In Defense of the Game

I was this close to becoming a viral video sensation today: Suburban Soccer Mom Loses Her Mind. The comments would have all been too true. "She's crazy! Her kid was obviously upset! How can she yell at him like that? Didn't she see his tears? Children need to feel important! Build them up!"

There he was, shoulders slumped, tear-stained cheeks, bawling his protest, "Mom, those kids got in my head again, and I can't play!"

And there I was, ponytail through the back of my Nike running cap, Columbia sweatshirt, and a baby in a front pack--the picture of a  suburban mom. "I have had it! Get your a*^ on the field and play ball!"

It happened so fast no one caught it on video (I hope).

RJ had a bad week. Kids said hurtful things on the playground at school. He got bruised. A soccer ball pelted him in the chin, twice. He refused to take the field for a game. He cried on the sidelines of another.

He tried to quit. Together, we imagined a Saturday spent at home, working in the yard, reading so many books, and most hurtful, watching his sister take the field while he sits on the sidelines. We tried mental visualization. He visualized taking off his shinguards and cleats, putting them in a donation bag, and walking away. He thought about it. He confessed, "I'm worried because Coach yells at me. I'm scared of his yell." We talked about his feelings. So many feelings. It has been a long season or two. He didn't make the A team. Or the B team. Or the C team. We started at the bottom.

We lost every game. Not just one or two games. Every single game.

He came back for more.

We started winning with our team. I made friends with other soccer moms. RJ made friends on the field. He scored every game. Not just one or two games. Every single game.

And then, without ceremony, he moved up at team. This team is good. Skilled and fast. And the coach towers on the sidelines with a baritone voice that can be heard three fields away. "Good skill boys!" "Yes!" And, occasionally, "When you're playing midfield, you stay in the middle! Don't try to play forward, RJ!"

There were new moms and new kids.

And then the tears.

And more tears.

And more.

I tried to understand. I tried to counsel. I prayed for the boy. But, it turns out, sometimes, what you need is tough love.


Tear stained cheeks, bruised knees, and frozen fingers aside, I have an image of the boy and the game:

Pride.

Skill.

Confidence. 

Joy. 

Him. 

The game is more than a game. It's part of his identity. On good days, it's where he feels most confident. He comes alive. 

And, as it turns out, so do I. 

I cheer. I pace. I stand, worried, every time he hits the ground (and he goes down a lot). 

I cried because he wanted to quit. 

And then....

I dragged him out of bed; fed him breakfast and Earl Grey tea (because he's fancy); and deposited him once more on a soccer field. In minutes, he was at my side, tear stained and bawling. And, I did what every good soccer mom would do. I bear hugged him; wiped his tears; handed him a Gatorade; and led him to his chair to rest. 

Just kidding. 

I told him to get his a%^ on the field and stop bawling. And when the coach yelled at him, and he looked at me with tears in those big blue eyes again, I did the same thing. And at the end of the day: 

His uniform is in the laundry basket instead of a donation bag. I might have to burn his cleats, but that's just because of the smell. The game isn't about the win. It isn't about the goals or the rules. It's confidence. It's sportsmanship. It's overcoming fear--no matter how small or big. 

And, for us, the game is part of the family.  

This sight will always make me smile. Every door is open. Kids are piling in or out. 

It's game day. 

She doesn't need the confidence boost quite as much. 

Skill is what we're aiming for. 

What she lacks in size, 

she makes up for in determination...and

spirit. 

The game has taken us on mini-vacations. It has been the topic of hours of emailed and text messaged discussions. The game has been a challenge. And, the game has given us a parenting paradigm--a place to learn when to talk about our feelings and when to practice tough love. 

(By the way, we can talk about our feelings in the van after games or at home--not on the fields--new rule.)

Started from the bottom...

Now he's here. 

To My Little in the Middle on her Sixth Birthday

Hey G, 

I’d say “Dear Gigi,” but why be contrived? Over the past year you’ve evolved from Gigi to simply “G.” You’re that much energy and personality. You don’t even need a full name. If I say G, people immediately know who you are.

Last week, you turned six. “I’m on to the next hand!” you told me this weekend. Indeed you are onward and no doubt upward. You’ve outgrown your Little Princess castle (but we’re saving that for sissy), and you’ve grown into American Girl dolls, poring over the catalogs we receive in the mail and trying to trick me into telling you whether you'd get one for your birthday.

You named her Samantha, because that's the name of my American Girl doll. She came with a whole lot of grandparent love, from her white Sanuks ("just like mommy's!") to her trunk  of dress-up costumes that match yours. I think you two are going to have a great friendship. Friends, real, imaginary, and all the in-betweens, are important to you these days. 

This year has been tough for you. You had to welcome a little sister; we didn’t give you a choice in the matter. She arrived, and we made you welcome her. 

It’s what you do when you add one to your crew. You welcome the new kid; make a place at the table and in this case, in mommy’s lap. It hasn’t been easy. You’ve always been my “little in the middle;” but I always thought that just meant you'd sit in the middle on the golf cart seat. The joke was on me, I suppose.  You really are my little in the middle. 

Little, middle, or otherwise, you’ve never been one to let your voice go unheard. 

You’re loud. I’d sugarcoat it, but that’s not our way. You’re just loud. You sing loud; you cry loud; you laugh loud. "My voice can be, you know, kind of familiar," you tell me. Girl, there’s not a chance your voice won’t be heard. Use it wisely. 

Be kind. Be persistent. Be strong. You know that our girl superpowers are activated when we’re kind to one another. We’re stronger when we support one another, when we’re inclusive, and when we listen more than we shout. When we compete, gossip, and exclude, we deactivate our girl power.  You’re learning that true disagreement means more than throwing a hissy fit (unless there are Skittles involved. Then, by all means, throwing yourself on the ground is in fact the better way to be heard--because no one cares that your brother got three more Skittles.). But, there’s power in dissent. Change can be created by holding your ground. And, at this rate, you're going to change more than the world; you're going to change the whole universe! 

(But, you still have to take baths. That won’t change no matter how much you dissent, disagree, object, and hold your ground.)

Your voice far exceeds your stature.

 (Thirty-Seven is a good number. It makes you six feet tall, even when you're closer to half that.)

 This year, you finally started to notice that you're often the shortest and smallest kid on the field, in the classroom, or on the stage. Sometimes you want to quit because you feel small. You may be little, but I can’t let you quit because you’re the smallest. The truth is, you come from small stock. You may always be the shortest person in the room. You may always be the little in the middle of anything that you do. 

Every night, you fight bedtime. You fight bedtime as though it's the biggest battle of your life--every single night. And when the tears have finally subsided, and you've agreed to put your damp curls on the pillow, we talk. 

"Be kind," I tell you. "Be persistent, and be strong, and then you will be...." I wait for the answer. Sometimes the answer is sleepy. Sometimes grumpy. Sometimes angry. Sometimes giggly. But always, the answer is the same: "amazing." 

Be kind. Be persistent. Be strong. And then you will be amazing. 

You're little. You're in the middle. And you will be amazing. 

Happy Birthday G. 

Be silly. 

Be sweet. 

Eat the cake. Always. Especially if it's pink.

Love your mother.

Play with dolls until you're too old, and then, put them away so that you can play with them again when you feel lonely or sad or when you remember that you're still my little in the middle--even when you're thirteen. 

Find joy in the little things, like a cart full of cupcakes and birthday presents, especially when it has your name on it. 

Always take the chance to fly.

Remember when you feel lonely or sad that you have true friends. Some people never have a true friend. You're one of the lucky ones. You found your "calm place" before you could talk. Be kind. There are only a few true friends in this big wide world. 

Hold tightly to the ones you find.

Be kind. Be persistent. Be strong. Be amazing. 

It Was....Summer

There is a special moment in every mother's life. It's a moment of calm resolution. A moment of self reflection. A brief, overwhelming wave of panic followed by despair and ultimately quiet acceptance. I have reached my moment. It has come to my attention that I am hopelessly and wholeheartedly behind. I never do anything halfway; if I'm going to do something, I promise I'll give it my everything. And folks, I did my best. I avoided the computer. I tried to make some memories, good or bad. And we had, for better, worse, and everything in between, a summer. 

I did manage to get just a few pictures. So, grandparents, besties, and anyone bored enough to stick around, I give you.....Summer: (in no particular order)

I turned 40. Someday I'll write myself a letter about it. For now, I'll just say that 40 means getting excited about a news story on NPR--heard while nursing a four month old. Forty is weird. 

Forty isn't what I expected. It's so much better. 

Four decades celebrated. 

And this girl has been there for nearly three decades of the four. 

This dude had a big birthday too; he'll tell you it was 30, because he gave his birthday to me. 

The unexpected and best part of being 40. 

We don't have a lake house or a boat. Someday we might join a real golf club. For now, early mornings at Top Golf are just enough. 

G discovered selfies. 

She might be well fed. 

This will be featured in both of their wedding slide shows. 

This girl turned 4 months old. I nearly missed getting her picture. 

We made it. Sleep sacks are cute, right?

Bunny snuggles. 

A new obsession. 

When you have a big sister. 

KDL, this chill baby is for you.

Soccer season kicked off (ha!). 

This girl is a pro; she's been napping on the pitch since she was a week old. 

We took a walk on the wild side. 

A new swimmer has been added to our team.

There was a beach. 

We thought a size 9 months was big enough. We were wrong. 

We rode a lawn-mower train. It was a everything I hoped for and more. 

Swings are the best.

We had a mommy date. 

Big brothers are all kinds of fantastic. They remind us, "Life is too short for mean people and soggy potato chips." Preach, brother. 

If you can work a doily on your head, you work it, girl.

There was an eclipse worth watching (and worth skipping school for a few hours). 

Protect those peepers!

This one turned five months old too. 

Oh. Goodness. 

We spent so many hours keeping our heads above water. 

Last summer, there were two and a secret. This summer there are three. 

It was a summer. There was pool time and party time, up time and down time. We stayed up too late and ate a barrel of cheese balls. We took a break. We recharged. And, as with all good things, it came to an end far too quickly. We're studying for spelling tests and hitting the fields. I've enjoyed the break, but it's time to up my game. The babe is the third child; her baby book is a record of our family history more than a volume of her life. But, it's time I reopen the blog.