Tag Archives: Little Ones

Stolen Moment #1

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I wasn’t kidding when I said I only had five minutes here and there to write these days… But I also wasn’t kidding when I said I’d post every day during the week until the Summer is over and I have some blocks of time to devote to something a bit more significant.

So here’s what I’ve got today.

Oliver had his second day of auditory processing therapy. He’s done really well with just leaving me in the waiting room without a backward glance and keeping his headphones on. I credit this to us having been there once before for the testing (when he wasn’t so keen on leaving me OR wearing headphones) and the home system that we’ve been using for the two months prior to in-office therapy.

Yesterday, I left the twins with a friend (my apologies Jenn) so that I’d be able to help transition Oliver as necessary. Since it wasn’t necessary, I felt much better about bringing the whole gang today. I won’t bore you with the picky details – but here are some highlights:

1. For two days in a row, Oliver has materialized in front of me at the end of his hour and twenty minutes brandishing a page of sticker that say “Diva” and “Drama Queen.” Since he’s not bothered by girl colors (even though green is his official favorite), he wore his purple and pink with pride.

2. George and Eleanor are desperate for their own “appointments.” Especially at this place with all of the cool OT gear. Tire swings apparently make a difficult childhood of developmental delays totally worth it.

3. Most importantly – I’ve really seen improvement in a short period of time doing the home listening program. I’ll write more about this another day since I find it fascinating (in the very little research, general idea way that I find things fascinating) – but the bottom line is that this is doing something, and we’ll take it!

Gotta run – I actually have plans to meet a couple of friends out for a drink. A luxury that life as a suburban housewife rarely offers me. So again – I’ll take it!

Random Availability

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So I really was meaning to write something here this week… But Netflix sent us a couple of Weeds DVDs and my evenings have been pretty booked up with that.

And I’m not even kidding.

I actually did have something half written – but in the heat of some manic organization, I accidentally deleted it. So I feel really incentivized by that…

Instead I’m going to do one of those “Random Tuesday” posts. Which is very much in keeping with my personal style since, you know – it’s Thursday.

Here are some doings and goings on from the past week or two.

Eleanor turned 16. Or at least she thinks so. The exasperated “oh MOM!” sighs from my three year old daughter are plentiful these days. But she’s also been delighting me by parroting my own overused turns of phrase. Sometimes they aren’t the most attractive of reflections:

Eleanor [downstairs]: Mom – can I have some water?

Me [upstairs]: Sure – but please come up here instead of yelling.

Eleanor [probably rolling her eyes since she’s impersonating a teenager]: But I’m watching TV…

Me: Well – I’m making dinner, so if you want it, you’ll have to come up.

Eleanor [stomping up the stairs]: OKAY! But I really don’t have time for this right now!

Nice work, mom…

But then she also does things like cup her hands on either side of my face, look me in the eyes and say, “you are my very special girl.” So I guess I can live with the rest.

George has been rather challenging lately. Which is to say he’s a very bad little boy. Lots of drawing on walls, destroying expensive blush with manicure tools, screaming for candy at 8:00 a.m… And he’s so intense – he literally loses his mind when he becomes agitated. I’ve mentioned before that he’s a screamer, and I don’t think I could ever fully convey through the the medium of written word exactly how piercing that sound is. I believe it’s one octave lower than the pitch of a dog whistle. The highest note audible to human ears. It’s not a good sound. So it’s not surprising that he has been led to believe that candy may be a breakfast option every now and again…

I worry about George.

But his “quirks” will have a little more time to develop while I focus all of my immediate attention on doing everything I can to prepare Oliver for Kindergarten. His IEP is DONE! And I’m fairly pleased with it. I didn’t get everything I asked for – but close. And at this point, I think he really needs to be there before I can decide if he needs more services.

And I have high hopes for additional progress over this summer since he’ll be doing a number of different things in the way of therapy. OT on Wednesdays, a social skills group on Fridays (hard to explain that one…play therapy?), and most exciting – auditory processing therapy. That last one is kind of controversial, but we’ve had him doing a home listening program that has already produced some pretty impressive results.

Initially, I thought I’d try to be very cautious about my expectations – to keep my hopes in check and just see how things go. But you know what? Fuck that. I’m going full tilt The Secret on this one. My feelings? So don’t matter. If any single shred of positive attitude can tilt the universe in favor of my son’s success – then I think I can handle whatever disappointment comes my way. I’m expecting a miracle. And I can actually do that, because I have a black belt in adapting to whatever garbage life throws me. I’ve been doing it for years, and I can do it again as necessary in September. Because I’m going to be thrilled with any results I see.

And then of course there is the abyss of “the Summer” looming. Tomorrow is the last day of preschool and I will no longer have that bus pick up to break up the day and give us some structure. I’m going to have to come up with a schedule of sorts (aside from Oliver’s Kindergarten boot camp training that is). So that’s a new project for me.

Fun things coming up include a trip to the West Coast to see Chris’ family the first week of July. We’ll be at the beach in California for half the time and will then drive to Phoenix to stay at my inlaws’ house. I haven’t been there since Oliver was a baby – so I’m really looking forward to it.

Then just a few weeks later, I’ll be going to BlogHer. I’m actually pretty excited for this since I’ve never been able to go before. And NYC is so close. It’s one of my favorite cities, so I’m hoping to work in a little time outside the conference hotel. So far – no big plans, but I’m starting to ask around about meeting up with various online friends. Will you be there? Let me know.

Oh – and I’m writing this on a new netbook since our computer is dying. Apparently “the motherboard is going.” I don’t know much about computers – but as a “mother” I thought this sounded rather ominous. Because we all know that “when the mama ain’t happy – ain’t nobody happy.” Or something like that.

Until we replace the computer, my posts may be rather photo-free. I have no idea how to access images from my new external hard drive. So far it looks like the netboook’s motherboard isn’t all that compatible with external hard drive. While the external hard drive is physically present, it seems impossible to retrieve any of the data. I’m starting to get a little frustrated…these aloof external hard drive types are so draining. No matter what I try, it just won’t let me in. Things aren’t looking good as my motherboard surely won’t stand for this kind of treatment. And all I want are some family pictures. A few fond memories to pop into an otherwise meaningless post. Apparently, this means nothing to the all take and no give external hard drive. At the moment, nothing is available to me. Emotionally unavailable external hard drives…they’re all the same.

Now that was just sad…I’m going to quit while I’m ahead (or only slightly behind). Since I can’t leave you with an uplifting image plucked from that daily miracle we call motherhood, you can just close your eyes picture three smiling faces, smudge free and without a trace of impending drama, trauma or tantrums. Also know that this doesn’t exist anywhere in the Hood family hard drive (external or not). But when given creative license, you may as well run with it.

Sound Byte: Raising a Star

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Okay – I’ve got another one. As you may have guessed from my last post, Eleanor cracks me up.

Every time she throws another gem at me, I think, “I need to write this stuff down.”

So why not. I have only one post to show for myself this week (here, that is – I have plenty going on at Wishing True and Style Key West).

Anyway – here it is. When she’s not wearing dresses, Eleanor can also be found in summer pjs covered in stars. She loves them and calls them her “star pajamas.” She’s so creative…where does she come up with this stuff?!

Well the other morning while entrenched in some early a.m. mother torture, she was wearing her star pjs and doing a little water color painting. I came over to admire her work and commented that I loved her precise, linear style.

Her response? “Yeah – I’m a star.”

I love how my kids are at an age when humility or self deprecating protests are incomprehensible. I’ll cry when that ends…

So of course, I agreed, “yes – you are a star sweetie.”

She looked pleased with herself and elaborated, “uh huh – I’m a star in my pants.”

Dream big, baby – dream big.

The Shooting Range

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As a parent of three small children in a townhouse community FULL of children, I’m only just starting to experience the anxiety of letting them play outside the safety of our front lawn. At one time, they would happily stay close to home and never considered crossing the street to interact with the older kids. But now that my oldest is five and my younger two are three, I suddenly find myself lapping our block and crossing into the next cul de sac to hunt down escapees.

They’re still a bit young to seriously join the roving gang of elementary schoolers on bikes and scooters. But when the games involve running through the woodsy common areas with plastic guns and gun-like sticks, the possibility for blending in with the crowd becomes more likely.

And as usual, my first concern is how my five year old with communication delays and all of the awkward social behaviors that accompany them will handle this. I worry that Oliver will opt to disengage and continue to play by himself in the dirt. I worry that he’ll try to play with the other kids but be rejected. I worry that he’ll manage to stay with the group but take their game too far and come across as aggressive.

There are so many things to worry about… So ultimately, I just don’t. I follow Oliver’s lead and try not to interfere. But when I see an opportunity to help him figure things out – I do make the effort.

So I recently bought some cheap dart guns from the grocery store. Then one quiet afternoon when the twins were napping and the other neighborhood kids were scarce, I set up a little shooting range for us. I showed Oliver how to cock, insert the dart, aim and pull the trigger. I, who have never expressed any interest in hunting, paintball, popular college “assassin” games or war movies, yet again had to push my own preferences aside to help my child be normal.

And what at thing to teach him! I mean – aren’t we supposed to discourage guns? Or at the very least, tolerate them within limits? I’ve never heard any experts suggesting that you teach your child to be the quickest draw on the block to help him fit in. But at the end of the day, I have little concern for my son’s future of wielding guns on clock towers or in convenience stores. I’m a bit more focused on him not getting pantsed in Kindergarten.

To be honest though, it doesn’t look like I have much to be worried about anyway. When I suggested that we turn our guns on each other (cringe), he didn’t much like that idea. My little pacifist! We compromised by shooting at our reflections in the windows. And a good time was had by all….sigh.

While I can’t say that I think he’ll be quite the gun fanatic that I see budding in his three year old brother, George…he does now have a clue about what to do if he encounters a pick up game of Armageddon with the guys.

I miss the days of watching Oliver toddle around. Of being oblivious to the future of special needs hurtling at us with a speed and force that would literally knock us flat. But you can’t look back. In fact, I’ve found that you can’t look that far into the future either.

It may sound short sighted to say that I’m not worried about the long term effects of encouraging what most parents consider “inappropriate toys,” all in the name of a short term goal to help him fit in. But just as I had no idea that my seemingly typical baby and then toddler would develop such complicated learning and social delays, how could I possibly predict the person he will eventually become? I personally think that he will be someone pretty wonderful. And a few unorthodox parenting strategies will not greatly impact the the bigger picture of his future as a law abiding citizen.

Like I said – he doesn’t seem to be all that gun crazy anyway. In general, he largely ignores the war games going on around him. But the other day while we were standing outside, he actually picked up a stick with the rudimentary shape of a gun and pointed it at one of our neighbors, a very enthusiastic war mongering six year old. He even made a little shooting noise.

I nearly burst with pride.

That same evening I witnessed something truly amazing. My Oliver, who has a hard time figuring out how to even be a follower with the neighborhood kids, actually took the lead.

Our next door neighbors have a cat named Tony. He’s a sweet black and white kitty who lounges around on various front steps and cars. He’s friendly and more importantly, extremely patient with the grasping and groping hands of the local tots.

Oliver loves this cat. He will lie down next to Tony on the sidewalk while petting him. He will follow him around when Tony tires of his advances and tries to leave. I’ve even found Oliver’s little feet sticking out from under our car where Tony had taken refuge (I can’t take my eye of those kids for a minute…) And there was no exception that evening when Tony came strolling around the corner. He was immediately attacked by my adoring son.

After a few minutes, Tony decided that it was time to extract himself from all of that suffocating love. And of course, when the poor cat darted away, Oliver followed. As luck would have it, this grabbed the attention of our six year old neighbor friend and another little boy who was standing nearby. They ran up to see what Oliver was doing.

Oliver just said, “want to go get Tony?” and out of nowhere, a wild chase ensued. Now joined by my twins, the three boys ran like crazy after poor Tony all around our side of the block. They chased him under back porches and crowed with delight when they saw him streak by in another attempt at escape. I would have been happy to just see Oliver joining in the game, but this time he was actually calling the shots, “this way!…there he is….get him!“

I have never been so thrilled to see children torturing an animal.

Okay – “torturing” is a rather gross exaggeration… But I think it’s safe to say that Tony would have preferred to spend that thirty minutes sunning himself in the last few rays of daylight.

Of course, none of the children actually hurt, let alone touched Tony. And he’s still fond of us, willing to let Oliver pet him for limited periods of time. But that evening, he was more than just the neighbors’ friendly cat. He was the catalyst for what would be the first time Oliver played with a group of children for that long without losing interest and wandering off. I almost cried to hear him say “follow me!” and then to actually see the other kids do just that.

So yeah – yet another example of allowing behavior that should probably be discouraged. I admit it – I make some iffy calls…but I generally stand behind my choices.

I don’t look too far ahead. It’s simply too much for me to take in. Too many unknowns. Too much worry…too much hope… Instead I try to aim for the more attainable goals in the here and now.

I don’t know much about shooting, but my guess is that you have to keep your range realistic. Anything can happen – sometimes the easiest target might give you the slip. But it goes without saying that you should take your chances when you’ve got a clear shot. One that’s close enough to touch. Even if it seems a bit risky. Life is always risky, so why not take our chances when the odds are in our favor. You take a risk every time you walk out your front door. Just ask Tony.

G Money

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My son, George is already exhibiting signs of a rather unpleasant obsession with money. Specifically coins.

The good news is that living in the US and not in Europe, I don’t have to worry about him extracting anything significant out of my purse while I’m not looking. Seriously – if confronted with a hundred dollar bill and a couple of pennies, he’ll opt for the literal version of “cold, hard cash.” Not that he has many (any) opportunities to help himself to a hundred dollar bill out of my purse…but I’m sure I’ve got a few crumpled singles floating around at any given time.

This coin mania has become incredibly annoying in that he will actually yell, “MONEY! MONEY!” when he wants a penny to put in his pocket. Usually in public of course. Possibly from the bottom of the shopping cart while I’m screaming at one of the other two to “sit DOWN” or “put that back!“

I frequently thank my lucky stars that I’ve found a way to not really care what anyone else thinks. Much.

But George is a man of many, um…quirks. And we just try to have a sense of humor about it (while stuffing a piece of candy in his mouth to shut him up).

Recently, we had a good laugh over this particular gem when it was paired with his other more commonplace three year old practice of not always recognizing certain things as gender specific (see this post for another example of that).

A couple of weeks ago, we were eating lunch at a local chicken wing place. And by “eating lunch” I mean that my husband was eating chicken wings, I was eating a salad and something like mozzarella sticks (because wings encompass pretty much every meat-related phobia I have) and the kids were ignoring their plates while playing with the various video games and vending machines.

We do this two or three times a month, so we pretty much have a system down. There are only three of our five family members at the table at any given time and I spend a considerable portion of the meal trying to hide the most offensive of the cheap trinkets they bring back to us in those plastic bubbles I remember from my own youth. And I sometimes wonder if some of said trinkets may have been in the vending machines that long.

One that I actually kept because it was so hilarious was a Ricky Martin medallion, circa 1999. But on this particular day, George was gifted with something far more special than the usual super balls and army men. He opened his plastic bubble and found a “necklace.”


Isn’t it gorgeous? He was so proud of it and had no idea that he looked like a tiny white aspiring rapper. At three, he has no idea what a rapper is – but we immediately dubbed him G Money and took about 500 pictures with my iPhone.



He insisted on wearing his special necklace every day until it mysteriously disappeared. Strange how these things always seem to happen while they’re sleeping… Anyway, a couple of weeks later, George acquired a new look to wear out in public:


Yes – those are two Scooby Doo band aids on his face. Earlier in the day, he got into a package of hot Thai seasonings that somehow blew into his eyes. Luckily, I was right behind him and could immediately stick his face under the cold tap. Of course, he didn’t understand that I was trying to help and screamed and thrashed, alerting the neighborhood to one of the many acts of child abuse that goes on in my house on a daily basis.

While his eyes were fine, it did hurt a lot and he had some burned patches. And in the universal expectation that a band aid can fix everything, he insisted on applying a couple (which I made sure were placed on unburned skin lower on his cheek bones). Then we went out to lunch.


And to be honest, I really could have cared less. It bothered me a little bit that he looked like someone had been beating his face…particularly since the side of Eleanor’s nose was green from a rather nasty fall on her face while playing outside the day prior… But what can you do?

I love this about children – the disregard for the opinions of others. It doesn’t serve me well when I’m trying to shame them into realizing that you can’t go outside without pants – but it does make me feel better about their ragamuffin end of season apparel that looks like it came off the costume racks for Oliver Twist.

So I’ll embrace George’s prerogative to scream for money and wear lip gloss and bling and demand band aids on his face that resemble war paint. It’s so easy to get caught up in what other people think – to be insecure. I admire the guileless self confidence of youth.

But I also know that it ends – or goes on hiatus from time to time. And someday when George is older and regrettably wiser, and feels the pinch of derision from the outside world, I’ll pull out these pictures and an old line from Swingers, telling him, “you’re so money and you don’t even know it.“


How Do You Want to be Remembered?

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I do a lot of yelling. In fact, I often wonder if the neighbors who don’t know me well assume I’m an abusive parent. Whenever I’m outside, I seem to be bellowing at least one of my children’s names and threatening everything from time outs and revoked toys to cancelled trips to Dairy Queen. Whether or not I mean it (it’s often the latter), I think I sound pretty serious.

Of course, my yelling is rarely angry. If anything it’s just a necessary evil. When I’m quiet, no one listens to me. But when I yell, I have a much better chance of moving their attention away from the earth worms they’re torturing and getting all sets of eyes on me.

Unfortunately, the result is everyone in a three block radius being made aware that OLIVER! or GEORGE! or ELEANOR! is NOT LISTENING! or needs to GET OUT OF THE STREET! or BETTER CLIMB OFF THAT CAR!

God – I’m loud.

And I was never like this before – so loud and angry-sounding…. In general, I’m a rather reserved person and I have always been kind and patient with children. In fact, as a babysitter, I was the biggest pushover around. A second helping of ice cream? Of course sweetie. Hmmm – it’s bedtime, but you’re really enjoying this movie…let’s wait until it’s over. What – they’re not allowed to slide down the stairs in laundry baskets?

I wouldn’t say that I was particularly fun myself…but I never got in the way of their good time. And aside from all of that, it would never have occurred to me to raise my voice to any of them. No matter how naughty they were – or how dangerous the situation, they weren’t my children and yelling at them would have seemed unthinkable.

But now I do have children. And I’m not just the easy going babysitter who can be coerced in to allowing pretty much anything that doesn’t involve water and electrical appliances. I’m supposed to make rules and set limits. And then actually enforce them.

So I do a lot of yelling. And I worry about how my children will remember me. Will they look back and see themselves playing happily outside as I scream admonishments at them. Or will they look back and think, “yeah, I guess I really shouldn’t have been throwing dirt at that car…”

As much as I’d like to think they’ll remember the cozier, Rockwellian family scenes of cuddling in bed, reading books or building forts with the couch cushions, who is to say which memories will rise to the surface first. Who knows which will have the stronger resonance. Though I’m pretty sure that laissez faire babysitter I used to be would have a better chance at my preference.

But the truth is – as much as I yell to get their attention outside, I’m also pretty bad about consistent rules and consequences. Until recently, I regarded this as another parenting fail on my part. But in light of this new concern that I’ll be remembered as a mean mommy – that might be a good thing.

Letting children eat leftover birthday cake for breakfast (because they caught me doing it) would be reminisced about with fondness, right? And my tendency to diffuse melt downs with hugs and jokes (and possibly cookies) is a far better image than hours of banishment to naughty steps… So really, I could put a different spin on this lingering shade from my babysitting days if I wanted to. I’m not a poor disciplinarian, I’m just fun (or “not mean”).

I know I’ve made myself sound like a terrible parent with all of the yelling and double desserts…but it goes without saying that I am a responsible mother and I do make sure that we don’t live in complete chaos (notice the disclaimer of “complete”). In the end – like everyone else, I’m just doing the best I can. And I have both hits and misses – sometimes so close together that it’s a wash.

My own mother has often lamented all of the yelling she did when we were little. But the truth is, I have no recollection of this. I only remember her as being the soft, safe place in my world. The true source of unconditional love. And the role model for how much parents should try to understand before passing judgement.

So maybe my worrying is a waste of time. I can’t predict what my kids will remember from their childhood. It may be very little – or it may be every detail. But as long as I keep coming back to my love for them and pride in their every accomplishment, it can’t be that bad.

And I hope that they do remember me sitting around with them eating chocolate cake for breakfast. Because that is far closer to how I feel about them than my displeasure with their dirt focused activities. “Let them eat cake – but don’t let them throw dirt.” That’s how I’d like to be remembered.

Coach Kate’s Play Book – the Good News and the Bad News…

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My week’s experience in the world of sports has certainly lived up to “the agony and the ecstasy,” as described by some famous person I would know if I wasn’t completely clueless. There have been some very promising days and some disheartening ones…

So I’ll start with the good. Last we left off, Oliver’s first Blast Ball practice was “okay” and he only hated it about 90% of the time. So I was feeling positive about the future.

I thought it would be a good idea to get him used to the field by having some of our own practices each day. I was only able to fit in two before the first game last Saturday, but that seemed to be adequate.

Our first practice was Wednesday morning and after a brief hesitation, Oliver saw the empty field and was thrilled to play with his new batting equipment. The twins were too since they are three years old and get excited about everything from lady bugs to Target runs. Everyone was happy.

I set up our tee and used an old magna doodle for the base (there is only one base in Blast Ball). First I tried to get the twins to stand in the “outfield” while Oliver was at bat. But they were having none of that. Everyone wanted to hit the ball, so I gave up and just had them focus on that. I could teach fielding another day.

Getting them to run to the base and back was easy once I established some terminology they could understand. Hit the ball! Now drop the bat! Run to the base! Now stomp on it! Now come back come back come back! No this way! Over here! Run over here! Good – you’ve got it! Now stop! Stop! Stop! N0 – seriously, come back! I yelled the entire time we were there. To anyone passing by, I must have sounded like one of those hard core sports moms. I’m not kidding – I was hoarse by the end.

They improved very quickly, but once the novelty wore off, some new distractions complicated things. Oliver discovered that he could climb a tree about ten feet away from where we were playing, and insisted on doing that whenever it wasn’t his turn. Then Eleanor kept wanting to play with the base and George was terrorized by the cloud of gnats that descended upon our shady spot.

Things degenerated after about 20 minutes, but then I did some ball chasing with them like Coach Keys’ drill and figured that we had a great first practice. It was time to quit while we were ahead.

The next practice a couple of days later was less successful – but it was all George’s fault. He had a melt down because I didn’t bring the bat he preferred and during this hysteria, his gnat phobia took on epic proportions. He screamed and swatted at the air as if he were in submerged in piranha infested waters. I had to pick him up to calm him down and this interfered with my ability to help the other two with their batting form. So after a few runs to the base, Oliver played in the tree, Eleanor had a snack and I talked George off the ledge.

At this point, I was a little anxious about Saturday’s game. While Oliver enjoyed playing with his small family, I knew that he would be intimidated by the bigger group of strangers and all of the cheering noise. Pushing him up to the tee would be much like sitting him on Santa’s knee at the mall – depending on his mood and the crowd, it could go either way.

And here is where the bad news comes in. The game was a complete disaster. Instead of taking place on the patch of grass that was now so familiar, we were on a different, more official playing field. And it was ten times more loud and crowded than I had expected. Oliver was terrified.

He didn’t mind sitting and watching – but the suggestion that he join his team sent him into a panic. He wanted nothing to do with it and refused to wear his new shirt and hat. There was crying and even a little screaming when I tried to bring him over to bat. Even Coach Keys’ adorable older son wasn’t able to get Oliver to come out of his shell. He had pretty much shut down.

All parents know their child’s limits and this went far beyond what I knew he could handle. Between his sensory issues that amplified the din of the crowd, to his inability to make sense of the rapid fire directions from the coaches, the entire situation was a recipe for failure.

And while I want to encourage Oliver to try, I’ll never set him up to fail.

So a decision now needs to be made. Do we push through and hope that he warms up to it? Or do we remember that we embarked on this adventure with the attitude that if he wasn’t ready, we’d just drop it? If we quit Blast Ball, does that make us quitters? Or people who do what is best for their kids regardless of personal feelings? And what is the “best” thing for him?

Coach Keys offered to let Oliver just come to practices since that seemed a bit more doable for him. But when I tried to get him to wear his Rattlers shirt yesterday, he ran in fear – like I was trying to drape an actual rattle snake around his shoulders. I have little hope of getting him to put it on for practice today.

Then of course, there is the more practical complication of who will watch the twins while I take Oliver to practice at 5:30. Chris’ injury makes it impossible for him to do public transportation and his driving commute is twice as long. Even if he left early, he’d never be here in time. While I had originally thought I’d be able to bring them with me at this point and just sit with them on the sidelines, that’s not looking possible.

So maybe the universe is trying to tell me something. Maybe it was a good idea, but ultimately not going to work out right now. Maybe our very limited experience was enough. It gave me some incentive to put aside my own distaste for games and put on my coach’s hat. It’s provided me with inspiration for games I should be playing with my kids this summer – ones that will help get them ready for the sports that will be part of their school experience.

As much as I hate the idea of quitting just when I was feeling so committed, I have to remember why I was doing it. This was for Oliver, not me. And it’s looking like he may not be ready. He’s come so far, and I know that he could do this if we went out with his team every day and really worked at it. But practice only takes place once a week – and even with our family practices, that’s not enough.

So unless I can find someone to watch George and Eleanor this evening, I think that we may be leaving this Blast Ball season before it really even started. And for what it’s worth, I’m proud of everything we achieved. Both Oliver and me. We faced some demons, we had some fun and we learned a new game.

Personally, I realized that coaching my child in sports is no different from every day parenting. You provide them with rules and guidelines. You encourage them and praise them. You teach them what you know and learn from them in the process. And you put your own fears and hang ups aside to help them succeed.

And at the end of the day, you throw away the play book. Every child, every family and every day is different. And the old sayings don’t always apply. You often hear that quitters never win, and winners never quit. This is usually a good motto, but I don’t think that’s true for us today. Because I know my team better than anyone else. And a good coach always knows when it’s time to take a player out of the game.

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ELSEWHERE:

On Wishing True…

Thank You Notes to the universe

Elva Fields glamour

A Little Bee and a Giveaway

On Style Key West…

Seaside Inspiration

Taking One for the Team

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Have I ever mentioned that I hate sports? And it’s not even just athletic competition – I really don’t like games of any kind. Family board game commercials give me hives. Gambling in Vegas? No thank you. I would rather spend the afternoon at the dentist office than sit through an hour of poker.

This tends to put people off. How can I not like FUN? But you have to realize that from my perspective, fun rarely involves a my team-your team smack down. I can usually get away with my aversion to gambling since many people prefer not to trust Lady Luck with their wallet. And I’m certainly not the first person to have little attention span for rolling dice and moving game pieces. But sports! What could be more wholesome and character building than sports? Running down a field with your opponent hot on your heels pumps your body full of endorphins and makes you feel young again. It’s not normal to dislike sports. It’s unhealthy. It’s UNAmerican.

But I really just don’t. And I’m totally okay with this. I lived through years of school P.E. classes and feel perfectly confident in my preference to sit on the sidelines with a book. Don’t bother inviting me to join your weekend kickball team. I understand that it’s just fun and no one cares how bad you are. At this point, it’s beyond me not being good at sports. They just bore me to tears. I exercise for my health and leave competition out of it.

So you may find it surprising to hear that I actually did join a sports team recently. I just had my first practice on Tuesday and tomorrow will be our first game. I have to admit that I’m a little nervous. There will be people watching and I dread all of that time standing around in the sun, but I just try to focus on the ice cream that Coach Keys promised we’d get after the game.

Oh yeah – did I mention that I’m playing tee ball?

Actually – it’s “Blast Ball,” which is kind of pre tee ball. I wasn’t quite sure we were ready for tee ball yet. And I say “we” because both Oliver and I are Rattlers. That’s our team name – we’re The Rattlers.

Initially, only Oliver was going to play. I thought it might help prepare him for Kindergarten P.E. next year if he got some exposure to team sports. This would be the first year he’d be old enough for tee ball, but I was thrilled to hear that a new team for four year olds was being introduced to the league. Blast Ball is similar to tee ball but even less complicated. The idea of an “easy” game accompanied by the bonus of younger children who might be a bit more on Oliver’s wave length seemed perfect for him.

Unfortunately, Oliver gets nervous about new situations, and I experienced my own fair share of anxiety over this foray into the world of little league. But Chris LOVED team sports and has ALWAYS wanted to be a little league coach for his kids. So he was very enthusiastic about the idea. Like me, he had little concern for Oliver’s performance, but looked forward to sharing this great personal joy with his son. Awesome. I could sit on the sidelines. Maybe not with a book…can’t do that with my kids… But at least I could close my eyes and la la la in my happy place when things got tense.

Then, Chris tried to build a new deck.

More specifically, he and his friend were unloading lumber for the new deck, and tragedy struck. His foot to be exact. As they were opening the truck gate the wood came shooting out and landed on Chris’ left foot. It also took out his right arm and left leg in the process, but the serious injury was the big hole in his foot that would require eleven stitches and two weeks on crutches.

So the first practice day did not find me making dinner and entertaining the twins while wondering how things were going at Blast Ball. Instead it found me calling encouragement to a terrified five year old who has trouble understanding what people say to him and responding in full sentences. Even the simple directions being explained to the six other team members (ranging from age three and a half to four and a half) went completely over his head.

My heart broke with each pleading look threw in my direction. And toward the end of practice, when the sun was in everyone’s eyes and he was dying of thirst because his stupid mother forgot to bring a bottle of water (I remembered to bring the coach’s cell phone number – just in case – but obvious necessities like water and a baseball hat? Not so much…), I saw that he had a few tears running down his cheeks.

He was exhausted. Not from the physical exertion though. He was working so hard to understand what was expected of him and he was so worried that I would suddenly disappear, that he had finally reached a breaking point.

The kind coach, who had no idea what was going on with Oliver did know that something needed to be done. So he suggested that maybe Mommy could play too! Maybe that would be more fun.

Neither Oliver nor I had much hope of achieving “fun” at this juncture, but I would be damned if we didn’t get through that practice. Oliver just needs to know what is going to happen next. After a few practices and games, he would understand the itinerary and feel much more secure. Would he love it? Who knows. Would he at least have a little fun? I certainly hoped so. But the first step was to survive that first time. I knew that going in, and I was ready to do pretty much anything to make it happen.

So with 15 minutes left in the practice, I ran with Oliver to the base and back. I stood with him in the “outfield” and dragged him toward the ball with the other kids. And just as it looked like we might be seeing a light at the end of the tunnel, Coach Keys announced that we were going to finish up with a drill.

I don’t know if he actually said “drill” – he might have called it a game – but I spent enough time in P.E. class to recognize a drill when I saw one. And of course this one involved my two favorite things: running and competition.

We had to line up and then on the word go, run after the ball that the coach threw for us. The distance was long enough to provide time for scrappers to gain the lead from the back, but not so long that anyone would drop off to examine an interesting bug or pick dandelions. Whoever got to the ball first would then sit down while the rest lined up for another run.

Oliver had little understanding of what we were doing at first, and sort of trotted aimlessly behind the rest. But I ran with him and yelled, “come on – let’s get the ball – go go go!” And other horrifying cheerleader-like encouragement of that nature.

Suddenly, I had a flashback of being six years old and running a relay race at one of my cousins’ backyard birthday parties. My Uncle Dick ran alongside me as I tried to keep my egg on a spoon while keeping one eye on the finish line. He yelled, “come on, Kate! You can do it! Just keep your arm straight – hold it steady…you’re almost there!” I doubt a six year old could actually identify feelings like humiliation or despair, but my 38 year old brain conjured up the self loathing that I know continued to rise as I saw the other party dress sashes moving further and further ahead of me and my slow egg balancing progress.

I knew exactly how Oliver felt at that moment. Maybe he was more physically able to win than I ever was, but he couldn’t understand why the boys were running so fast to try to get the ball. Where I couldn’t keep up, he purposely lagged behind. But we both watched others pass us by. And we could both feel the failure in that.

As we lined up for one of three more throws (and at this point, I was actually saying to Oliver, “just three more times, and then we can sit down.“), I heard one of the boys who were watching say, “I wonder who will be last.” It was innocent and artless, without a hint of derision – but still made me want to sag with defeat.

Then something amazing happened. With fewer kids around him, Oliver started to try. Maybe it was fewer people and less confusion. Or maybe it was just having four other practice runs. But he actually tried to get the ball. Not hard…but at least he was looking at the ball and moved in that direction. And he smiled.

So when I got back into line with my son and that one other boy, I felt a weight lift from my shoulders. Oliver smiled and he understood. And when the coach yelled “go!” Oliver actually ran. AND he caught the ball. He wasn’t last. And I jumped up and down, clapping my hands like I just won an all expense paid trip to Europe. Because when you’re a mother, that’s exactly how exciting your child’s happiness is to you.

At the end of practice, we huddled up for a quick pep talk and put our hand in for a “go Rattlers!” Then Oliver and I ran for the car. I’m generally one to stay a bit too long at the party, but at that moment I wanted to get while the gettin’ was good. And Oliver was holding me to my many promises of ice cream at Dairy Queen.

We made one other stop first. We had a tee ball set at our house from Summers past, but the bat and ball disappeared a while ago. I suggested that we stop by Target to purchase new ones, and I held my breath as we approached the sports equipment aisle. I was worried that when he saw the bats he’d run screaming out of the store. But instead, he enthusiastically selected a red one.

So we survived our very first sports team experience. And again, I say “we” because this is my first official team too. I’m sure that my apathy for competition has roots in my early performance anxiety and feelings of failure – but don’t diagnose me just yet. I don’t worry about losing anymore. I feel no pressure to be any good at games. I’m an almost 40 year old woman with three children and more every day responsibilities than I can count. Whether I cross the finish line last is the least of my concerns. But I do intend to finish the Blast Ball season with Oliver no matter what level of participation he needs from me. Tedious or not, I’ll be an assistant coach and run next to him during drills and wear shorts outside of the gym. I’ll do everything I hate to make sure he has fun.

As much as I’d rather be sitting on the sidelines of games, I’ll never forfeit my responsibility to Oliver. I’ll wear my Rattlers hat with pride (I’d better get one…) And really – it’s just a couple of months. If I was able to handle those grueling years of working mom commutes and divided priorities, I think can withstand a little humiliation at Blast Ball. And truth be told, I just may be the best one on the team!


Next up: Coach Kate’s exclusive practice sessions. Oh yes – we’ve already had a couple of those. More to come on that…

Monkey in the Middle

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I have three children born in the following order: Oliver, George and Eleanor. And as number two out of three, George won the title of middle child. By default of course, since he’s a twin… But boy, has he lived lived up to it.

When I was pregnant with the twins, I knew that I was having a boy and a girl and that “Baby A” (the one who would be delivered first) was a boy. The order seemed rather inconsequential to me since the c-section that was looking probable would put a single minute’s span between their individual entrances into the world.

So it astounded me when people talked about George being my middle child. How could he be Eleanor’s “older brother” when they shared a birthday and the same 18 months’ age difference with Oliver? It was just silly.

But – laugh as I did, I’ve also found there to be some truth to this. Because George engenders many typical “middle child syndrome” behaviors.

First – he’s very aware of ownership. And once he stakes a claim on something, he will fight to the death to protect what is his. Like all other toddlers, he did his fair share of screaming “MINE!” and redefining “share” to mean “gimmie that.” But it doesn’t seem to be a phase that he’s quickly outgrowing. It’s not that he wants everything…just a few things to lord over his siblings. The red Lightning McQueen sippy cup? His. The scooter with less dirt on the foot board? HIS! Please don’t touch the merchandise. Trespassers will be prosecuted and punished to the full extent of the law.

And this makes sense to me. Oliver is the oldest and has always had his own things. Two thirds of the toys in our house belonged to Oliver first. Of course, he’d rather play with toilet paper or cups of water (or worse – both)…but that’s another post in and of itself. Most of George’s things are hand me downs.

Also, since Eleanor is a girl – and a girly girl at that – she automatically has her own possessions that the boys have no interest in sharing. She has no need to defend her territory. And as a girl, she is treated differently – more gently. Not on purpose, but I can see how it happens. She gets babied more. And has taken over that role. She’s the baby of the family. And George fell into the only position left in the line up.

Like most other “middle” children, George has had to develop a strong personality to enforce his demands (of which there are many). He is tiny for his age – even smaller than his twin sister – but he is most definitely a force to be reckoned with. Woe to the unlucky traveler who crosses his path when he’s in a temper. The volume of his cries for justice can do more damage to your eardrums than close proximity to amps at a rock concert. He’s a screamer. And he’s loud.

Most middle children I know remind me of George in their need to be seen, heard, understood and appreciated. But I’ve also noticed that many of them – like George – aren’t a true “middle.” For example, they may be number two or three in a family of four kids. Once the number exceeds three, it seems that anyone who isn’t first or last gets a shot at middle child status. It could also be gender…physical or emotional challenges…anything to set them apart from the rest as the one who needs just a little more validation and attention. The one who isn’t handed a position title. Their resumes would include terms such as “self starter” and “results driven.”

So I wonder if it’s the age order or simply the way we treat our children that sustains this family phenomenon. Probably both. The oldest will always have more time and more new stuff as a byproduct of being first. And the youngest will be the last baby – a label that seems to stick. Everyone in between will need to find their own way, and this will be easier for some than others. It’s a lot of work for George, but I think he’s up to the job.

And of course – every family is different. Some have more kids than others…different gender combinations…various challenges and special needs situations… That has to play its part as well. Toss in the element of innate personality and you’ve got endless possibilities for middle child status assignment.

As I typed this, George was either sitting in my lap, climbing over my shoulder like a small monkey or yelling to me from another room. He’s just as good at playing quietly by himself – but he’ll never be lost in the shuffle. My inlaws once referred to him as a “howler monkey” during a beach vacation when he spent the entire week clinging to me and screaming. The fact that we later discovered a double ear infection didn’t change the perception. The nickname stuck for a while.

They say the squeaky wheel gets the grease, and I wonder if it’s a coincidence that George literally squeaked like a rusty hinge when he was an infant. I would listen to him creaking away as he slept in his infant car seat and marvel at how bizarre it was. I had never heard anything like it in my life. And I haven’t since. George is a true original. Would he have been like this no matter what, or did we unwittingly encourage it? We can only guess…but I wouldn’t change him. My middle child always keeps things interesting.