myself. I remember the tears that I cried every time I was alone from the boys--the boys for whom I tried to be a rock of safety in this storm of the unknown. I remember B telling me that she had been prescribed anti-depressants because she really could not cope with the events, the news, the silence in the air. She told me she didn't think they were strong enough; she needed more to find peace. Her mantra had become, "Thy will be done." I remember sobbing when I hung up the phone. I could not let go of my fear enough to have faith enough in anyone's will. Anyone at all, even God's.
I had trouble sleeping; had vivid nightmares wherein the fire department would knock on the door in the night to evacuate us, but had no answers as to where we should go. Just get out. Now. I had a constant need to know what everyone was doing and where they were at all times. I was going crazy. Each morning I woke and cried--hard--because I did not think I'd be able to cope, to pretend to my children that life was okay, that they were blessed, and safe, and that the bad guys behind the whole thing would be brought to justice. I wanted to be relieved of that duty, and that pressure.
One morning, after the planes were flying again, I woke to a voice in my mind and in my heart. It consumed me completely. "Be not afraid. I go before you ALWAYS." A song I learned as a child from the Folk Group at church, about the Beatitudes. A favorite song, actually, but I was not singing it, nor thinking about it. And it was spoken. I felt warm, held close, safe, and yet I said, "I AM afraid!" Again, the voice, calm and clear in the center of my being, "Be not afraid. I will give you rest."
I began to live again that day. My remembrance shifted from the pain and sorrow that bring fear to that which brings connectedness. While I was wrapped up in my own pain, I could not see that others felt what I was feeling; that others needed me as much as I needed them and still do. I've always admired firefighters, clergy, the military--people who choose to give their lives to someone or something greater than themselves, as literally as they give figuratively. I will never forget. Remembering is what makes us stronger. Remembering is what gives us the courage to build on what we know--about ourselves as individuals, as family, as a nation. I still weep. I won't stop. I'll fly my flag, I'll thank those who give of themselves, and I will move on.
September 11. 9/11. A single day. A lifetime.
That day, 10 years ago, was a beautiful, clear early autumn Tuesday. We walked Jonathan to school, then dropped Drew at preschool, having no idea that in that time, the world had changed. I remember that when I got home, I called Guy at work and he told me that someone flew into a building in Manhattan. I figured small, single engine plane--barnstormer-type--muttered what an idiot the pilot had to be, and began to tell him about my morning with the boys, as usual. He insisted that I had to see what was going on, so I reluctantly turned on the TV. I was completely stunned by what I saw: smoke, clouds of dust, a gaping hole in a magnificent building--and then I saw the most horrible thing of all. As I watched, the second plane flew into the South Tower. 'Stunned' does not even begin to describe how I felt. The wind had been knocked out of me; the very life force. I believe strongly in the collective conscience of mankind, and it was fractured beyond measure. I felt emptiness, deep to the bottom of my soul, along with dread and terror. Clearly, this was the intended reaction.
I stayed on the phone with Guy for a time, but with the announcement that another plane--Flight 93--was off course, I couldn't stay on the phone with him. Shortly thereafter, I was on the phone again with my sister in Atlanta, who very plainly stated that this could very well be our last conversation. What I hadn't thought about were possible targets. I was trapped in a "right now" cycle of thought--perhaps because my family was not securely together. Guy was at work, two boys were at two different schools, and I was at home with the other two. My thoughts had been tied to rounding everyone up when the right time came. Celeste pointed out that if the terrorists were wise, they would strike communications centers next--CNN, for example--in order to increase the feeling of panic: no news=fear of the unknown, a thought far more devastating at that moment than being able to see and hear what was going on in real time. She went on to say that the next targets would be military bases, such as the one in North Dakota where my brother-in-law was stationed.
My soul limped with me to preschool to collect Drew. The parents in the hall outside the classroom were all equally pained. Not one of us knew what to expect, how to cope, where to turn, but each of us knew that for our 3-year-olds, we needed to be strong and optimistic. The teachers had not been apprised of any details, just that there was something happening that would be difficult to face in the hours, days, months and years to follow.
I remember the silence in the days that followed. No planes in the air, only fear, grief, even faithlessness. I remember picking Jonathan up at school, and the pretty Muslim mother stopped wearing her veil, and I felt ashamed that she should be fearful of her own identity. And yet, I did not speak with her; did not introduce myself. I remember the tears that I cried every time I was alone from the boys--the boys for whom I tried to be a rock of safety in this storm of the unknown. I remember B telling me that she had been prescribed anti-depressants because she really could not cope with the events, the news, the silence in the air. She told me she didn't think they were strong enough; she needed more to find peace. Her mantra had become, "Thy will be done." I remember sobbing when I hung up the phone. I could not let go of my fear enough to have faith enough in anyone's will. Anyone at all, even God's.
I had trouble sleeping; had vivid nightmares wherein the fire department would knock on the door in the night to evacuate us, but had no answers as to where we should go. Just get out. Now. I had a constant need to know what everyone was doing and where they were at all times. I was going crazy. Each morning I woke and cried--hard--because I did not think I'd be able to cope, to pretend to my children that life was okay, that they were blessed, and safe, and that the bad guys behind the whole thing would be brought to justice. I wanted to be relieved of that duty, and that pressure.
One morning, after the planes were flying again, I woke to a voice in my mind and in my heart. It consumed me completely. "Be not afraid. I go before you ALWAYS." A song I learned as a child from the Folk Group at church, about the Beatitudes. A favorite song, actually, but I was not singing it, nor thinking about it. And it was spoken. I felt warm, held close, safe, and yet I said, "I AM afraid!" Again, the voice, calm and clear in the center of my being, "Be not afraid. I will give you rest."
I began to live again that day. My remembrance shifted from the pain and sorrow that bring fear to that which brings connectedness. While I was wrapped up in my own pain, I could not see that others felt what I was feeling; that others needed me as much as I needed them and still do. I've always admired firefighters, clergy, the military--people who choose to give their lives to someone or something greater than themselves, as literally as they give figuratively. I will never forget. Remembering is what makes us stronger. Remembering is what gives us the courage to build on what we know--about ourselves as individuals, as family, as a nation. I still weep. I won't stop. I'll fly my flag, I'll thank those who give of themselves, and I will move on.
September 11. 9/11. A single day. A lifetime.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)