What’s Stayed the Same

Five years ago, when my oldest son wrapped up his Little League years, I penned a story (So Long, Freedom Field) paying tribute to our hometown field. My youngest son has just done the same. This one’s for him, and this year’s twelves…

The serene setting is still the same. The tree-lined surroundings. The weathered green scoreboard, reminiscent of an old-school classroom chalkboard. The flag still flies in the outfield, although it’s faded a bit over time. Siblings play wall ball, players drape themselves over the yellow-topped outfield fence, sizing up their opponents as they await their games. We’ve returned to the place we’ve known and loved after a two-year absence. Freedom Field. Thanks to the tireless, diligent and behind-the-scenes efforts of the Little League board, the idea and hope of a baseball season became a reality.

The sights and sounds have been like balm for the soul. Teenagers reminiscing and ribbing each other about their twelve-year-old seasons—who was the superior team, yet who walked away with bragging rights after the in-house championship. The Umpire in Chief good-naturedly encouraging batters stepping up to the plate. A player with a broken thumb sitting atop a bucket, signaling in pitches. As in years past, foul balls whizzing into the parking lot, forever making spectators wince and shout, “Not my car!” 

This year, the game seemed to serve as the backdrop for rekindled friendships. With each timeout called, players gathered to talk—boys from both teams—hurriedly congregating in the outfield or infield—chatting it up every chance they got, whether it was to presumably talk about MLB The Show or the school day’s Zoom or PE class. It was as if the lack of baseball from the past year had created such a void that they took advantage of every single in-person moment they had. They seemed to linger, always smiling. Cheerful in their conversations. Happy to be reconnected. The same carried over to the dugout, with some of the most jubilant and goofy experiences coming during their time together on the bench.

True to the game—and life—the highs in one game turned to lows in the next. Being down 3 to 1 going into the bottom of the sixth, and winning 4-3 after a bases-loaded line drive, but then a ground rule double tied up the next game and a wild pitch generated a 3-2 loss.

The short yet sweet season culminated in a celebration on a gray Juneuary afternoon. Twelve-year-old players from this year—and those from last year who lost out on an entire season—convened on the field with their parents to receive certificates, goodie bags, pennants and to pose for photos on home plate. It was a milestone, a rite of passage, as thirty-one boys aged out of standard Little League play. 

But the real fun came afterwards during the home run derby. As a handful of players took turns swinging for the fences and tried to launch dingers, kids of all ages gathered behind the fences, hoping to catch one of the coveted tanks. They’d toss caps into the air trying to nab the ball. They’d sprint to the opposite field to adjust for a left-handed hitter. They’d clamor. They’d clap. The most resounding cheers of the night came when the young man (who’d eventually become the winner) hit such bombs that they nailed—and echoed off—the scoreboard. Liveliness and happiness, excitement and laughter hung in the air. A long-awaited celebration, in its finest form. The joy palpable. The gratitude deep.

It was a year in which the game seemed to take on greater meaning, and it truly was more than a sport. It was togetherness after isolation, lightheartedness after hardship, familiarity after uncertainty, healing after loss.

In 1950, Little League founder Carl Stotz shared the purpose of Little League in a video (found on the Little League website). In it he said, “And importantly, it builds healthy minds and bodies for the youth of our land. I think we should remember always that Little League belongs to the boys and that the purpose of Little League is to let them play ball...”

As we now move on to our summer seasons, our games and years at Freedom Field becoming memories, I suspect we’ll carry with us the simplicity yet the enormity of those two words that harken back to Carl Stotz’s purpose from long ago. 

And when the umpire stands poised behind the plate, points to the pitcher and calls out “Play ball!” I imagine we won’t take it for granted again, remembering the year from which we’ve emerged—recalling what a gift and blessing that America’s pastime really is, to us, and to “the youth of our land.”

Play Ball!

Thank you, Freedom Field, for being the place where our boys did just that—and for all that you’ve held that’s familiar. 

Artful Beginnings

I was first introduced to the artistic talents of my friend Shanley when my son Brody was in kindergarten. She was the class art docent (along with another mom), and I soon learned of her creative genius when she had the students create jack-o’-lantern magnets for their harvest party. For another project, the class painted their own flower petals in bright, bold hues. She then painted a detailed vase with a classic backdrop and beautifully arranged all the petals, crafting a magnificent bouquet. Thanks to my mom’s good sense (and her hovering, stalking nature), I ended up with the masterpiece at the school’s art auction. It hangs in our entryway today, serving as a wonderful reminder of the start of elementary school and a treasured friendship.

Many things changed over the course of elementary school: new teams, new boundaries, new schools. But the pandemic thrust us into unforeseen levels of change and left us unprepared for all that that would entail. During the last week of school, my heart and spirit hurt for all the things it felt like fifth graders (and students in transitioning years) were missing. The lack of pomp and circumstance. The improper goodbyes. The certificate not handed over on a stage with a handshake, hug or high-five, but through the car window from a masked teacher during a torrential downpour. The idea that students walked out of their classrooms on a Friday the 13^th back in March, never to return, weighed heavy on me. I am a person who needs goodbyes. I need the time to process and say a formal farewell. We had none of that. And it brought a sadness along with all the creative new parades and celebrations. While there were many elements that made the end of the school year special and memorable, there was also a strong sense of longing for the way I remembered things to be.

And so I have a newfound appreciation for the bouquet that adorns our entryway. Many of the kids’ names on the back of the petals I don’t know or remember. But rather than looking at it with some of the sorrow I felt at the end of school, I admire it with gratitude for the brightness and history that it holds. The uniqueness of the colorful, individual petals reminds me of the blossoming that took place in elementary school. The relationships formed in these early years, many with kids from other schools, will continue as they meet up for the first time in middle school. They’ve come a long way. And it’s involved a different kind of goodbye. But through the lasting presence of a long-ago art project, I look with fondness to the future.

When…

Inspiration takes root.

Adventure blooms.

Friendships flourish.

Beauty abounds.

Slowing, Not Stalling

Many, many years ago, as a fearful flyer, I asked a dear friend’s husband (who worked for Boeing at the time) about some flying basics, takeoff, landing, etc. in hopes of gaining a better understanding and overcoming my fear. I was particularly curious about that dropping feeling after takeoff, where it feels like you’re freefalling or stalling out. It made this non-aviator uneasy. Upon experiencing it, I’d often shift uncomfortably in my seat—what’s happening?—while trying to appear unruffled and unrattled. I’ve since learned that “the sensation of slowing down is really one of slowing the rate of acceleration; this is due to reducing the thrust after takeoff to the climb setting.”*

These days, as we’ve settled into the groove of not really having a groove and made a routine of not totally having a routine, quite a bit about life feels like it’s stalled out. The activities that occupied our time are on hold. The events that populated our calendars are canceled. The places we used to frequent are closed. But in this time of slowing down, I have a new appreciation for what I’m not doing:

Wondering
Where is my teen and what is he doing? Drag racing? TPing? Adding to his stockpile of Chick-fil-A sauce? Nope, he’s sitting on the couch watching the Lakers Championship game from 2011. Or Super Bowl 48. Or Sunday Night Football from 2016. Gone are the thoughts of will he be home on time? Is he driving a friend around, even though he’s not supposed to? He’s here. He’s home. And I breathe a little sigh of thanks.

Hurrying
We have no morning alarms set. We have nowhere to be. I don’t have to squeeze in a run before my little dude wakes up for school. My run can turn into a leisurely stroll while enjoying the sunshine, saying “hello” to passersby. I can stop to visit a friend on the sidewalk, instead of being guided by the school bus timetable. I’ve admired a pair of robins hopping in the dewy grass. I’ve watched the cherry blossoms, full and overflowing, now whittled down to just a sprinkling, giving way to colorful rhododendrons. Spring is in bloom. And I’ve been able to see it.

Coordinating
No more of the ceaseless, consuming thoughts of to-dos throughout the day: If I get to Safeway at 2 and pick up Subway by 3 then I can run across town for the first game at 4 and get to the second game warm-up at 5. Wait, what about traffic? No more texting friends “Can you grab my son for practice, I’ll bring yours home after” or “See you at the game.” Instead, I’m telling my friends I miss them, as I eagerly await the day when we can hang out again in person.

Through all of this, the rate at which I did things has been drastically reduced. For awhile, earlier on in the stay-at-home order, that reduction, whether in activities or the racing of my mind, was “causing it to feel like a descent.”* It felt unnatural. Uncomfortable. I was restless.

What’s happening?

But now I wonder, when it comes to our kids, isn’t this what we’ve been seeking all along—for the rate of acceleration to slow? And not like a physics phenomenon on an airplane, but for real.

How many times do our memories on Facebook pop up and we express the impossibility about the passage of time?

That was NOT four years ago.

I miss those little faces.

Time, slow down.

What’s happening?

We see pictures of our children, their sweet, youthful faces, and we long for those days. We wish we could go back in time or that we could just have a little bit more of it with them.

And finally, we do.

Time.

Stretched out.

Slowed down.

To breathe.

To sit with our kids while they’re home.

To soak in the day.

To just be.

What’s happening?

Don’t be fooled by the sensation: we’re still climbing.

Together.

(*“The sensation of slowing down is really one of slowing the rate of acceleration; this is due to reducing the thrust after takeoff to the climb setting. The sensation of “dropping” comes from the retraction of the flaps and slats. The rate of climb is reduced, causing it to feel like a descent.”   –From USA Today, Ask the Captain, John Cox Special for USA TODAY, July 31, 2016.)

The Love Filter

In early January, a delightful young lady, whom I’ve only had the pleasure of being in the presence of once, sent me a text out of the blue about some H.W.L.F. bracelets (He Would Love First, in reference to Jesus) she had, wondering if I’d want one. I said I would and requested pink, as that color is hard to come by in my house full of males.

Sometimes while I’m driving or in the shower or when it pokes out of my hoodie sleeve, I look at it and reflect for a few moments.

It gives me pause.

He Would Love First.

In these times of ever-changing (and rapidly changing) circumstances and our in-person experiences are being whittled down, there’s more of a focus on digital and social media platforms. Our written words, whether via shared posts or comments, are out there for all to see. But just like a quote can be taken out of context, sometimes the inflection, the tone and the intent get muddled—our beloved emojis can’t accurately convey the meaning. We can’t see the hurt on someone’s face; we can’t say in that moment, “Oops, I’m sorry. That came out wrong.”

I think it’s safe to say that everyone is terrified of something right now. We’re all experiencing loss at some level, some more serious than others. Last Wednesday, I sat in the sunshine beneath the blue sky, the puffy clouds moving so slowly, it was almost as if my mind was playing tricks on me. It was mesmerizing. Beautiful. The boys on the ballfield warmed up, ran laps, discussed the seven strikeouts from the game the night before and did pickle drills. As practice ended (turns out, their last), the call from the school district came through, and life began its rapid descent into non-normalcy.

We’re all trying to process these losses, grieving something in some form. Our walls are closing in, our spaces getting smaller, our digital connection growing. But in that, we’re missing the emotion.

We can’t see the puffy eyes on someone’s face who’s been up crying in the night with the fear that they might lose their home. We don’t hear the shaky voice of someone who’s trying to face unimaginable circumstances with courage who just needs compassion, understanding and affirmation or an elbow bump (a hug in the olden days), not some know-it-all answer.

In our isolation, we can’t see the tears flowing. We can’t see the shoulders heaving. We can’t hear the whispers of pain, almost too deep to give voice to, spoken with trembling.

We cannot see the emotion, the humanness, that’s pouring out from people’s souls when we’re hurrying through our online or discussion-group commentary, forgetting that we all have different backgrounds, views and experiences—different realities. In our haste to be heard, we may isolate someone else, or ourselves, further. We may unintentionally make someone feel even more alone.

That thoughtful young lady was the first to text me the morning of my birthday. As I said, I’ve only had the good fortune of being in her company once. Her warmth and kindness have made an impression on me. She is sharing light and speaking life. She is loving first.

He Would Love First.

It gives me pause.

Can I? Do I? Will I?

With short fuses that come from uncertainty and the unknown, and as we are continuing to be forced into new levels of seclusion—alone with our phones and our fears—let’s remember that underneath it all, there’s real emotion: real sorrow, real hurt, real loss.

We just can’t see it.

He Would Love First.

I hope to, too.

Breath of Heaven

I wrote this a number of years ago as part of a story I had the honor of sharing with my hometown church as well as in my former church’s newsletter. As we now have a teenage driver in the house, the car-seat obsession has been replaced by Life360—I am once again rich in the I-have-no-control emotions.

We are pioneering new territory; my mom heart, bare. I find myself learning things I didn’t know I needed to learn, becoming aware of things I didn’t know I needed to become aware of.

The precious cargo is now behind the wheel, and I’m needing to remind myself about that Breath of Heaven.

Another big motherhood lesson came during the holidays, when God seems to like turning up the volume in my life. It was right after Thanksgiving, when we moved Rafton from his infant carrier/car seat to his big boy, convertible one. From a little hand-carrying basket to a more beefed up, independent model. My obsession started subtly enough, as I perused the car seat owner’s manual, trying to make sure I understood every nuance. Gradually, I found myself on the internet, compulsively reading about car seats, brands, safety and reviews. It was also about this time that I started hearing a Christmas song on the radio by Amy Grant, called Breath of Heaven, also known as Mary’s Song. For some reason, even though I didn’t know the words, it always made me cry. And not the sleep-deprived, hormonal blubbering I’d become accustomed to. There was something about that song that was speaking deeply to my soul.

I continued on my path of obsessiveness, calling fire stations and friends, grilling them about car seats. Five-point harnesses. Twisting straps. Tightening devices. Angles of recline. On and on and on. I kept my obsession to myself, feeling alone and disturbed. And then there was that song, Mary’s Song. I paid attention. After all, I felt that I could sort of relate to Mary. She had a son, I had a son. We both had reliable modes of transportation: she, a donkey; me, a VW Jetta. And we both carried our own precious cargo.

So I started to listen to the words.

“I am waiting in a silent prayer. I am frightened by the load I bear. In a world as cold as stone, must I walk this path alone? Be with me now.”

And as I listened, I shed more tears.

But I continued on my rampage.

I scolded my husband for not being able to recite verbatim the text that accompanied figure 4 a. on the sidebar of page 9 “Installing for Infants” section of the manual. I was busy trying to understand LATCH and Tether systems and wondering if a rolled-up towel might provide a more optimum recline. Quietly, I obsessed.

Then came the third Sunday of Advent. My sister was visiting and we attended my church’s Worship through Music program. As we settled into the pew and I looked in the bulletin, I saw that our choir would be performing that song. Breath of Heaven. And as they sang, so did I.

“Breath of heaven, hold me together, be forever near me, breath of heaven. Breath of heaven, lighten my darkness, pour over me your holiness, for you are holy…

Help me be strong.
Help me be.
Help me.”

It was then that I understood. It wasn’t just about a car seat. It was way more than that. I wanted a 5-point harness for Rafton’s life. I wanted some kind of manufacturer’s guarantee or safety notice that he would go out into the world safely and securely. And I realized I had that. Not a manufacturer’s guarantee, but better: our Creator’s. Rafton’s Heavenly Father, whose love for His children far exceeds what I’m even able to comprehend. Rafton will never go unprotected or unwatched. God has a constant watch over his life.

I believe it for myself, so I must trust Him with my son.

So now when I buckle Rafton up or take him to the grocery store or out for a walk, I know that we’re not alone.

We’re surrounded and sustained by a Breath of Heaven.

 

Evolving Traditions

The summer before first grade, my oldest son came up with the notion that he wanted to experience a pie in the face. It was all his idea (maybe inspired by a conversation), but something he really wanted to do. We settled on doing it the last day of summer vacation and decided that it would be our way of saying goodbye to summer. We got disposable pie tins, loaded them up with whipped cream and drizzled strawberry syrup on them. Out on our driveway, the day before school started—on the count of three—he yelled, “Goodbye, summer,” and smashed it in his face. His hair was coated with white, soaked with the fluffy cream. Bright red strawberry sauce covered—and dripped from—his face. It was just the three of us: both my boys and me. He delighted in seeing his vision come to life as we celebrated a great summer and bid farewell to it. It was such a hit, we did it again the following year.

The next year he invited a couple of buddies and a neighbor over to enjoy the festivities. This time chocolate drizzled the creamy pies and we posted a sign that read Goodbye Summer Vacation. My three-year-old also took part. The same crew gathered the following year, with one more in tow. With another farewell sign in the driveway, we added s’mores to the menu and enjoyed a festive celebration of the last day of summer vacation. They all returned again the next year, but rather than just simple pies in the face, it became an all-out war, the boys good-naturedly chasing each other down the cul-de-sac, whipped cream flying through the street, little brother keeping up with the big boys, laughter filling the air. By the following year, when my son started middle school, a couple more boys joined the crowd, while one (a year older) didn’t return. Was it an age thing? Would they lose interest in the goofy tradition? Would middle school change it?

Apparently so.

By the next year, it was just my two boys and me again. No neighborhood gathering. No socializing with friends. It had a less raucous feel. They even insisted—for the first time—on moving things to the backyard so nobody would see. They didn’t chase each other around, but they laughed and giggled, dousing their own faces, as well as each other’s. We returned to the backyard again the next year, a smattering of cream spotted their clothes, faces clean except for a few white dribbles.

Gone were the days of being drenched in goo.

As high school began for my oldest, I resorted to a piece of store-bought pie, and we were again secluded in the backyard. The boys put their faces to it, tentatively licked it, barely taking a bite. No towering plates of froth. No flying cream. Measly bites from slices they cradled in their hands. The tradition as I knew it was dying, yet I was relieved that we’d breathed a hint of life into it for another year.

This year, second year of high school and last year of elementary, they were less than enthusiastic—even my 10-year-old resisted. “Just humor me,” I said. “We’ve gotta do pie in the face, even if it’s pie going in your face via you taking a bite.” I bribed them by saying I’d introduce them to McDonald’s pies, something they’d never had.

There was no goo, no fanfare, no poster, no hype. They stood next to the backyard fence clutching the warm, crispy pastries in their hands. “Goodbye, summer,” they murmured, followed by a quick photo op.

And so it goes, me clinging to a ritual and tradition that they’ve grown up with, yet, for all intents and purposes, have outgrown. Maybe it’s the home-spun nature of the original idea and the joy that went along with it that make me hold so tightly. Like a piece of artwork brought home from school, unique, bright and beautiful—how do you get rid of that?

Yet maybe if I can continue to be fluid—open to paring it down, tweaking and tailoring it—to reflect the space they’re in, it will still have some meaning, on some level, for all of us. I can hold it loosely, knowing deep down that it’s still a tradition at its core, even if it’s only a sliver of what we started with.

So goodbye, summer.

But not goodbye, tradition.

I’ll continue to change and grow with you to keep you in our family.

Dog Gone: Dating Tips from Mom

My beloved firstborn—

Your sixteenth birthday is on the horizon, and I’ve come to realize that I haven’t had the good fortune of witnessing many of your interactions with those of the female persuasion. Somehow I’m just not privy to those goings-on. Like how did I miss that rich seven-word conversation you had with the cute, personable softball player a couple weeks ago that led your little brother to declare that you’re “so good with the girls”? Since you decided to forgo homecoming, and you haven’t technically, officially gone out on a date (although there was that one time someone special offered to bring you a Big Mac at 10 p.m. on a school night), not much has blossomed in that department.

And to be honest, I’m thankful we’re not there yet. I feel like the countdown is on until you leave for college anyway, so what’s the rush? I love having you around. That story we watched about the Denver Bronco who lived in his parents’ basement his rookie year made my heart sing with hope.

But there are other instances, quite frankly, that have me concerned. More specifically, your relationship with the other lady in your life, our little Chihuahua terrier, Lena. Although she’s only been with our family a year and a half, we’ve learned this: She’s dainty yet fierce. Timid yet protective. When her lithe, ten-pound body struts and prances down the street, auburn hair gleaming, big doe eyes scanning the neighborhood like she owns it, her tail (and nose) pointed straight toward the heavens, velvety ears bouncing in the breeze, she’s a force to be reckoned with.

However, I must say—while we don’t have a basement—if your future dating experiences mirror your relationship with her, well, I’m afraid you may be holed up with mom and dad for a very loooonnnggg time. In fact, you might consider putting together your audition tapes for The Bachelor now.

So based on my observations of you and Lena, I’d like to offer some tips:

1. Tune in to cues. Slinking into a room with an expression befitting Jack Nicholson in The Shining does not encourage warmth or trust. Blowing a referee whistle while pumping your fist doing a Fortnite dance is not soothing. A half-filled hamper is not a cozy resting spot. If she makes a beeline for the stairs or hides behind the couch when you enter the room, things are not looking good. Likewise, it’s not too promising if she waits until you leave to make her entrance.

And while you may think it’s humorous to dribble a few water droplets on her head or roll a foam ball toward her like she’s a mini-bowling pin, it’s not. I once had a boyfriend who uproariously shook a Honey Bucket while I was tending to matters inside. It wasn’t funny. Or endearing. You know how she bolts at the tiniest whisper of passed gas? Pay attention. Be in tune. You can learn a lot through someone’s actions and subtle (or not-so-subtle) cues.

2. Follow through, always. Saying, “You want to go for a walkie?” and having no intention of strapping on her harness and taking her for one is uncool. Offering a treat and then not giving one is just plain mean. Inconsistency is confusing. So please don’t tell someone you’ll textie or callie if you don’t mean it. It’s simple: don’t say it unless you’re going to do it. Period. You may be a man of few words, but make sure they’re authentic ones. Being a man of your word is one of the greatest traits you can bring to the world.

3. Be honest about your feelings. I’m your mom. I see you. I see how you’re the last one to give her a snuggle and say goodnight. You’re the first one to stretch out beside her in the morning when she’s sprawled in bed. You’re her comforter on road trips. There’s really no need to act like you don’t like her; we can see otherwise. Pretending you don’t like someone to take the sting away when she ignores or rejects you doesn’t work. Be open. Be vulnerable. Be real. Be you. Do that, and great things will happen.

Oh, and one more thing. These tips? They also apply to friendship. Be this kind of friend and you’re certain to make some that will last a lifetime.

With lots of love—and Big Macs,

Your #1 human girl (for now),

Mom

The Complaining Californian

It took 2.5 days to turn this California native into a complainer. Scratch that. Eighteen hours. It was the snow we’d wanted, hoped for, even longed for. “I just want the kind where I can sit by the window and admire its beauty while I drink my coffee,” I shared with the bus driver the week before. Give me snow, but in my comfort zone.

The picturesque, peaceful, postcard kind.

Instead, it dumped about ten inches in our Washington neighborhood, and I went from the lighthearted laughter of watching Peyton Manning’s intro and the NFL 100 commercial into an avalanche of complaining and critiquing. It started with the early-morning phone call to my husband, the former Alaska resident, who was pulled over at the AM/PM getting gas. Why are semi trucks in ditches? Why is there a Camaro in the intersection? Why is my husband in peril? (He wasn’t.) Where is the DOT?

And the constant questioning and second-guessing continued from there, a barrage of negativity. Why aren’t the main thoroughfares salted? Plowed? It started snowing when I left Safeway yesterday. I thought the USPS delivered in rain, sleet and snow? Why is my teenager waiting for the bus for 25 minutes; what about his poor, cold little piggies? Why a 2-hour delay? Is this safe? Are the buses chained up? Why is school canceled, now we have another make-up day? Why exactly did we buy a 2-wheel drive Highlander?

On and on, my mind raced as my disrupted routine marched on. I trudged through the snow to my part-time job, too terror-stricken to get behind the wheel on the compact snow and ice for the one-mile drive.

I needed a break from myself.

I went out for a short run and at the end, slowed to a walk.

Piles of snow still adorned the trees. The brilliance of the sunshine showed off the dimension of the flakes under the clear blue sky. It was a breathtaking sight. The snowflakes glistened.

Glistened.

There it was, the picturesque, peaceful, postcard. But I was missing it as I focused on road conditions (which I was too chicken to drive in), school alerts (that were either delivered too early or too late) and iPhone forecasts (when did I become a snow expert?).

So as Round Two looms for the weekend, may this complaining Californian seek out the sparkling, glistening beauty that awaits and see that somewhere out there, if I just look intently enough, there really is that postcard.

Teachers: Landmarks & Legacies

Illustration by Cassie Hickinbotham

Just off a state highway, behind an anxiety-inducing parking lot, sits a classroom next to the playground. With plenty of windows to drench the tidy room with sun, it’s full of twenty-four third graders. The second-year teacher speaks to them with a calm pleasantness, in a voice that exudes kindness and warmth as well as authority. She attends PTA skate nights, communicates readily and easily with parents, and handwrites neat, thoughtful profiles of each student for parent conferences. She compiled colorful 2018 calendars as parent gifts—with photo booth-style pictures of each child, every month—for the entire class. It is not an overstatement to say she loves each student.

Two point nine miles southeast of there, in a middle school that’s tucked beside the trees of a serene neighborhood, is an eighth-grade history classroom. The man leading the students has been teaching for twenty-five years. His students don’t simply memorize important dates; they research, understand and form opinions on everything from Columbus to the Constitution and the State of the Union address. When he chaperoned a field trip to UW, he stood in the center of the bus, facing the back, engaging kids about what was going on in the United States in 1861 when the university was founded. Three days after school gets out, he’ll start his summer vacation by boarding a plane with forty-five students and other chaperones to explore DC, Philadelphia, Gettysburg and New York, his eleventh time making the trip. He’ll miss the first week of his son’s Little League All-Star tournament (a team which he also helps coach) to do so.

Two miles northeast of there is a former kindergarten teacher who now teaches PE. North of there is the arts teacher who, two years ago at another school, planned and executed two musical reviews at the civic auditorium for 700+ elementary kids, complete with singing, dancing and costumes, all while teaching students about Bach and Beethoven during the week.

Back at the school off that state highway, there’s a kindergarten teacher with a patient, melodic voice who introduces uncertain little ones to a sense of community and belonging. And the second-grade teacher who has students write about themselves and capture their memories; she’ll hold on to those for ten years and mail them back when they graduate from high school. There’s the fourth-grade teacher who loves to talk about books and is becoming the reading specialist. And the entire fifth-grade team that spends countless hours organizing fundraisers and fine-tuning details for an annual overnight camp, in addition to preparing students for middle school.

Sprinkled throughout the district, like landmarks on a map, are extraordinary teachers. From ones who are just starting their careers to those who’ve been teaching for years, from ones who stay in their beloved roles to those who take on new ones, excellence surrounds our kids.

Teaching is not just what they do—it’s who they are.

Sometimes they move on to different schools, in quaint communities or off busy boulevards. But no matter where they are, teachers generously and faithfully bestow wisdom, build confidence and believe in success as they interact with and influence our kids each day.

Often times, they intersect with our kids in just the right place, at just the right time.

That second-year teacher?

Guess who her eighth-grade history teacher was?

It’s because of the commitment and consistency of teachers that our kids are ready to set forth on their own adventures with confidence—whether it’s embarking on a final year at a cherished elementary school or a bridging to high school.

And like the familiar landmarks that we count on to guide us in our journeys, their teachers’ impact is far greater—and more permanent and profound—than any boundary line that may one day shift.

 

Youth Sports: Loving Our Kids or Losing Our Marbles?

The final moments of the eight-game, third-grade season are winding down. While the blue team is comfortably ahead, there is one player who still has not scored this season. The coach calls a time-out and devises a play to pass the ball to him. It’s executed beautifully; the cheerful blond boy is wide-open when he gets the ball and shoots from the key. Splash! The entire team erupts in celebration—the boy grins from ear to ear in delight—there is a feeling of sheer joy in that middle-school gymnasium. As the boys walk off the court for the last time, the mood is exuberant. It is a storybook finish to the season. While it has been an exciting victory, there is more elation around the fact that the team shared in their friend’s accomplishment. They’re his biggest supporters, encouragers and cheerleaders. We leave smiling and proud—that’s what youth sports are all about, right? That’s what we do as
parents, too, isn’t it?

Or is it?

Just support, encourage and cheerlead?

Or are we losing our marbles?

Aren’t we the ones who grumble and gripe as we shake our heads in complete and utter disbelief at that third strike, because we ascertained—with our superior vision—that the pitch was low and outside? Or collectively gasp, jump to our feet, throw our hands in the air and offer a few choice words when the guy behind the plate suffers a split-second lapse in judgment and calls our own flesh and blood out—OUT!?—on a slide.

What is it about youth sports that’s making us lose our marbles? Is it the public display of our child’s athletic prowess that evokes such passion? After all, we don’t react the same way when, say, they’re doing their homework. In fact, that Common Core math has us all so confused that we gladly take a step back and let their teachers teach. We shrug our shoulders defeatedly and say, “I’m sorry. I don’t know how to help you. When we were kids we just memorized stuff.”

So what exactly is bringing out our crazy?

Coaching experts tell us that on the drive home after the game, we’re simply supposed to gaze warmly upon our kids and say, “I love watching you play.”

Really?

Is that true?

I’ve watched as my son painfully balked in a run. I’ve seen him kick up more dirt than Pig-Pen, almost disappearing in a cloud of dust that swirled up and around him on the mound, while he desperately spun around trying to determine which base to throw to for an out. I’ve witnessed him leaning so far into pitches in the batter’s box that he nearly toppled himself over, like a tipsy Weeble.

“Love” was not what came to mind.

More like “get me out of here” as I eyed the sweltering Honey Bucket—frequented by a slew of man-boys playing in a doubleheader—as my only escape.

Losing my marbles.

We’re not just spectators at their games anymore, either. We’ve become experts in every facet of the sport. It would be such a shame to waste all that knowledge we’ve gleaned from MLB Network, SportsCenter and the NFL Combine, so we generously help out our coaches—without them even having to ask—by calling out two-word instructional tips and reminders that are sure to help our kids feel relaxed and confident out there in the
spotlight.

“Load earlier,” “Box out,” “Choke up,” “Head in,” “Sneak through,” “Hands up,” and on and on.

Even our encouraging words sometimes seem to contain veiled meanings. “Nice hustle,” code for “How come he’s not doing that in the timed mile?” “Not your pitch,” means “Don’t just stand there, swing the bat, for crying out loud.” “Get the rebound!” short for “I guess somebody needs to work on his lay-ups.”

And if we’re not critiquing or offering helpful advice from the stands, we’re discussing our kids like we’re sports-talk radio analysts, unpacking every plate appearance, stat, missed opportunity and our athlete’s dietary keys to success: the weekly intake of Taco Bell Beefy Five-Layer Burritos, a bagful of Takis and Sour Patch Watermelon Slurpees.

We can even find a way to complain about the officiating after a win.

Losing our marbles.

Whatever happened to just cheering for our kids?

Maybe some old-fashioned clapping along with an enthusiastic “Way to go!”?

My son will be fifteen this summer. Those car rides home with us will soon be a thing of the past. I want him to feel (and remember) that I truly did love watching him play. I want to make sure that I’m authentic with my words, tone and actions, so that even my body language is telling him that truth, and that seeking out a Honey Bucket for refuge—or the urge to bite my nails in my stadium chair—doesn’t enter my mind. That when I say “I love watching you play” it means just that, not “I love watching you play, but that third inning was a doozy.”

Another parental window is coming to an all-too-quick close.

I say we just clap, cheer and celebrate like a bunch of giddy, victorious third graders—and simply gaze warmly upon our kids on that car ride home—while we still have the chance.