In Defense of Tiger Mothering, or A Complete and Total Mom Brag

We swim a lot. We swim so much that I can’t remember the last time my kids took a proper bath. We swim so much that our hair has developed the hard shine that only comes with hours of chemical build-up. As much as we swim, we don’t focus (much) on competition. I see RJ in the pool so often that I’ve stopped seeing technicalities of his strokes. All I see is my skinny, summer-browned little boy. But, so the story goes, RJ likes to swim. RJ likes to race. It seems a shame not to see how he’d fare on a club team. I started at about his age; and, as my joints have gotten creakier, I appreciate the ability to jump in and crank out a few laps every now and again in lieu of running.

Last night, RJ tried out for a club team. When I joined swim team, there were no tryouts. If you didn’t drown the first night, you were golden. Things are different nowadays. We arrived to find at least fifty suited-up kids. Most were taller than RJ. All of them were bigger than RJ. And, he was terrified. He cried. No, he sobbed. Real tears dripped from his chin as he wrapped his arms around me and pleaded with me to get in the water with him. "Nope." I told him as the coaches stared. "You either get in and swim, or it’s over. We’re done." He sniffled. Squared his shoulders. And found his way to the opposite end of a very long fifty-meter pool.

The head coaches had long since given up on this skinny little boy who was so obviously afraid of the water. It was clear the only thing he was more afraid of was his tiger mother, who was forcing her dreams on him. They turned RJ over to the kid home from college on break. The kid home from college on break jumped three feet in the air, clasped his hands to his head, pointed, then yelled, "We’ve got a breaststroker! Look at this! Look at this kid!"

RJ did it. He dove in. He swam a lot. He swam fifty meters breaststroke. Then he did it again, because the head coaches now wanted to see his time. He swam fifty meters butterfly. "Hey man, how old are you?" came the question. "I’m eight," RJ shrugged. "When did you turn eight?" "Last April."

"Wow." Just wow.

He made the team. The coaches told me he’s the best eight year old they’ve seen. He’s the best eight year old I’ve ever seen, but I tend to hold him in high regard. Apparently he’s a heck of a swimmer. He lacks confidence, but that will come as he ages. He also lacks meat on his bones, and the coach was quick to tell me, "His biggest challenge for the next few years will be the cold. He’s really small."

He is really small. A child. Young for his age and tender-hearted. He feels little hurts deeply, and he feels little successes in big ways.

(Gigi had a little success too; she passed the swim test at the YMCA earning her indoor pool time any time she wants it, no life jacket required!)

After it was over, I hugged him. "RJ, I’m proud of you! You did it even when you were scared!"

"Yep," he grinned,

"I’m a little bit proud of myself too."

Our Instagram Independence Day

Some days, I eat lunch from the Whole Foods near my office. I've gotten my salad down to a science, and I can make it for less than five dollars. That earns me a Mommy Merit Badge: the "Whole Paycheck," awarded to the Mommy who has spent enough time grocery shopping to accurately weigh produce in the palm of her hand.

Some days, I can't handle lunch at Whole Foods. The food is fantastic, but there are so many moms there. Moms in darling yoga pants feeding their darling daughters precious tiny little oranges as they putter through the store wondering what the afternoon will hold. The library? The splash pad? Oooo, maybe baking cookies together in matching aprons! I cannot handle it. It makes my heart hurt. I should be there with my darling daughter feeding her tiny oranges and making plans for our afternoon. Whole Foods is my real-life Instagram account--a brief snapshot of a stranger's day. Little pictures filled with perfect mommies remembering to enjoy every little minute with their little ones. Meanwhile, I'm weighing quinoa that I'll eat at my desk atop a stack of contracts.

The sick part?

I like it that way.

But this year, I was committed to the Instagram-ready Independence Day. This was the year of sparklers, matching red manicures for me and Gigi, homemade potato salad and mint juleps poolside.

We woke up early on the Fourth of July. I made blueberry pancakes topped with strawberries and whipped cream to remind us of the colors of freedom. After breakfast, we lead the children in the Pledge of Allegiance, and with full bellies, we all piled into the swagger wagon with our lawn chairs to go watch one of the best Independence Day parades in the nation. Our favorite entry is always the color guard, followed in a close second by the fire engines from every city. We always sit in the same spot--right up front so that we can wave our flags while we march in time to the bands. RJ and Gigi always dress for the festivities in their best red, white, and blue.

Psych! Just kidding, lol.

This year, we woke up early on the Fourth of July. I forgot to feed the children breakfast because I was on the patio filling water balloons. I threatened to beat RJ for having changed clothes twice before 8 a.m., and we took separate cars because Gigi was still in bed after having stayed up past 10 the night before playing Barbies. I fed RJ grapes and cheese wheels from a cooler (I am from Edmond, after all); and by 9:30, both kids were elbow deep in free Cheetos from the church on the parade route.

We're from Oklahoma.

Our favorite exhibit was Mike Morgan driving The Dominator. And by 10 a.m., it was already 90 degrees outside; we watched from the shade thrown down by the public library (seriously, libraries are the best--they have everything!).

We can't handle the fire engines.

It was 110 degrees (give or take a few) by afternoon; 

but tell that to a bunch of boys who'd just been balloon bombed by their parents. We fed them piles of Chick-Fil-A nuggets. It was the most American thing I've ever seen. As my husband said carrying in the platter, "You know when you were a kid, and you imagined the coolest thing you'd ever eat? And then you're grown up, and it's in your kitchen?" Yeah. It was that cool. 

These strongmen are ready to take on the world. (Would you look at the abs on the shirtless one? Gah! Someone tell Michael Phelps there's going to be competition someday.)

We got Poppy to take a selfie. 

And then he realized what we were doing. 

And, after a day in the heat, there's nothing better than the 'hood pool. 

We had a few (too many?) drinks. 

And somewhere between pool-thirty and dark o'clock, we realized we hadn't taken the official Fourth of July photo. The children wore their holiday best. 

I'm not sure I earned any Mommy Merit Badges for this Fourth of July. Heck, I'm pretty sure I'm lucky I remember most of it. But, as we listened to the distant firecracker pops late last night, I'm sure of one thing: I like my Instagram these days--even when the yoga pants don't fit quite right. 

Choki: The Ultimate Cookie--The Ultimate Beach Vacation

"Choki?" The question hung in the air after every meal last week. Last week, we let go of diet plans. We let go of schedules, emails, laundry, and lessons. We embraced the Choki. Google tells me that Chokies are the best selling North American chocolate chip cookies, beating out Chips Ahoy. I choose to believe it, because they're that tasty; or maybe it was the sweet taste of vacation freedom. Either way, I'm a believer. "Choki!" became the joke of the vacation. The thing that will make us giggle at the way Daddy stole cookies when Gigi wasn't watching. The phrase that will remind of us of all the fun we had: 

Even after more flights by age eight than I'd taken by age twenty-eight, takeoff is still a thrill. 

I'd love to tell you the pictures are in chronological order. 

They're not. 

But it doesn't matter. 

Because all we did each day, 

every day, 

was our best impersonations of beach bums. 

This beach boy pretended he was from southern California and discovered the finer points of volley ball. 

And when she wasn't swimming, she was scaring the daylights out of everyone nearby because they thought she couldn't swim. 

She totally can. 

But only when she wants to.  

Vacation mom still loves vacation selfies.

I spent small fortunes on underwater cameras years ago; now there's one on my phone. Hooray technology!

The number of vacation mom selfies directly correlates to the number of vacation margaritas.

See above statement.

So many good times with good friends and great waves.

And a few quiet times too.

It's five o'clock somewhere.

Who am I kidding? In Mexico, it's always 5 o'clock.

Product placement. I should be receiving my check soon, right?

We clean up pretty well.

Mind. Blown. Someday we'll take him somewhere really different from Oklahoma. For now, Mexico served up new experiences just fine.

 

I think I've seen you around here before.

Frozen or on the rocks?

Or maybe both.

She feels pretty.

"Boy, you've got your hands full!" Not as full as my heart.

"I bet you're paying for your raising." I'm pretty sure I've gotten a discount on that.

"G, do you want to go to the beach?"

"Hell yes I do!"

Maybe I need to reassess that discount. She's a spitfire.

A sassy little thing.

But sweet on occasion.

It's still vacation.

Fun is still required.

My camera wasn't built for the humidity.

But it fortunately recovered.

Looking into the future? The past? More likely looking for the  nearest Choki. 

Far too soon, our footprints washed away.

And we headed home.

Tired.

Exhausted really.

And fully content.

 

Our thanks to the kind stranger who took one of our better family photos.

He didn't speak English, but he understood family and Choki-fueled smiles.