Maybe My Kids Will Be Jugglers

I feel if I don’t get my kids into a sport or activity soon, they will be doomed to be losers forever.

They are only three and a half and eighteen months, and already I am feeling pressure to ensure they are good at something by the time they are…well, NOW. Or God forbid they may not make the Varsity team of something amazing by age eight.

My kids have not had a single swimming class. No tumbling, either. They have not participated in any “mommy and son” sing-a-long, dance-a-long or act-like-a-ding-dong-a-long classes. We aren’t yet members of a rec center or the local Y.

Okay, so I’m lying. Mac has tried soccer. We paid a stupidly high amount for 10 indoor sessions up in psycho-soccer territory (aka Dublin, Ohio), and he seemed to kind of like it. But there were plenty of tears, too. And it was too early on a Saturday morning when also trying to manage a one-year-old. And many of the other parents were just waaaaay too into it.

In our backyard, we have soccer balls and a net. We have baseball gear and a basketball hoop. We have balls of every size and color and type. Mac can hit, kick and throw them all pretty well--or so his dad says; I'm no coach.

We’ve talked about what we’d like to get Mac involved in. Martial arts, for sure. Maybe wrestling (just like daddy). He said he wants to play baseball…or soccer…or basketball.

So what’s the problem? We just need to sign him up already. And buy the overpriced gear and show up at silly times for chaos and tears and “I wanna snack!” and “I need to pee!” and just sit and enjoy the misery with the other parents. It’s a rite of passage for young parents. I get it. Now we need to up and JUST DO IT, all Nike-style.

But I’m scared. I’m worried for them. Because…what if my kids suck at sports like I did? I’m worried that they will be totally uncoordinated and laughed at by others and not “make” the team one day. It’s devastating. And you never forget it.

I tried out for cheerleading multiple times, which was dumb, because I couldn’t even do a cartwheel. I did a LOG ROLL for the gymnastics portion of the try-outs. The judges weren’t even looking at me. Why would they? I was never going to make it.

(And please, do laugh out loud that I did a log roll at the tryouts. It is pretty damn funny. My lanky, stick legs, rolling around on the floor – what was I thinking?!)

I’ve never had good endurance (and I now blame sickle cell trait). I came in last on field day…in all the competitions. Remember the ribbons that were handed out? Yep, I had a huge stack of the 5^th and 6^th place orange and brown ones. I was always the last one picked for any sport during gym class. Basketball, soccer, tetherball — even four-square. As my brother will gladly tell you, I couldn’t even push a decent “shoe-shiner” my opponent’s way.

I can only imagine that it stinks for boys even more if they are not good at sports. That’s what they are built for, right? It’s a natural talent; they have muscles, they can pick up stuff easily and hit the ball over the fence…right? But what if my boys can’t? What if they try out all the sports and they aren’t good at any of them and they refuse to play anything because they are embarrassed and end up carrying around a heap of hurt and rejection for decades?

What if they really want to be good – like I did so badly – but they simply are not?

On the other hand...what if they find out they are really good at something? That they truly enjoy and love playing something, because they are so good at it? Or maybe they will be good at multiple sports. What if they meet their best friends in those circles at a young age and it keeps them engaged in their studies and out of trouble through their high school years, and they ultimately experience breathtaking moments of success and confidence and excitement and joy?

Of course, I would want that for them both!

I don’t care much for most sports, because I was never good at them. I couldn’t really try to participate anyway (until high school) because my parents were divorced, and traveling to Cincinnati from Dayton to see my dad and family every two weeks was much more important. For my kids’ sake, I need to shake off my past resentment and start cheering for them on the sidelines. I need to let them try different sports (and stick to it through the season’s end even if they don’t like it) and then let them determine later on which ones they really want to pursue. I need to get my butt up early on the weekends and push them (not crazily) to try hard and practice their tails off and to get better and to not give up.

Sports aren’t for everyone, but being involved in some way, with other kids, and learning how to work together as a team and just being active — period — undoubtedly is necessary for raising healthy, respectful, determined children. And I want that more than anything for my boys.

And, I think they may have a good shot at being good at something. Because thankfully, I represent only half of their DNA.

*And for the record, I did become involved in something fantastic in high school that kept me practicing and active 30+ hours per week in addition to school, and I fully recognize how much it shaped who I am today. I just want a positive experience – like I ultimately had – for Mac and Graham, regardless of whether it’s through sports, the arts or even backpacking with friends through the wild.

The wild south side of Pittsburgh, only, of course.

-Melissa

My House Was Clean Yesterday... Sorry You Missed It.

Oh my gosh, don’t worry about it!

It’s my immediate response when a fellow mom apologizes for the state of her house or the layer of grime in her car. I play along. I swear, with a chuckle, I’m not judging. I go on about what terrible shape my house is in…

But honestly, fellow mom? I totally am. I am judging you. I am stink-eyeing your baseboards and dying to see if you have that weird produce gunk at the bottom of your fridge. But not for the reason you might think. It really has nothing to do with you.

I love the blog finding joy. In it Rachel Martin ardently argues that we as mothers need to stop apologizing for the dishes in our sinks and the Legos on our family room floors. Instead, we should work together to reestablish the pre-Facebook community of mothers that supported one another on their couches and in their kitchens.

Thinking that we fall anywhere short of Pinterest-perfection leaves us feeling like losers and terribly alone. I have avoided participating in most forms of social media because I already suffer enough by comparison―I don’t need to access it on my laptop and handheld device. 

I’ve been suffering my whole life.  I was judging book-covering materials in elementary school, staring into lockers to admire others’ organizers in high school, and sweeping my eyes into the corners of dorm rooms in college. Now, whenever I step into someone else’s house I’m hyper-vigilant.

I judge the cleanliness of your floors and the tidiness of your kitchen counters. Do you find the time to wipe down your baseboards? If I’m really being honest with myself, my judgy-ness (it’s a word) is grounded in making myself feel superior. I am laser-focused on your house because it makes me feel less like a failure. 

<phew> Her perfectly layered knickknacks need a good dusting...I’m not a hopeless slob that’s going to raise the smelly kid in school.

It’s an unfortunate female trait I had long before I had kids. Being super-judgmental has been a coping mechanism since bodysuits were cool and I was too timid to snap my tops on. Why do women do this to one another? Why do we have to mock and judge each other? Reading the comments to any online parenting article makes me want to curl in a ball and eat an entire bag of Cheetos.

I attack housework the same way I did writing papers in college. I was deeply concerned with how my professors viewed me. I wanted to be the top student who always delivered exemplary work. I’d set up everything perfectly on my desk...then I’d discover the Popstars marathon playing all Saturday afternoon.  (Please don’t deny watching it―that cheapens the experience for all of us.) Then I’d be up all night, sick to my stomach, throwing together crap and cursing my procrastination.

I want to have the spotless house that I am proud of and unafraid to welcome surprise guests into. But Pinning homemade cleaners and cabinet-organization-schemes is sometimes all I do. I spray environment-killing chemicals all over the place and cause a frying pan landslide every time I need to sauté something.  Now my husband’s return from work or my mother-in-law coming for dinner is my deadline and I’m sick to my stomach and cursing the end of nap-time.

I was taking the compulsory and entertaining tour of a friends’ new home. The new homeowner was discussing how filthy the last homeowner had been. She told me with great disgust how there were cobwebs all through the basement. I could feel my face warming. I immediately began picturing the cobwebs on full display in my basement, on the front hall light and twinkling in the sun on both kids’ bedroom blinds.  

Oh, haha, I bet I have a bunch of those myself…

No! Not like hers! You wouldn’t live like that!

Instead of being hurt or stressed, her comments actually made me feel so much better. She didn’t think of me as being dirty like the last owner of her home. She couldn’t fathom I could be so negligent as a mom and Chief COH (Cleaner-of-House). That’s what mattered to me:  that a fellow mom had faith I wasn’t Pig Pen.

I don’t really care if you have figured out how to keep your bathroom towels fluffy with a house full of kids.  I don’t actually mind that suspicious stain on the hall rug. Why do I judge? Because I am afraid I won’t measure up to you. All we really want is to be liked and I have somehow attached having a clean home with being accepted.

Rachel Martin is right. I need to stop torturing myself by comparison. My friend with the sparkling house that always looks perfectly put together? She truly believes me better-than-cobweb-lady. And the next time she comes to my house? I’m not apologizing for the tray under the water dispenser on the fridge. But I am asking her how the hell she gets her's so clean. 

-Elizabeth

I'm Bringin' Dirty Back (yeah)

So… this being my first real foray into social media and sharing any sort of information on the Internet… I thought I’d lay myself bare. I’m putting it on the table. People will attack me in the comments and dig up ugly pictures from my past and post them like they did to that one mom who said that stuff about that kid.

Here goes.

<deep breath>

I don’t wash my back. 

Wipe the spit-take coffee from your screen as I elaborate. I don’t even own a back scrubber.  I make zero effort to contort my elbows in the shower to try to reach the recesses of my spine.  I guess I figure the soap from my shoulders and the shampoo are doing the work for me?

If you’re still with me, let me assure you I scrub my kids’ backs just as well as, say, their arms and legs, so no need to bring the authorities into this. But I truly believe that no adult is really scrubbing his or her own back. Am I living in a fool’s paradise? Has my long-suffering husband just put up with me because, well, I’ve borne two children? Are his occasional attempts to shower with me in the morning not the poorly timed advances I’ve always assumed? Does he really just want to model proper mid-back scrubbing for me?  Am I going to have my little filthy bubble of ignorance popped one day:  “Oh wait, you’re all really doing that?!”

It’s like that meeting that occurred sometime in the fall of my fourth grade year. My invitation got lost I’m sure, but suddenly being a Brownie and playing with Barbies were deemed unendurable activities. I unexpectedly found myself on edge in the cafeteria― chest tight, eyes darting around the room. I had no idea what was acceptable. “Oh wait, what are we doing now?!” I immediately torched my Brownie uniform and begged my mom for a subscription to Teen magazine. Clearly, I was behind and needed to be reading bizarre gynecologic health advice and picking out my prom dress.

When I wait in line with Monkey to drop him off at preschool I overhear other mothers discussing all of the amazing things going on in their kids’ lives. Every time I hear a new one I get that fourth-grade tightness in my chest and think, “Oh crap! We’re doing that now?!”

You know that if you don’t feed your kids chard they won’t be able to pass pre-calculus, right?  I bake Austrian chard into his homemade Cheerios.  NO!  Never Swiss.  NEVER.

Well, you just have to try those amazing bilingual art classes.  We blue-ribboned in the uchongaji division last summer.  

There’s no way you can afford to skip family shriek therapy Tuesday nights… I’m a certified instructor.

Sometimes I feel the need to turn to Monkey and, holding tightly to his little three-year-old chubby hands, choke out,  “I am so sorry. No wonder you crayoned the carpet last Thursday- I’m a miserable bore! I didn’t know every other kid in your class was doing tai chi in the park. I didn’t know we were doing that!” 

I should start focusing on his little sister’s activities. Sassafras is just fifteen months, so I can get ahead with her. I have time to get her enrolled into binary jewelry making.  She’d probably eat all the beads and hog-tie her classmates with the yarn, but at least she won’t be destined to sell plasma to purchase cheap vodka for her college dorm. I haven’t failed her yet.

How many times have you stood in a group of mothers and fretted about your figurative dirty back? Moms are powerful. For example, I read an article arguing parents need to rethink how we talked to our kids about strangers. We need to stop telling our kids to never speak to strangers. If your kid is lost or needs help, they need to remember one simple rule: find a mom with kids. That woman will help you.  She will keep you safe and get you the help you need. Isn’t that amazing? You, and I, as moms, are just understood to be powerful protectors, champions to little ones.

But moms’ actions in relation to our fellow champions? We sometimes use our power for evil. With just the hint of a sneer or a glimmer of superiority, we reduce fellow moms to a pile of hyperventilating panic. We so desperately want to be doing right by our own kids we can be tempted to prove to everyone else that their way falls short.

I have wanted to share a laugh with the other preschool moms when one mentions their nightly flashcard sessions, a moment of solidarity that not all of us are there yet… but I just stay kneeling, trying to keep Sassafras from pinching the iPhone from the purse in front of us. I am terrified that the rest of you moms are doing nightly flashcard sessions. That you all stopped playing with Barbies. That you just got the new scented back scrub from Kiehl’s and it’s divine. That no one told me, “By the way, we’re all doing this now.”

I will fail my kids somehow. I will forget or never even know I was supposed to do something major for them. But we must give ourselves a break. Be kind to the mom next to you in line. That mom who takes a picture of her son next to the same, scientifically accurate stuffed animal every week artistically tracking his growth? She didn’t get her child into toddler Farsi. She <gasp> doesn’t have Tofu Tuesday at her house. She lets him watch an extra hour of television after kiddie Karate. And that’s okay. She’s doing her thing and she’s not judging the mom who makes a scrumptious tofu taco.

Oh, and lest you judge me too harshly for my less-than-stellar hygienic practices, just remember, there’s an entire continent of people who think our lack of bidets makes us foul.  But that’s okay.  Who are they to judge?

- Elizabeth