Ballers

RJ's current sporting love is basketball. Or maybe, it's more accurate to say that his current sporting love is his basketball shoes. They're red. They make him feel fast and seven feet tall. I tried my best to drop him from his basketball team. He's already on swim team and an indoor soccer team, and we're experimenting with a real live competitive soccer league. Every night is scheduled.

I'm the boy's mother. I'll admit he has a good shot at being taller than me, but even a mother has to recognize when her little boy has a long shot of seeing the successful side of a three-point line. Basketball was the easiest to resist. and the most likely sporting casualty Gyms smell of fifty years of sweat-soaked wood, unless of course you play in suburbia. Then, gyms smell of fresh paint, Cheez-It dust, and Gatorade. Regardless, all gym floors squeak, and bleachers rarely have seat backs.

Somehow, we find ourselves at a fifty-year old YMCA gym every Friday night watching RJ run drills, trip over his red shoelaces, and pitch one air ball after the other at a goal that has been lowered by the high school guy manning the front desk. Kudos to the coaches. They've got a practice plan, skills, and patience that far exceeds the height RJ will reach. They know that RJ's strengths lie not in passing, not necessarily in dribbling, and certainly not in shooting. RJ's singular strength in basketball rests firmly in a skill set honed over five years of being a big brother: pure, unadulterated annoyance. This child is in the face and space of any opposing player near the ball. He waves his arms. He uses his booty like a battering ram. A year ago, the opposition laid him out flat mid-game. Even his mother had to admit he totally deserved it.

His enthusiasm on the court is unmatched and is exceeded only by his enthusiasm for his favorite basketball team:

It's rare that I get to treat the boy to something he loves. 

But once a year or so, I get the opportunity to take him on a date night and be a cool mom. 

He's still young enough to believe I'm cool. I'll hang on to that distinction as long as he'll let me. 

We had good seats, but the company was even better. We chatted. I fed him a pretzel and Sprite. He thanked me a thousand times. He told me I'm the best mom ever. For three quarters, it looked like the Thunder was winning. And then they weren't. "But mom," he pleaded, "I just know they can win! I know they'll do it!" I doubted, but his enthusiasm kept us in our seats a few more precious seconds. 

And then? Then the game went into overtime. On a school night. 

He's a baller. I suppose sometimes I can be too. 

After all, only a true baller of a mother would keep an eight year old out until 11 o'clock on a school night and feed him French fries before taking him home. These nights are few. I'm grateful for each one. (And tonight, I'm grateful for an hour to finally start catching up on all of the little moments that have made the past month so fantastic.)

Undefeatable

I'm not spending every Saturday at the soccer fields.

I refuse to to be one of those moms pacing the sidelines, chewing her nails, and shouting at a bunch of eight year olds kicking a ball.

And I will never, not ever, drive a minivan.

It's funny where life takes you.

We first set foot on the YMCA soccer fields five years ago. RJ's jersey encouraged him to do more, be more. That first game, we forgot his ball.

Today, there are at least six soccer balls in my garage (2 are pink). A set of chairs seasonly resides in the back of the van. Yeah, I said it. The van. As in minivan. As in soccer mom. Every Saturday.

I still refuse to be one of those moms pacing the sidelines, chewing her nails, and shouting at a bunch of eight year olds kicking a ball. Or, rather, I refused until last weekend.

"Mom," RJ piped from his booster seat, "We have to win today--we're undefeatable!" He was right. His YMCA soccer team was undefeated. The season hadn't presented a lot of competition; but our boys worked hard nonetheless and found themselves in an enviable position. Our team consists of about 10 boys. Some are eight, some are seven, and some are nine. Some are tall. Some are tiny. A few have played together for years; and those few welcomed newcomers, including one who had never set foot on a field before.

The opposition was tough. Their coaches yelled. Their parents cheered when our stronger player hit the ground--a show of poor sportsmanship that drove me to the opposite side of the field where I paced. I yelled, "Get it RyRy!" I chewed my nails. I looked away and looked back again.

Realistically, I knew it was only an eight year old's soccer game in a local YMCA league. There will be so many more games, so many more important games. This one was important too. I didn't want to admit it, but it was likely the last time RJ would start a game, "Win or lose, I pledge before God to play the game as well as I know how."

Warning: Mom brag ahead.

RJ is good. Really good. He should be. He's been kicking a ball since before he could walk. Last night, I watched him dribble a Hot Wheels down the hall to bed. He can't help himself. Fancy footwork makes him happy. Unfortunately, at some point, fancy footwork needs to be challenged. It's time for him to move on to a "real" soccer league--one that will challenge him and teach him that it's okay to lose.

But last Saturday, our team was undefeatable. He wanted to win. I wanted him to win.

And they did. They're undefeatable.

I blinked, and he went from

this....to 

this. (I told his coach he had to stay out of the goal; it stresses me out too much). 

We've had a pretty great coach along the way. 

And added another Saturday game to our regular schedule. She's fierce too. 

I'm guessing her brother will be undefeatable in her eyes no matter the score. 

The chairs have been stored, and we've reclaimed a few Saturdays before the next season starts. 

One last medal has been awarded--a reminder to improve himself in spirit, mind, and body. 

And even if only this one time, my boy knows the pure champion joy of being undefeatable. 

No April Foolin', This is Big

It’s tempting to be disappointed, to let the mind wander 18 years down the road and realize how old I’ll be then. It’s tempting to be angry, to ask why me, why now? It’s tempting to start running figures, to add up the cost of a college education, a wedding, and all of those diapers.

 

It’s tempting.

But then again, maybe not.

I have friends with rainbow babies and friends who are still hoping and praying to welcome their own rainbow baby. I have friends who are spent—financially and emotionally. Friends who would give anything for the surprise of a lifetime.

And so, while it’s tempting, I won’t give in.

Instead, I’m embracing the best news. The best surprise. The best April Fool’s prank ever.

I know there is a God. I know he is good. And now, I know he has a sense of humor.

We have a million dollar family: one boy and one girl. And even with that million dollar family, we’ve been surprised and blessed with the best gift. The one who will force us into the family-sized booths at restaurants and who makes that mini-van seem like the smartest purchase we’ve ever made. The gift that reminds us that family isn’t just who we are, it’s what we do. The gift that completes us. The gift that makes us one more than four.

We’ll be spending a few more years at the soccer fields. That new furniture won’t stay quite so new. There’s a (good) chance that I’ll be saying goodbye to some of those itsy little dresses that fit "just so." The mini-van is here to stay, and we’re figuring out how to get an infant carrier strapped on to the golf cart.

It’s time to break out the fat pants. Our family of four will be a family of five. Ready or not, she’s coming. A little sister. A baby girl. The April Fool’s joke that’s really no joke. The best surprise. The best blessing. The best adventure. We’re stunned. We’re ready. We’re excited. We’re grateful.

And holy moly, just think of the Christmas dinners someday!

A Letter to Gigi Who's a Whole Handful

Hey Girl,

Go ahead and turn that frown upside down because you’re a whole handful. A handful of years and a handful of d-r-a-m-a. I don’t worry about  you earning a living when  you grow up, because with acting skills like these, you’re going to win a Tony. I know it’ll be a  Tony and not an Oscar because musicals tend to fare better on stage than on film, and it would be crime to deny this world your perky little singing voice. Sometimes I stand outside your bedroom door listening to you sing your Vacation Bible School songs, “Ooooh-a-oooo, he’s the one that lights up the world!” You’re right. He does light up the world, but to be honest, you light up my world. Fireworks. Explosions. Sunshine and lightening.

I’ve heard that once children turn five, they become more civilized. That’s certainly true for your delicate little table manners and the way you've learned apologize. But the apologies still come far too often after you’ve tried to punch the side of my head as I carry you upstairs for bedtime. You love secrets. Here’s one: bedtime comes every single night. It always will. It’s probably best that you make your peace with it sooner rather than later, for both of our sanity. Civility comes with rest. And, as we discuss every single night, you have to rest because you’re smart, and your mind needs time to adjust to all of that new information, so that tomorrow, you can learn more, and someday, someday you’ll do amazing things. You’ll pilot a plane. You’ll perform on Broadway. You’ll teach another Gigi to read, to rest, to respond to mean girls.

You’ve been through a lot this year: the Wicked Witch, blue airplane toilets and auto-flushers, the infinite boredom of the Air & Space Museum, and mean girls. No wonder you’ve got Drama.

But you’re a handful of something else too. Sometimes those handfuls are sticky; sometimes soft and squishy; sometimes harsh and abrasive. But always a handful. A handful of love. A handful of childhood joy. Handfuls and buckets of tears and giggles. You’ve gotten taller; you’re growing up. You finally, finally outgrew your size 8 sneakers and got that pair of pink cowboy boots. But somehow that little vessel of a body still isn’t quite big enough to hold all of those emotions.

For a year I’ve worried you don’t know your numbers. Or letters. Or generally anything I’d expect you to learn in 2 years of preschool. Then I took you out for pink rose tea—a favorite. You plunked our number onto the table with, “We’re number 44. That means we’re after 43.” When I asked if you knew your letters, you dropped your gaze to the table and ignored my question. I suspect that means, “yes.” Time will tell. You’re only 5.

Don’t let the mean girls get you down. There will always be mean girls. Let them say their hateful things. Let them play with each other. You’ve found your people. Play in the sand; dig with trucks; play tag and ride bikes. Let the mean girls be mean. Someday they’ll get theirs. And you’ll have yours. Your true friends. Your support network. Your travel buddies and confidants. Mean girls will hurt your feelings; your people will hold you up. They’ll tell you you’re smart; you’re worth it; you’re loved. You'll forget the names of the mean girls, or maybe you won't. I remember my mean girls, but I found my people. You will too. 

Boys are your people, even when they don't want to play baby dolls or put on make-up and when they smell funny. Your brother is a boy; he's a pretty cool dude. Sneak the hugs and hand holding in line (I’m pretty sure I’ve seen a stolen kiss or two). I promise the teachers think it’s cute, and the mean girls wish it was them. Be kind. You might break a heart or two; you might get yours broken. Remember who your friends are, even the broken hearted boys and the boys who broke your heart.They'll still be your people, patched up hearts and all. 

I think we’ve found you a soccer team. You’ve made a few goals, but more importantly you’re making passes too. And every now and again, you lose. Some days are like that. Even when you’re 5.

Every once in a while, do something that scares you. But not with fire. Your brother was right to tattle when you tried to set the cardboard ablaze last week. And while we’re on the subject, let’s say that daddy is starting a fire in the fire pit instead of shouting, “Daddy’s setting a fire!”

On rare occasions, we get to chat about things other than your lunch order (peanut butter sandwich, carrots with ranch, and chocolate milk). We talk about you wanting to be a teacher. I think that means you've had some really good ones so far. We talk about sisters and brothers. Sometimes we talk about how Donald Trump and Hillary Clinton; sometimes we don't. We still talk a lot about your bottom—because even when you’re a whole handful, sometimes you need your mommy to wipe your bottom. “Mommy,” you asked, “Do we have any baby salt?” Baby salt? “You know, like you sprinkle on their bottom.”

I’ll pick up some baby salt along with the infant pepper. I think I’ve got some explaining to do—particularly with your newfound interest in anatomy and how babies enter this world. I can only hope my answers are enough. You’re  only 5. 

Sometimes, you tell mom I'm your bestest friend--mostly when I let you skip hair washing to watch Paw Patrol.  Other times, you tell me I'm the worst mommy ever. Bedtime really should be getting easier by now. Another secret? Sure. I've got one more: I'll be your bestest friend; I'll also be the worst mommy ever, particularly when you break curfew or act like a mean girl. But no matter what, I'll love you the mostest. 

For best or worst, I'm the one who's got your back. I'll wipe your nose, your bottom, and your tears for however long you'll let me. I may only have two hands, but I can hold all of your handfuls. Stay funny. Stay kind. Be bold. Be a whole handful. 

Turning 5 is kind of a big deal. 

Your brother is the bestest. 

Small parties are the best parties. 

Pretty much a bucketful full of delight. 

I'll be your best friend and your worst mommy ever. And I wouldn't change it a bit. 

Wear the tiara. Always wear the tiara. 

Mr. Beatty Goes to Washington

This is the story of an idealist. A young man (and his family) who sees the  bright side of everything. He's the one person on a crowded bus to acknowledge a raving homeless man and to bring him a moment of reason as a small blonde boy waves a smiling "goodbye." Last weekend, we took this young idealist to Washington D.C.

He had two requests: to see the White House and to see the big air planes. 

Mission accomplished--and quite a fancy photo for an eight year old with an old iPhone. 

From the National Airport....

to our home station Capitol South...

we rode the rails (and the buses) and made our way on a whirlwind tour. 

Just a short hour and a half train and bus ride from the Hill, you'll find the Udvar-Hazy Air & Space Center. It's a Smithsonian museum, but it's not your grandma's air and space museum on the National Mall. It sides a hop away from Dulles, and it's home to the Space Shuttle Discovery, a Concorde jet, and a Blackbird (sponsored by the Mars Bar family--for real--I looked it up). 

He was jazzed. 

Completely blown away. 

We worried eight might be too young. 

We kind of knew four, nearly five, is probably too young. 

But what better time to start educating children? They learned that people aren't always nice. Sometimes they fight; sometimes planes crash; and sometimes countries even go to war. 

She also learned that girls can be astronauts. And judges. And president. "I'd be great at that job [Supreme Court Justice]. Because I'm smart, and I'm pretty, and I already smell good. So mornings would be like, BAM! I'm ready to go to work. Oh, with lipstick." 

I'm not sure what she's learning from having a working mom, but I think I like it. 

So many lessons were taught: things like, listen to your mother, and my personal favorite, "because I said so."

Four, almost five, is almost too young to tour Washington D.C.

G," I asked, "What was your favorite thing?" 

"Nothing." We got tired. 

And totally over photographs. 

But those Smithsonian folks are smarty pants. They know what kids like. Be forewarned, while the museum is worth the transit time, the dining option (singular) leaves much to be desired unless you favor McNuggets. Though, a hot fudge sundae goes a long way on a long day.  "RJ," I asked, "What was your favorite thing?" "Everything!"

We slept twelve hours after the first day. 

And found ourselves refreshed. 

Our hotel, Capitol Hill Suites, was an easy twenty minute walk from Union Station where we embarked on day two's adventure--the double decker bus. 

Sidenote: Capitol Hill Suites is delightful. This was my second stay, and I'm sure I'll repeat again. Breakfast is complimentary, reliable, and tasty. The rooms are renovated, and the neighborhood is quiet with two highly rated restaurants nearby--We the Pizza and Good Eats for those interested. Pizza and burgers with a corner deli to fill in gaps. I could have fed the family for two weeks on what we spent in four days, however. 

We took the City Sights double-decker bus. The tour bus, I recommend. This particular company, I do not. The bus was an open top double decker--something I knew, to be fair. It was 95 degrees, which I also knew. I did not know the hop-on feature of the tour would require us to hop up and down and signal frantically to the third bus to nearly bypass us. 

We took a tour bus at night, and we self-toured at night. The Capitol was minutes from our hotel. 

Vacation mom loves selfies. Even when vacation doesn't involve basking on the beach. 

The American History Museum is one of my favorites. 

As it turns out, it's one of the kids' favorites too. 

Even the littlest of the crew. 

Ice cream refreshes on the National Mall. 

But at the not-so-near-the-end of a long day, ice cream sometimes isn't enough. 

Our evening City Sights tour took us to the Roosevelt Monument, a beautifully crafted peaceful retreat replete with 

reminders that ring true even today. 

Night photography is hard. 

Mr. Beatty went to Washington, 

along with his family, and 

even though an almost-five-year old is almost too young, we're idealists; we'd do it again. And again. And even once again.