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Taking One for the Team

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…

They’re Playing Our Song

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Have you ever heard a song that transported you back to a memory so visceral that you could close your eyes and feel like you were actually there?

Of course you have – we all have. Music has always been a well known sense memory trigger. And we can all call upon those few notes that evoke something very specific from our past.

When I close my eyes and think of Crystal Gayle singing Don’t It Make My Brown Eyes Blue, I’m suddenly six years old and sitting in the back of our family car. Possibly driving to the dentist where I will be forced to endure a nauseating grape flavored fluoride treatment.

If I think of Bob Marley singing Is This Love, I’m 16 and at the beach – a little sore from sunburn, but why worry about wrinkles, as it won’t matter anymore when I’m old…?

If I think of Al Green singing I’m So in Love with You, I’m 27 and marveling at how this once unlikely candidate for a boyfriend will soon be my husband.

But all of these time stopping, breath catching, overwhelming assaults on my fragile sense of the present are eclipsed by another, far more powerful one.

I recently unearthed a CD of lullabies that I played at every bedtime and every nighttime feeding from the time my son Oliver was born through well into his toddler years. Those melancholy strains bring back memories so full of joy and fear and mind blowing wonder that it makes me want to laugh and cry at the same time. But mostly cry. The nostalgia is almost unbearable.

Truly the most poignant time of my life thus far was the first year of my first child’s life. Because he was then, and on some level will always be, the great love of my life.

When Oliver was born I felt physically beaten. It was a textbook first delivery with very few surprises. But that 9 lb. 2 oz. little body that pushed its way out of mine took a very serious toll. As an inexperienced first time mother I had no idea that it wasn’t normal to take a full five minutes to lever myself out of a hospital bed, 24 hours after giving birth. Nor did I realize that this level of discomfort should have ebbed after the first few days. But I guessed that something might be wrong when I needed a wheelchair to leave the hospital as other new mothers were sprinting down the hall to greet visitors.

I should have asked for drugs.

This pain is part of my sense memory.

When I tried to nurse him I felt like he was ravaging me. It hurt and wasn’t anything like the bonding experience I read about in books. I used to say it was like trying to hold a wild animal. It didn’t seem normal – all of that biting, flailing and groping. It was only weeks later that my milk production was declared low.

My big newborn needed more from me.

This attack on my body and subsequent sense of failure are part of my sense memory.

Oliver didn’t sleep for more than an hour at a time, and half of that was spent rocking him and trying to put him back in the bassinet. By the time I would get him settled, I only had a half hour to sleep.

Then he would wake up hungry and the painful, frustrating process would start all over again.

This exhaustion is part of my sense memory.

I had pretty bad post partum depression for the first few weeks, but didn’t realize what it was until it was over. All I knew was that I felt like I was staring into the abyss. I knew I loved my baby. Fiercely. But the bands of anxiety that would tighten around my chest as the sun fell lower on the horizon were squeezing me out of my own battered body. One particularly bad evening I couldn’t stop crying and told my husband that I felt like I was losing myself. I have a very clear memory of being up and trying to nurse at 2 a.m. My body ached and Boone had just died on Lost and my baby wouldn’t let me sleep and I just didn’t know if I could make it through.

Again – I should have asked for drugs.

This utter hopelessness is part of my sense memory.

While Oliver’s sleeping never really improved as much as it seemed to for other babies I knew (I was still waking up three to four times a night close to his first birthday) I got used to the pattern. It became second nature. I simply adjusted. Because I looked at his precious little face in the dim light filtering through the window and felt nothing but love. And gratitude. And that unnamed emotion that makes mothers fall to pieces when they imagine a time that this tightly bundled glowworm body would be too big to rock standing up.

I rocked him in the middle of his dark bedroom, drinking in the ambrosia of his peaceful slumber long after he became too heavy for it to be comfortable.

This addict-caliber need for my baby, regardless of the time of day or night is part of my sense memory.

I had to go back to work when Oliver was three months old. And leaving him for full days with another caretaker was possibly the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. We had never before been separated for more than a few hours, and I didn’t know how I could bear it. The last day of my maternity leave I held him for his entire afternoon nap.

I listened to that CD twice and cried for the end of our “just you and me” time.

This sorrow and anticipation of the separation to come is part of my sense memory.

I loved giving Oliver his bedtime bottle (the nursing never worked out for us). It was the only time that my never still boy would cuddle and just “be” with me. He would look up at my face and twist his fingers in my hair until his eyes would start to droop. Then the blinks would last for longer beats and his tired fingers would rest on the bottle. He would often stop drinking as sleep took him, and I would have to give him a little shake to make sure he finished all of his formula. A full stomach will help him sleep better right? Not so much… But I figured it didn’t hurt to try.

I would often linger longer than necessary just to feel the warm weight of him in my arms. To memorize the shadow of eyelashes that brushed his cheeks and appreciate the surety that this was all that mattered in the world no matter what work drama or financial worries might color my days.

This peaceful embrace is part of my sense memory.

When Oliver was a little over ten months old, I discovered that I was pregnant again. It wasn’t planned and threw us for a roller coaster sized loop. I had hoped for a three year age difference between our first born and our hypothetical second child (which ended up being twins). But as always, we adjust. So this vision of siblings close in age became part of our future family dreams. But I did feel the pangs of what this second pregnancy meant: the ultimate end of that “just me and you” time.

There would no longer be one answer to every question: whatever is best for him. Life would become more complicated and attention would not be as easily focused.

This fear of change and intensified appreciation for the time that was left for our mommy-baby bliss is part of my sense memory.

Maybe this is all tied to him being such a crappy sleeper…or maybe it’s because I was a working mother with limited time to spend with him – but I craved my baby like nothing I’ve ever wanted or needed in my life. And the memory of those quiet hours spent in his bedroom, set to the soundtrack our our lullaby CD, holds more power over me than any other.

There was such simplicity in that time without the concerns attached to sibling rivalry and divided priorities. Though in the thick of it, it seemed anything but, with the sleep training books and the nursing problems – then the teething and the baby proofing. But that intense first baby love was stronger than any emotion I’ve ever experienced.

The lullabies we once listened to so few years but so long ago bring all of that back. And it literally makes me swoon.

If you were wondering what CD has this hold on my heart, it’s Lullaby, a collection. I do warn mothers with post partum depression that those “melancholy strains” I mentioned above may make you want to slit your wrists a little bit (before you get yourself some good meds, I mean). But the songs really do create a lovely soundtrack for your own sense memories. As far as lifetimes go, that is.

More Fiction: Vivian’s Roots

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What do you know? I’m actually following through on something I said I was going to do here. I’ve written another fictional piece (again in one sitting – keeping it short) and I honestly think I’m going to do this every Friday. If I didn’t fear jinxing myself, I’d name this theme something like “Fiction Friday” – but then I’d absolutely let it fall off the radar. Too formal.

Instead – I’m keeping this open. I’ll try to do something like this weekly – and we’ll see how that goes. I’m also going to try to keep all of the writing connected and see if I can get an actual story out of it. Just to create some direction. I just wrote this story (or piece of a story) and had to stop before I got to the part where it connects to Ivy. But it will. Possibly next week.

Vivian’s Roots

Do whatever you want Vivi, but for god’s sake don’t be boring.

Even as a young girl, Vivi found this common command from her mother’s to be the height of irony. Between all of the lounging and the cocktail sipping, Mama was quite possibly the most boring woman on earth.

But Ethel Clinton nee Chambers was also the most beautiful woman on earth – or close to it – so she didn’t think she owed the world too much else. At least that’s the way Vivi saw it. And Vivi got to see quite a bit of Ethel during the day, because in spite of “the child’s tedious questions” and “unnecessary theatrics,” Ethel didn’t like to be alone.

So young Vivi spent her days watching Mama wilt on couches while putting on airs that only a Southern woman who came from money could claim. Which, in fact she could not, since she was neither. At least that’s the way Vivi’s Daddy saw it, and said as much.

Ethel took great umbrage to this, since she most certainly did consider herself to be Southern woman. But in spite of her Virginian birthright, her own daddy was a Yankee – and a middle class one at that – and it was only her dark eyed glare that kept people from reminding her of that fact.

Vivi didn’t take after her Mama in any way. She was a Clinton through and through, and her blue eyes twinkled more often than they narrowed at people. She was far more observant than Mama and learned early on that you get much further in life by laughing than glaring.

And she laughed. A lot.

She laughed at Mama when she went off on one of her tirades about…anything. She laughed at her sisters when they told her she couldn’t climb trees like the boys. She laughed at everyone who lamented over her not inheriting her mother’s beauty like her sisters did.

She especially laughed at that. Because she was plenty beautiful on her own.

In fact she didn’t give two hoots about having a Yankee Granddaddy since she fully intended to be a Yankee herself one day. As soon as she was old enough, she was taking her red curls and long legs to New York. She was going to be a fashion model.

The rest of the women in her family could faint on couches all they liked. She was going to be someone. Not just someone’s beautiful wife.

Now at age 59, Vivi had to laugh again. Because she never did move to New York. She never did become a real “Yankee” as they used to call them. And she did in fact become someone’s beautiful wife. But she wouldn’t change a thing, because whatever she did or didn’t do, she made sure it was on her own terms.

Now, looking at her perennially red curls in the mirror, she thought two things. First, that it was time for a touch up. Her roots were showing. Mental note: must call Claude for an appointment. And second, that Mama did teach her something very valuable all those years ago. Vivi may have been many things in life – but she was never boring.

That’s all I have time for today. But this isn’t what I was planning to write about Vivi. It’s an intro gone wild. My verbosity always gets the best of me… I’ll have to pick it up again next week.

And Now, for Something Completely Uncontroversial

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I’m not usually one to pick “hot topics” for my posts. So declaring for the MJ is a child molester camp was a bit bold for The Big Piece of Cake. Particularly since I do waver a bit on the subject. But hey – I wrote it, so it’s now out there. (Do you think it’s a coincidence that I seem to have lost some readers? Yikes.)

Anyway – in honor of my cowardly nature and fear of hate mail, I’m going to take a completely different direction today and tell you something very warm and fuzzy. Rainbows and unicorns all the way – I promise.

Very few people who have met me since I graduated college would know this, but I used to be somewhat of an art chick. Not in the multiple piercings, moody, poetry writing kind of way though. More in the prissy little girl creating pretty little pictures kind of way. I was never destined to be a real artist, like my brother. But I did really enjoy whipping up those pretty little pictures.

For some reason, I was never any good with paint – I always ended up with a big wet mess on the canvas. And my hobbyist attitude didn’t engender the dedication required for mastering that medium. Instead I found my comfort zone with pastels. They’re like crayons for adults. And even better because you can smear them around to correct mistakes.

Once I graduated from college I lost interest in art classes and it’s not like my roommates and I ever sat around crafting together (it was the mid ’90s, and for me the word “craft” conjured up images of old ladies with knitting bags or acrylic nailed DIY enthusiasts with Bedazzlers).

So no more art.

Until last week.

Don’t know what inspired me, but I was at Michael’s trying to find supplies for kid craft projects that my children wouldn’t eat or smear on the walls (easier said than done, I may add). Anyway, I saw a package of charcoal pastels and had a flashback of a life drawing class. Then I looked at the color pastels and thought “maybe…”

I bought both oil pastels (because I had never used them before and was curious) and soft (chalk) pastels. And when my kids went to bed that night, I sat down to see if I still had the touch (if touch means the ability to smear colors on paper to somewhat represent the image I was trying to capture).

I started with the oil pastels. Here is the image I used:

And here is my drawing:

Not that great (and my photography is terrible), but I found the oil pastels really hard to work with. I think they require a bit more precision… I won’t give up on them, but I put them aside for a second try with the good old soft pastels I once knew so well.

This is the image I used:

And here is my drawing:

Big improvement. And pretty! I’m not quitting my day job any time soon (oh wait a minute – I actually DID quit my day job – just not to become an artist). But I will definitely have fun with this.

And isn’t that what hobbies are all about?

What about you? Any childhood pastimes that you’ve recently picked up again?

1. Origin unknown – SORRY, let me know if it’s yours
2. Absolutely Beautiful Things (of course)