05.29.08
Ode to a Coach
This is a letter I wrote a three years ago to my childhood softball coach. There are some who question the logic of putting a kid in sports to the point where it takes up so much of their time they have room for little else. This is my experience as a kid, and I can honestly say that the things I learned while playing softball are things I take with me to this day. These experiences helped shape who I have become. I would not undo the time commitment from my softball years for anything in this world.
Dear Steve,
There was once a little girl, about nine years of age, who nervously sat in the front seat of her car, her dad behind the wheel waiting with her. They were waiting to see who else would show up, and who the little girl might know from school. As car after car dropped off little girl after little girl, the one waiting with her dad realized that she didn’t know any of the other little girls there. The last car pulled in and parked, and her dad stuck his head out the window and shouted, “How long will it be?”
The man from the other car shouted back, “About an hour!” The girl’s father turned to her and said, “You’ll be ok. Just do what Steve tells you to do, and keep an eye out so you aren’t in the way of a runaway ball.” The little girl nodded and slinked from the car, watching her dad drive away and then standing beside the grassy field, not knowing where to stand or what to do. The man her father called Steve paired the girls up and started them throwing balls back and forth to warm up, and then he ran them through the basics of a catch, a throw, fielding a ground ball, and the swing of a bat. This was the little girl’s first softball practice.
When her dad came back to pick her up an hour later, her eyes were brimming with excitement and she gestured wildly while showing off all the things she’d learned in the hour that had flown by. Steve came over to talk to her dad, saying her glove was too small and to suggest a length and weight for a bat, should they be so inclined to buy one and practice at home. As she waved bye to Steve and walked to the car, her dad by her side, she looked up hopefully and said, “Dad, can we go get a bigger glove now, and play catch when we get home?”
“Sure,” her dad said, pulling her against his side in a one-armed hug.
This was a little snippet of the first practice I had when I first started playing softball on the Mighty Molars back in the summer of 1986. I think I knew one girl on the team when I started, and that was Marla [last name]. I got to know all the girls and even though we only won one game during our first summer playing together, I learned so many things about softball. But more importantly, I learned how to lose a game with dignity, how to win a game with grace, and I learned that while competition is good, it’s not the heart and soul of everything.
I hear little snippets of stories on the radio of the DJs talking about taking their kids to little league games, or my coworkers whose daughters are on softball teams this summer, and it always takes me back to the seven years I played with you as my coach, three years on the Mighty Molars, and then four years on the Paragons with Amy, Jessica, Veronica, Rosie, Marissa, Marla, Melissa, Shanda, Bonnie, and all the other girls. I remember the games we had early, where you hadn’t had the chance to change from your suit after work, and if there was a close play at third you’d be down in the dirt with us from the third base coaches’ box. I remember losing all but one game our first year, losing about half the second year, and the winning the league title the third year, right before we went from Pee Wee league to Rainbow league.
My husband Mike plays softball, and he’s always trying to talk me into letting him buy a $300 bat or a $150 glove, something far more expensive than he really needs for his weekly beer league game. I always tell him, “A good craftsman never blames his tools!” If I close my eyes and think back, sometimes I can actually hear you telling me to have bat speed, or keep my head down when I’m hitting. I can remember the time when we were practicing at Dean Wiley field one summer morning and Melissa [last name] tripped on her glove going after a ground ball at shortstop and she slid on her face and then stood up laughing at herself for her clumsiness. (She was scraped up a little but no worse for the wear.) I remember you chuckling to my parents when we got back from our first out-of-town tournament that you’d never seen a kid (me) eat so much. I remember you holding my hand when my nose was broken in our last year as the Mighty Molars, and then two weeks later I begged you to put me in a game just to hit and run the bases in Hutchinson because it was the State tournament. Against your better judgment you did, and even running the bases, my face was a magnet for stray balls, and my nose got hit again. Luckily it was before my scheduled surgery to have the first break fixed. I remember your ratty, too-small glove that had no padding left and needed to be restrung in a bad way, but you never gave it up no matter how much we teased you. I remember the Ping Machine, that black bat my dad bought with the longer sweet spot that made that horrible pinging noise every time the ball was hit. We beat that bat up until the end cap came off and we couldn’t use it anymore. In fact, I think I might still have that bat somewhere. If I can find it, it will hang on my wall in our basement, which is decorated like a sports bar with all the trophies and plaques my husband and I have accumulated in our lives. Prominently featured on a trophy shelf is that large red trophy you gave to my parents to bring to me. I’m very proud of that trophy and what it represents.
I remember the early morning summer practices, the late night summer games, the all weekend summer tournaments and we kept getting better and better. I still tell my friends the story about how we finally beat Stealth [our biggest rival team] and I scored the winning run. I was so devastated when I blew out my knee playing football for homecoming my junior year of high school and couldn’t play softball any more.
My parents tell me they occasionally run into you around town and you always ask how I’m doing. Well, I just wanted to drop a note to you and say I’m good, better for having known you and for having had you for my coach. I look back on my softball experiences as some of my favorite childhood memories. I have a son now; he’s going to be 18 months old next Friday. I look forward to the days when, if he wants to, he’ll play on a baseball team. I look forward to taking him out to a school playground and practicing with him. I’ve told my husband that if we ever have a daughter, one day, if she’s interested in playing softball, maybe I would get a team together for her and coach them. I learned the fundamentals of the game from one of the greatest coaches alive, Steven Hernandez, a man not afraid to get a suit dirty to “help” us slide into third, and not afraid to argue with an umpire if he felt we were getting hosed on a bad call, sometimes to the point of being kicked out of a game.
Mainly I just wanted to write to you and tell you thank you for the time you gave up to teach us how to be a team, and a pretty good one at that, for the guidance and the laughs throughout the whole thing, and most of all, for being a big part of my favorite childhood memories. Because of you, I know now that bat speed is the key to a good hit; sunflower seeds help retain water on hot days when I need all the water I can get; don’t leave second base on a ground ball hit to short until the ball leaves the shortstop’s hand for the out at first; a graceful winner is just as important as a graceful loser; and that while winning is fun, being a part of a team is more fun. So thank you in so many ways I couldn’t possibly express.
Andrea
05.23.08
Milestones
I never know how to write about the kids’ milestones. Do I write with all my beaming pride there on my webpage for everyone to see? “Oh look! She learned to smile after she farts. So special!” Or do I just do a quick update post to say the circumstances for posterity’s sake and call it good? Should I write a long and windy entry full of sap and weepy anime eyes about how big they’re getting and damn them for choosing to grow up on me?
I just don’t know.
Last night, Anna rolled over for the first time. And it was funny.
We’ve been insanely busy this week, dealing with the packing for our camping weekend like I mentioned before. “Do we take the aspirator? The humidifier? The feeding pillow? The bouncy chair? The swing? The activity mat? That other activity gym thing that is harder plastic? These three blankets, one in which to swaddler her, one to put under her head for the softness on her face that she likes when she’s sleeping (which of course is not thick and therefore not a suffocation hazard, so no assvice plzkaythxbai) and one for her feet because the swaddle never covers them?” Yes the minutiae of packing for a baby is mind numbing.
So of course while we’re busy, Anna’s busy screaming her head off while Gabe’s busy moving the things I’ve set out to be loaded into the car to their new hiding places and Mike asks me, “Hey, shouldn’t we take the flashlight,” while I get impatient and say that I thought of it and set it out for him, and didn’t he see it and take the hint, and all the while the weakly shining flashlight is dying a D battery death hidden inside the kitty’s little carpeted house thingy that resides in the bathroom since it doubles as Gabe’s handwashing step stool, all while Anna wails away at the indignity of being left on the floor for more than three point two seconds. Sorry, Anna dear, but I can’t be the seat under your butt while you stare fixedly at your fingers for half an hour like any other normal night. You’ll just have to deal a little bit.
So last night, she was on the activity mat and pissing and moaning that she wasn’t being helped to stand and allowed to “Ha!” at the world. She’d flip and flop from side to side, and I had an eye on her as I was traipsing crap to the car, certain she’d finally pull off a barrell roll that she’s been so close to doing for a couple weeks now. Finally, after about half an hour and a couple breaks in there where I tried to calm her down and distract her (she had none of that), she crested the hump of her elbow, teetered, and then her momentum whooshed her over onto her belly. She was so surprised she stopped crying for a bit. One arm was pinned under her rotund belly but the other was free to prop her up from her new perspective. She went, “HA!” as if she’d been waiting all along to do that, lowered her face into the mat, smeared boogers all over her cheeks and into her eyebrows and then started crying anew. Soon thereafter, I swooped in with a bottle and a blanket and swaddled her off to sleep for the night.
But she rolled over! Before long, we’re going to have to pad the walls and watch the stairs for she’ll be rolling herself everywhere, if she’s anything like her brother.
05.21.08
This Sh*t is Bananas, B-A-N-A-N-A-S
Literally, the sh*t is bananas. And it is foul! Though the bebe loves her some bananas goo, which she tried for the first time the night before last. And last night’s pears met with resounding approval, meaning that she spit it out so that I could try to shovel it back in and she gets to taste it twice per bite. NOM NOM NOM
I forgot how hard it is when a baby is first learning to eat from a spoon. Shovel in; watch her spit it out; try to get the spoon swiped across her chin; fail miserably while she puts her fingers in the blob of baby food on her chin; wipe fingers; wipe face; repeat a frillion times; pick baby up and realize that I forgot to wipe her hands that last time and now she’s entwined them in my hair and is yanking fiercely.
I warned her grandfather, who is watching her for a couple days this week for bonding time, that she might have some toxic diapers because the instant you change a baby’s diet, their pooper turns into Shooter McGavin: spewing forth in their righteousness and you can’t get them to close their blow-hole. I think she had three muddy diapers just last evening alone. And oh, but it was fetid.
Sorry though, for subjecting you to every parent’s eventual pitfall: the discussion of a child’s poop. It’s interesting though, how one goes from having conversations on proper topics to having absolutely no shame in the description to complete strangers the inner workings of their kids’ bowel habits. I promise, I’ll watch it and attempt to avoid subjecting you again to such horribly cruel discourse.
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In other news, we’re traveling this weekend to the great state of Kansas to kamp (the spelling of that I find so cheesy and funny that I intend to use it forevermore. Because it’s kampy) and visit relatives. I’ve forgotten just how much crap one has to pack for a person that’s smaller than a cat. There’s the bathtub, the bouncy chair AND the Boppy pillow for feedings, the stroller for the inevitable shopping that happens with my parents, the bottles, the bottle warmer (which oops, I think we sold at our Yard Sale of the Century), the prune juice for her southern end and there I go with the pooping talk again, and that’s not even considering the multiple daily changes of clothes, diapers, wipes, creams and ointments, and toys. OMG the toys. And I’m certainly not forgetting that we have another kid who has to have his own round of toys, including a freaking bike. I don’t know if I’ve mentioned it before, but we own a pop-up camping trailer, and we can pack away some of that stuff in there, not to mention that Mike is the Tetris Master when it comes to puzzle-piecing together our stuff into a trunk and camper. But still, I don’t know where we’re going to put it all. And what blows chunks most is that all that stuff for Anna is stuff I use on a daily and sometimes hourly basis, so a lot of it can’t be packed until the very last minute. Sucks to be Mike on Friday afternoon.
To facilitate the travel time on this trip, I’ll be riding public transportation on Friday to get to work, which has the potential to provide priceless blog fodder. Mike’s right in that it makes no sense for me to drive to work, take an hour to drive home, then an hour after we’ve left home, drive right past my work again on the way to the kampground, so I’ve arranged to have someone drop me off at the Metrolink train station closest to my house and for someone to pick me up on the other end so that I may get to work on time Friday morning. Believe it or not, I’m actually looking forward to this train ride. It’s a pretty smooth ride; I don’t have to drive (with a currently expired license no less, which I’ve renewed online, but the sticker still has to come in the mail); I can listen to my iPod in relative peace. If it weren’t for the fact that the train ride is about half an hour longer than my usual commute, making logistics of dropping the kids off /getting to work on time impossible, I’d ride the Metrolink every day. It would probably save me a couple hundred dollars a month in gas, untold mileage on my car, and is probably the biggest way that I personally could reduce my carbon footprint.
Hmmm. That’s a pretty compelling argument right there. But every which way I look at it I would not be able to fit the train schedule within the parameters of my babysitter’s hours. Maybe after the kids start school I could consider such a move.
Moving on.
So tell me, this being Memorial Day weekend and all, what do you all have planned? BBQs? Errands? Home improvement? Walks? Boating? Yard work? Traveling? Shopping? Jetting off to Mozambique? Lunch in Paris? Inquiring minds, and all that banana goo.
05.19.08
Memories of a Wee Me for a Wii
My kids’ giggles (yes I said kids’ giggles. Anna’s laughing regularly now, though it sounds more like when the mermaid from Splash speaks her name in her screechy native tongue and blows out all the TV screens in the electronics department at Bloomingdales) are enough to transport me to a time in my life when I was carefree, had no job nor money worries, and my biggest plans included which book I wanted to read and what ways I could bug my big sister.
Playing Lincoln Logs on the floor with Gabe reminds me of my own Lincoln Logs and Tinker Toys from when I was a kid. I loved creating elaborate contraptions that I pretended did heavy duty projects around the planet and my inventions were the only ones that could perform those vital functions. The continued existence of the human race was dependent on me and my ability to construct useful machines. I’m surprised my parents didn’t have me psychiatrically evaluated for such delusions of grandeur.
Candy Land brings out the competitive child in me, and I can’t help but get a little giddy when I pull out the ice cream cone card and get to skip to nearly the end of the game. I hate getting stuck on the licorice spots. We haven’t graduated to Monopoly yet, but I imagine the play money will transport me back to my greedy days as the fat, happy banker with hotels on everything I owned, until someone landed on me and I took pity on their no-rent-paying sob stories. But here’s a hint: St. Charles Place and its neighbors can be just as lucrative as Boardwalk and Park Place. And $200 felt like a helluva paycheck. I can’t wait to get into arguments with Gabe over the Red Properties and the Green Properties. I’ll probably still take pity on him for his no-rent paying sob story, unless it just consists of “Fine! I’m not playing!” like so many of mine did. That game taught me to argue, and I fully expect it to do the same for my kids.
When they’re big enough to go to the movies, I can’t wait to take Gabe and Anna to their first one, though Gabe’s been to one with his cousins. I promise I won’t suck in a sharp breath at the prices of concessions. For their first movie in a theater, I’ll just hand over the money (which I probably should start saving right now) and smile. Then, thereafter, I’ll teach them the art of sneaking in our own snacks. But the smell of theater popcorn never fails to take me back to that day when I was a little girl, swinging on the swing set in our backyard and anxiously waiting for my parents to come outside and tell me it was time to go to the first movie I ever saw in the theater (Bambi). The hushed sounds and the hideous movie theater carpet reminds me of the pent up feelings of sadness and desperation that I held in with a big breath which I only let out in a whoosh when I saw E.T.’s chest light back up inside his little alien incubator/coffin and his finger start glowing as he reached out and moaned in his creepy voice, “Elliot. Elllliiiiioooooooott.” To this day, when I hear the words, “Be good,” I think of that movie.
Wind blowing in through open windows on a lazy summer evening brings out my desire to take a bath and then romp around on the living room furniture in my Care Bears pajamas, though I doubt there are Care Bears pajamas big enough to accommodate me these days.
The opening strains of The Twilight Zone or Tales from the Dark Side tell me it’s time to run to my room and jump in bed, cowering under the covers so that whatever weird thing the TV is showing won’t get me because, alright already, I’m going to bed! You can’t steal my mouth from my face, Twilight Zone, because I’m not sassing, and I went to bed! Cheer Bear had some serious protecting to do.
The sounds of Frogger are still burned into my memory as is the day that the Atari broke and we were left to fend for other entertainment on hot summer afternoons.
The sound of a window air conditioner makes me feel like a kid again, and I felt totally gypped when it wasn’t until I was 17 and nearly moving out of the house when my parents finally got central air. Though I’m glad now because that sound, the first whir of life in the unit that cooled our little house would spell comfort for me, and lazy afternoons laying on the couch reading a book while the sun beat down outside.
On afternoons after the Atari broke, where the temperature was not over 90°, my mother’s threshold for letting us turn on the air (remember those phone calls to your work, Mom? “Hey, it’s 89° out, can we turn on the air?”), we’d walk to the library and spend the afternoon soaking up the free air conditioning while checking out way more books than we could read before the due date. The smell of books still reminds me of free air conditioning and the cool feeling of walking through those heavy and silent double doors. I associate books with comfort despite the 10 block walk to and from the library in summer heat.
These are a few of the things that make me feel like a kid again. Tell me, what smells, tastes, and sounds take you back to moments in your childhood? One of my weirdest ones is the opening sounds of Days of Our Lives reminds me of lunch time, since it aired at 12:30 every afternoon and during the summer, my sister and friend Felicia and I were religious watchers of DoOL. “Like sands through the hourglass…and so are the days of our lives.” Tell me about your childhood comforts!
*this post is in an effort to win a Wii from this website. First, I wasn’t going to say anything because fewer entries means I have a better chance to win. But that wouldn’t be very nice of me, now would it? The contest is open until Sunday, May 25th. If you’re interested in participating, visit the site and follow the rules.
Send Driving Music to Drown Out Insults
On the way to the babysitter’s this morning, Gabe said to me, “Mama, I’d really like to find my mind.”
I did a double take into the rearview mirror, not sure I heard him right. “Your mind, you said?”
“Yeah. I would really like to find my mind. My head feels empty sometimes, and I would like to find my brain and put it back. Do you feel that way sometimes, Mama?”
“Oh yes. You have no idea how often.”
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“Mom, I have a tiny butt, don’t I?”
“Yes, Gabe. You have a tiny, skinny butt.” And I know where this is going.
“But you and Daddy have big butts.”
“Yes, Gabe, we have big butts.”
Gabe snickers.
“Hey, it’s not nice to tell people they have big butts. It makes them feel bad.”
“Do you feel bad now, Mommy?”
“Yes, Gabe. You telling me I have a big butt makes me feel bad.”
“…snort…snicker…pbbbbbtttttthtthththththhhhhhhhsssssssssssssrrrrnrnnnnt”
“Not funny, dude.”
To keep from being left out, Anna chimes in, “bbbaaaaaaaaaaahhhhh! Huuuuuuuaaah! Gggglllllleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeehhhhhhaaaa!”
“Yes, Anna. I know he’s right about the big butt. It’s just not something you say in polite conversation.”
Mike, if you’re reading this, please find my workout DVDs. Clearly, I need them.
05.16.08
It’s the Gravity’s Fault
Yesterday, we had our appointment with the pediatric gastroenterologist for that little problem Anna had awhile back wherein she decided to spit up cement and gag and then choke and after that, thought it would be fun to not breathe very well anymore.
I didn’t think we’d get an answer yesterday. I thought we’d be ferried around for a series of more tests, set up for more appointments, and maybe a few months from now, we’d get a tentative diagnosis and be told that it was the best they could come up with. I don’t know where my skepticism comes from with the medical establishment, but clearly, I have some. Maybe it was because it took almost half a year to diagnose a failing gallbladder and I endured a series of tests, multiple appointments, and a few months from the onset of the symptoms, I was given a tentative diagnosis of a failing gallbladder and kind of a shoulder shrug when I asked the cause of the failure. They didn’t know.
It’s not that I think they were incompetent and therefore everyone we encounter in the medical profession will follow suit. Far from it. I have the utmost respect for doctors and am fascinated by medical subject matter to no end. I guess I was just afraid that when it came to my daughter, it wouldn’t be easy and I had myself all geared up for a long slog of the unknown and scary possibilities of illness.
Turns out, they pinpointed a classic case of laryngomalacia. It’s common in infants and manifests in a soft trachea or larynx, so soft that the tissue sometimes collapses on itself and temporarily blocks the airway. This can cause mucous production due to irritated breathing passages, and voila, you have a baby that is snotty and congested all the time that can produce sludge for spit up and then choke on it. The good news is that she’ll hopefully grow out of it by the time she’s two. Laying her on her back can irritate it with the presence of gravity, so as long as we lay her on her side or elevate her so she’s reclined instead of flat ~ which we’ve instinctively been doing because she breathes better and it also lessens the chance she’ll urp while on her back and then choke it down like a grizzly has-been rockstar that has drank away their talent and motor skills and can’t extract themselves from the pile of goo ~ she should be fine, no worse for the wear. And side note… um, ew?
Unfortunately for her, she’s going to be intimately familiar with the nose/brain sucker for quite some time. There is nothing we can give her to relieve the mucous, and there is no reason to medicate a symptom that is produced by a physical problem as opposed to a bacteria or virus because medication will be a stop-gap measure and I’m not so sure I want to put her on a two-year decongestant drip, not that I am allowed to do such a thing since you can’t buy baby decongestant anymore since the government banned it to save babies of ignoramuses who wouldn’t read warning and dosage labels. I’ll rub Vapo Rub on her chest to help with her airways and I’ll put Ocean Water in her nose to break up the cement in there, get out the brain sucker, and hope for the best.
I’m so glad to have an answer for the problem and so quickly to boot. Not only that, but the diagnosis confirms for me that our instincts were right on with how to help her, and that maybe we’re not so bad at this parenting thing.
Gabe may beg to differ on that, since I wouldn’t let him eat crackers in my bed last night, or watch Over the Hedge twice in a row at way past bedtime. But hey, they’re alive, fed frequently, only occasionally teased for our own amusement, and hugged as much as we can get our grubby hands on them. Not too shabby, I hope they realize someday.
05.15.08
Yes, They Still Exist
On an unseasonably cold morning in May, a beautiful little girl donned her pink coat with the ears on it ~ ever the little fashionista ~ and trekked to a wet grassy field.
There, she watched her older brother kick around a ball and try to get that ball into a net, while he tried to keep other kids from getting the same ball into another net. She found comfort on her grandma’s lap.
Soon, however, she began to exhibit signs of discomfort. She began to bleat like a sheep. “Mmmbaaaaah. Mmmmbaaaaah. Mmmmmbaaaaaaaah!” She needed something.
Ahh, that’s better. The little girl was content, so much so that she was near napping as she finished her meal. That is, until her grandma decided she didn’t want to be puked on and started trying to burp the little girl.
Her brother played on in the game, oblivious to the girl’s plight. That is, until a leg opened up on Grandma’s lap and her brother decided to come say hello. Showing his little sister some love, he caressed her face. His grandma kissed his ear while his sister tried to eat his hand.
The End.
Except not, because there are a couple more cute pics to share.
Peekaboo! Gabe sees you!
Now, get back to work.
05.14.08
My Wish
For today, I wish my grandmother completely healthy.
For today, I wish my son compassionate and generous with a little touch more obedience to his caregivers. I wish him a future of self-confidence and success.
For today, I wish my daughter clear nasal passages and to finally clear the obstacle that is her arm and roll over on her own after a couple weeks’ worth of trying. I wish her a future of knowing her worth and having the wherewithal to defend it.
For today, I wish my husband contentment and unequivocable knowledge of my love and devotion. I wish him a future of conversations and friends and good times.
For today, I wish my blog friends lots of site hits and comments and conversations. I wish for them (you) new and important connections.
For today, I wish my checkbook fat.
For today, I wish my ass skinny. And my arms. And my buddha belly. And my chin to lose its duplicates.
For today, I wish for the time to breathe in and relax for a few minutes, learn more about my new camera, and the inspiration to take a few good photos.
For today, I wish for appreciation of my surroundings and circumstances.
And then I’ll blow out 31 candles and smile because it’s my birthday and life is good.
05.12.08
Life’s March
The march I talked about in my last post continues on in new and unexpected ways.
Anna laughed today for the first time.
Thinking of Her
My mind isn’t focused today.
Well, wait. I was about to lie to you people.
My mind is focused today on one thing, at the expense of everything else. The weather’s beautiful, sunny and low to mid seventies forecast, and yet my mind and heart are stormy and cold. I’m worried. About much of it, I can’t talk.
Some of it is for my grandmother. She’s undergoing surgery this morning. She has breast cancer that they’re trying to cut out today. She doesn’t do well with anesthetic, so they’re only sedating her, which has worked better in the past. However, there’s that niggling in my brain, like a rat gnawing on the parts that would have me calm down and be relaxed, taking little chunks and swallowing it down, irretrievable. They caught it early, which is the only good news surrounding the entire situation. I keep repeating that to myself.
The march of life inevitably happens to everyone. But I don’t have to like it when it threatens to march all over my family. So I’m hoping by sheer force of will that I can think the march into a new path, that I can hope and pray fervently for her to come through this with minimal invasion to her life, and the marching will let her be for now.
We’ll know soon enough.
