Batter up!

If you are planning to share a cookie at our house, one person is the breaker and the other gets to choose which half they want.  It’s the fair way we’ve come up with to divide food with less chance of an argument ruining the meal.

But when they were little, I remember it wasn’t as easy, and many days were filled with dodging land mines of arbitration involving complaints like, “I had that first.”  Or, “Mom, tell him to give me my toy back.”  Or, “That’s mine!”

Those are the times I remember simply throwing up my hands and realizing there simply was no fair way out, you just have to make the call, and then call it the other way next time.

That’s exactly why I thought it was so perfect that my oldest son’s first real paying job turned out to be umpiring baseball.  After all those life lessons I’ve imparted all these years he ought to be great at it.

Unfortunately, it made me a nervous wreck!

There he is in his navy blue T-shirt with the official white UMPIRE lettering on the back.  He looks different wearing a thick chest protector, shin guards, and heavy facemask.  I’ve watched as balls pummel him there behind the plate, bouncing off his shoulder or knee or even rattling his facemask.

But of course it’s not the bruises on the outside I’m worried about.  It’s the potential I see for him to be propelled into a position to be ridiculed that gets my heart pounding.  Each pitch he shouts out “STRIKE!” 

Or “Ball” and heads in the stands shake back and forth, shoulders slump, or I hear the inevitable “WHAT?  That looked good!”

But at the same time every single call is followed by an equal and opposite reaction in the other bleachers.  Cheers and calls of “Atta Boy, good pitch!”

It’s a swirl of confusion for me watching from the outside, not particularly interested in either team’s outcome, just hoping my son survives with feelings in tact.

“Strike Three!  Batter’s out!”  He shouts sending one little person kicking the dirt as he walks back to the dugout, and another pumping his fist out on the heap of dirt where he’s throwing pitches.

In a swirl of dust at home plate, my son oversees a player charging from third base and a throw on it’s way to the catcher.  He sweeps his arms wide and calls, “He’s SAFE!”

Then, it happens.  What I had been afraid of, my protective instincts prickle to life with goose bumps on my arms.

I see one of the coaches calling my son over.  They chat, my son looking up at the coach, gesturing briefly and then returning to his post to continue his calls for the rest of the game.

Afterward I asked what transpired.

“He asked me why I made the call the way I did,” my son says, nonchalantly.

“What!” I exclaim, worried.  “Oh my gosh, what did you say?”

“I told him that’s the way I saw it coach,” he calmly explains to me not even the slightest bit rattled.

“Were you sure?” I ask.

 “He beat the throw, mom, he was safe.”

And with that, it was done.  I could see that I have no reason for fear or worry.  In fact, I now see the much greater potential of this job.  He doesn’t worry about the controversy but rather relishes it.  He isn’t fazed when the eyes of the batter gaze up into his hoping for a ball but instead hearing, “Strike three batter out.”  He’s not wrestling over making the right call in the split second he has to make the decision.  He is growing up with each called time out to brush off the plate, each click of his ball and strike counter, each meeting he conducts with the coaches.

And more importantly, I hope he recognizes, that when he is the player looking at the ump back there behind the plate, that this game, like life, bounces all different directions and not every call is going to go the way you want it to but some of them will and that’s why it’s worth playing the game. 

Fighting Back

When our youngest son was learning to walk he did so by holding his arms high above his head and clinching his chubby sticky fists around the fingers of our hands.  Many a night we rubbed our lower backs wondering when he would walk on his own and we would once again stand upright instead of bent over the top of his toddling blond head.  It was a glorious day when he finally took off on his own wobbly jaunt across the living room floor—but he continued to walk for months with his arms high above his head, holding on to those imaginary fingers.

But even that sunny memory can’t lift my heavy heart on this morning. I just learned of a bullying incident at my son’s middle school yesterday.  It was a bad one and has apparently been ongoing for some time.  The boy involved couldn’t be a sweeter boy.  Kind, gentle, smart, soft-spoken, he’s the perfect target for a bully.  He could easily be my son.  That’s what makes it so hard to hear about and so disturbing that I couldn’t sleep last night.

As a parent you spend your entire life trying to protect your child from any bad experiences.  We don’t even allow our kids to watch PG-13 movies most of the time.  And yet, this is another reminder that in life there is no way to shelter them from every bad thing.  And I know that inevitably they will face these situations where the real hard parts of life will be front and center for them. 

I have been searching my heart to try and figure out how I would react in a similar situation if my son were in those shoes.  I feel so angry that I am certain I would be challenged to have a civil conversation with school officials.  Even though I know they can’t be everywhere at all times, I expect each child to be safe from these kinds of attacks at school.  And yet, I remember.  I know how kids operate, how they manipulate the system, how they know when and where they will get away with breaking the established rules.  If you are determined enough, you will find your time to bully.

I told my son, the only way as a parent I know how to help is through him, through his brain, his eyes, his ears, his heart.  I told him, that if ever this boy needs a pal and someone in his corner it’s now.  That’s how we parents can help each other become a stronger village.  I will do my best to help protect your child if you help protect mine.  I will let you know when I see misbehavior if you will do the same.  I will educate my son about fairness, compassion, and accepting differences and I am relying on you to do that too.

We are going about the business of trying to rally support for another kid who doesn’t deserve to but may indeed be facing one of the biggest challenges of his young life, the best way we know how.

And so I step carefully along the path of this new reality as close to my son’s side as I can be from this far away.  And I am getting the first glimpse of my 12 year old as a young man, learning to walk on his own without those two hands to grab a hold of at the slightest falter.  And I see now that the ache I felt all those years ago is still with me on this new walk, it’s just migrated from my back to my heart and I see once again that letting go of those sticky little fists is never easy.

Higher Altitude

They are like flashing lights along the highway.  They are the unnecessary Christmas decoration you don’t need but buy anyway.  They are so ridiculous and yet so tempting.

They are calling my name, but I laugh out loud at the very thought of them.

They are the shoes I keep seeing everywhere I look.  Heels that take high heels to the next level.  All the stars have them on T.V.  They are hot with a capital H.  And so naturally I think I should have them, too.  

They are platform high heels, like strapping actual blocks of wood on the balls of your feet, added to the giant riser under your heel. They must measure a full six inches from sole to top of the heel.   They’re the type of shoe that rock bands made famous back in the 70’s.

But now, all these years later I look around and I think they look incredible when I see them on the American Idol’s. I turn my head when I walk past them on the store shelf and I wonder how I would look in a pair of those. 

It’s no different than my boys when they found the design-your-own shoes page on the Nike website.  They created dozens of multi colored one-of-a-kind shoes that would “only” cost hundreds of dollars and would fit them for all of 6 months before they were too small or too worn-out.  But that didn’t stop them from trying to get a pair in their closet.  In spite of their desperate, head turned, drawn out, red-faced “Pleeeaaaaasssseeee?” I said no.

But that’s not helping me now. These shoes are different.  These are my feet.

I realize how impractical and frankly dangerous they must be, but that can’t stop me from daydreaming.

So, I finally strapped a pair on my own two feet.  They made me feel a little shot of adrenaline when I slipped them on.  And before I ever stood up I noticed a difference, a BIG difference.  My knees were elevated high above my thighs at an odd and alarming angle.

I am here to tell you, standing in these things took me to a new level in the atmosphere.  I felt like I was wearing actual stilts.  I got an entirely new perspective of the shoe department and in fact the entire world up there.  I felt like an awkward giraffe.  I was as tall as some NBA players.  And since I am not naturally gifted with grace, I felt actual fear knowing that I had become an accident waiting to happen if I intended to do anything other than stand in front of a mirror.

But wow, what a thrill they were.  It was a little like that old Jim Carey movie Mask.  Once they’re on your feet you become someone else.  And for the briefest of moments, I thought about pulling the trigger.

Then, I came back to reality.  Would I wear them to little league games?  A movie?  Out to dinner?  Out of my house?  I can’t picture what actual event I have in my near or distant future that I would have the occasion to wear these.  I would be a full 7 inches taller than my husband.  I’m pretty sure we would have to text each other from that distance.  I don’t think I could drive in them, I couldn’t reach the wheel with my seat that far back plus moving from the gas pedal to the brake would be like driving with two by fours.

So, as much as I would love to break out of my mold and live dangerously, I’m putting my high-heeled foot down and saying the same practical, “No” that I gave my kids.  I’m instead planning on appreciating them from afar.  But trust me, if you’re wearing them this summer I will be watching and a part of me will be jealous.

Text Me

I remember it like it was yesterday.  My friend got the first video game I’d ever seen.  It was the most amazing thing—bouncing back and forth there on the console TV on their family room floor.  We sat cross legged on the shag carpet staring at that black and white screen scooting little paddles up and down for hours playing Pong. 

A couple of months ago I had one of those tire-screeching moments when all my world went crashing back into that 1970s family room.

“Mom, can I get pong?” my 9 year old was asking me!

I laughed out loud at the thought. Among all his other requests how could Pong be among them?  I am certain my house is no different than millions of others where the I-pod technology is threatening to take over the world.  Daily conversations include things like, “Mom, can we buy, Tiny Wings? Nate has Robot Unicorn.  Jelly Car 3 is out!”

My husband says they will never be able to drive since they never see the road when we’re in the car.

Among the angry birds, zombies, pocket frogs, rats on scooters, stunt bikers and burgers in the sky, I never thought there would be Pong! But, sure enough, there on Jake’s tiny screen, just as I remembered it, was Pong’s familiar black and white bouncing ball.  Wow was it boring!

And right there in front of me was another living testament as to how much my life is different than my son’s. 

The one phone we had in the house back then was connected by a cord to the kitchen wall where privacy was nonexistent. Today, my 9 year old has discovered that there is a free app allowing him to have texting alongside all his games on that tiny little device.

With that, a brand new door opened in our lives.  Ushering in the free flowing conversation, uninhibited by prying ears or actual speech that jumps instantly from mind to tapping fingers and arrives with a cheerful programmed cymbal crash announcing the newest message awaits.  Many parents before me have already endured this constant connection with friends, but that doesn’t make it feel any better for me. 

And so, new laws of the land have been laid down.  Privacy rules similar to my hard-wired kitchen phone are now in place.  All texting parties now know that conversations can be monitored without notice, respect is required, and there is accountability for the things you are typing. Punishment will be severe.

With all the threats fresh in my mind I scroll through a recent texting conversation, half expecting to find violations.  Instead what I did find was something so sweet, so sentimental, and so powerful I once again was stopped in my tracks at the differences between my life and my son’s.

“I just found out my mom has breast cancer” the text to my son says. 

“that is awful I feel so bad 4 u” says my son

“I can’t stop crying.”

“I feel like crying 2”

“ wat if she dies”

“She wont die u hav 2 b confident” replies my son.

And later, “I will wear my breast cancer bracelet 4 u” he says.

“thnx” is the reply then, “im not crying anymore”

And so, I get it.  These kids have many privileges, many games, many connections, and many opportunities. And while I am sometimes frozen with fear of it all, sometimes it’s good.  They are good. The life they live is much more complicated and more sophisticated than anything I could have imagined and it will take a lot more than Pong to prepare them for it. 

Practice Makes Perfect

It was both brilliant and ridiculous.  I dreaded it and relished it at the same time.  It was a contradiction from the moment the idea was hatched.

It started in the form of an innocent looking note on pink paper that came home from school in my son’s backpack.  The 6^th grade band would be taking on a new project.  Each member of the band would be demonstrating their knowledge to another adult.  It all sounded like a great idea to me until I got to the part with the meat of the project.  The best way to demonstrate what they’ve learned, the note explained, is by teaching someone else to play their instrument.  Not only that, the best way to prove that their lessons have been effective is to hold a concert at which the parents can then demonstrate their new found skills before a snickering audience. 

And so, that’s how I discovered I would soon be taking trombone lessons, since naturally John’s father would be conveniently and safely out of town on the night of the required performance.

The lessons were absurd, as I attempted to spew high and low spit-splattering notes through the metal mouthpiece presented to me by my trombone wielding son.

“Mom relax your air,” he tried to explain to me as I grew red faced and burst into laughter.  “Mom don’t make your lips so tight.”

“Mom, don’t puff out your cheeks,” he would say as he put his hands on his head in dismay.

Then came “Mom you don’t have to play so loud,” once we finally graduated to making sounds.

But, in spite of my lack of natural talent, my son turned out to be a gifted instructor and I finally mastered four notes which I tortured into a version of Hot Cross Buns.  

I must say, there was a certain feeling of pride and accomplishment that washed over me when I belted out a nearly flawless Twinkle Twinkle Little Star. 

And I admit seeing my son emerge as a patient, shy, yet attentive teacher made the project more than bearable.  It was a time filled with sweet moments of praise showered over me for the most horrendous noise that sent the rest of the living creatures in our house to the basement.  “Did you hear that,” I would yell after practicing.  “The whole neighborhood can hear it!” would be the reply.

Finally the night of the concert arrived.  Ready or not we would be showing our stuff.  For his part, John looked stiff and uncomfortable in his brand new black pants and button down white shirt band attire.  But to me he was the epitome of that middle school rite of passage caught smack dab between little boy and young man. I had to resist squeezing him.

The Middle School Gym was the site.  The acoustics perfect for the occasion.  The real band played their music beautifully before an audience of proud parents and relatives.  Then the moment of truth; the parent band sat warming up in the seats our children had just vacated. 

During the first song I couldn’t help but laugh because even though it was so loud I couldn’t hear the notes I was making, I sensed that they were all wrong, every one.  And yet, when I glanced over, there was John applauding, and laughing with his friends.  Afterward he patted me on my back and said, “You did good, Mom.”  Gazing back into those thick eyelashes and radiant smile, I felt like we were comrades for a brief moment, walking away from a shared battle of sorts that only the two of us could fully appreciate.  I gave him a quick hug and I realized he was right, I did do good.

Making the Best of it

We said goodbye to my “little” Grandma Irene in January.  She would have turned 99 in March. I was bigger than her by 5^th grade, and as an adult always felt twice her size.  She was one of those kinds of people who, from my perspective, were nothing short of perfect.  She was beautiful inside and out.  She was smart.  She liked to learn a new word every day. She was gentle, kind and patient. And, if I was smart enough to pay attention, she showed us all one of the most perfect examples of how to live a good life that I know of.

Almost every evening around 5, she and Grandpa “Flip” would enjoy a Southern Comfort and lemonade.  They ate small healthy meals. They enjoyed simple pleasures. And they knew how to have good laughs.  They lived through the Great Depression and two World Wars.  They knew how to face adversity.  They knew how to save for a rainy day.  They were prepared for the worst but expected the best.  They knew how to make the best of it.

And even as I was learning the news of Grandma Irene’s passing I was also about to learn one of the great lessons of life first hand.

I found out the news moments after our plane touched down in Orlando as we stood in line for a bus to our Disney wonderland vacation. I would miss her services back home. It was the start of an ironic chain of events that no one could have ever predicted.  It set a tone for our trip that I thought we would not be able to shake.  The whole mess was simply a disaster that couldn’t be avoided. 

The details are not relevant, so I will strip our story to its bare essentials.  As we wiped tears and walked to our bus, we realized the weather was freezing.  Florida was experiencing a rare cold snap.  Jake was, we thought, recovering from a stomach virus which he came down with the day before we left.  Sadly, that was not to be.  Our little guy was sick the entire trip, every single night.  He lost six pounds and did not eat one full meal.  He was weak and without energy, too queasy for many rides. Once the weather warmed up a bit we experienced a day of pelting 4 inch rains.  

I spent the first full day of our dream vacation, bitter, angry, and tearful.  I was jealous of all the happiness that surrounded us everywhere we looked.   Then that sweet boy of mine burst into tears and said, “Mommy, I’m sorry I’m ruining our vacation!”

It was then that I knew, I physically felt the presence of Grandma, and I knew what she would do and what I needed to do too.  We needed to make the best of what we had.  We were facing a moment of great adversity for our family and how we responded would set an example that we would all need to learn from.  Would this defeat us or would we do what Grandma would do and look for the ray of sunshine in all those clouds.

And so, our trip turned out much different than we had anticipated.  But we each dug deep and found ways to not just survive but to lift each other up, to enjoy close company, to appreciate feelings of empathy for each other we likely wouldn’t have looked for otherwise, and had genuine moments of joy amidst many other moments of difficult challenges.

One day I hope we will look back on this as “that vacation” and smile and think of good memories and how we did the best we could.

Our generation has experienced privileges we cannot fully appreciate, but we can learn, if we open our eyes, a lesson from those who make up the Greatest Generation. We can teach our children that they can sink or swim.  We can show them how to be bitter and angry or we can smile and help them find the bright side.  We can be defeated and give up or we can face our challenges and make the best of it. I know what Grandma would do.   

Just enough time

Why is it that most chaos, damage and destruction happen at my house when I am in the bathroom?  It’s impossible to avoid of course. And it’s not like it’s a leisurely vacation in there.  It’s just a few seconds ticking off the clock.  But usually that’s just enough time.

When Jake was about 2 that was the time the older boys in the neighborhood decided he could sit by himself on a tricycle. I was just about to walk out the door when John came running in yelling, “Jake’s blooding!”  It was just enough time.

So tonight, I am hearing from outside my private perch, “Come on, come on just do it!”  Followed by scuffling sounds and then loud crying and the inevitable, “Ohhh, are you ok??” 

I come running out to see what trauma is unfolding but in my haste I jam my hand into the door and send my glass flying on the tile floor, shattering the thing to a jillion jagged shards.

By the time the mess is cleaned up, it’s time to get the little darlings in bed, and what had started as an evening of relaxation is instead a big frustrating confusion of politicking on who said what and who started it and who is mad at whom all ending with good nights that are more terse than usual and feelings that are most certainly hurt. None of the three of us are without blame, but that doesn’t make anyone feel any better.

While I know I will be picking up tiny bits of glass for days to come, that’s not what I’m really bothered by at all.  I know accidents happen and the whole thing isn’t even a blip on the radar screen of events to be remembered in life. So why is my mood so glum I ask myself in the quiet of an evening when I’m alone in a house with everyone asleep but me?  And I know the answer as sure as I know the sounds of their steady even breathing in their rooms down the hall.  The real problem of the night is that even one happy bedtime stolen away is too many. 

I know the reality is the happy bedtime routine I love is slipping away from me, and one day won’t be a part of my evenings at all. From the very beginning it was the routine that grounded us all through dark days of sleep deprivation, long nights of fever and croup, troubles at work and school, they all seem a little more bearable once you reach the familiar routine of winding down and getting ready for bed.  Back then it was books and baths and nightlights the very same motions step by step every night so that we all knew every bit by heart. And even though the steps are much more independent now all the motions still spell out the ultimate peaceful end to another day. 

Always, always the last step leads me into their darkened rooms to lean over each of their beds to hug, to feel their arms around my neck, to put my cheek against theirs and whisper I love you in each other’s ears.  

What started out as a way to give the kids quiet confidence at bedtime has instead turned out to be a gift to the whole family. And I don’t want to hurry that moment even one time since I‘ll have plenty of time later to clean up life’s spilled milk and maybe even spend a few extra moments in the bathroom if I want to.