Blessed

A few months ago, I had dinner with a dear friend, and the subject of volunteerism came up. She remarked that she was amazed that I took on as much as I have (and this was before track picked up and took over my life for the last two months).

I sighed. "Hubby says I have volunteeritis and that I need to learn to keep my hand down. But here's the thing; if I am running the show--whatever show it is--NOBODY can tell me that my kid can't participate. On the other hand," I sighed again. "Damn, this is exhausting."

My bright-eyed friend grinned at me from across the table. "You are so blessed, and you don't even realize it."

I frowned. She waved me down.

"No, no, I KNOW you know you are blessed THAT way. But did you ever think of how lucky you are to be so involved in your kids' lives?" I guess I still looked confused, because she went on. "How often do parents drop off their kids at your activities? And you stay in, stay involved, and not only do you get the benefit of the time with your kids, you get to hang out with a lot of other cool kids. And how great is that? To have that kind of impact on all these kids' lives?"

This conversation popped up in my head on Sunday at the Area meet. We advanced one of our 11 to the finals. Still, I was struck time and time again over the course of our season what camraderie, what teamwork, what sportsmanship each and every one of my kids displayed. Our little team was a TEAM, in every possible sense of the word.

And because we have such a great little team, I want to make it the best possible experience for all of them as I think about next year. I discovered over the last few weeks that I may not know that much about track and field, but a lot of what I need to know about being a positive adult role model, I've already been doing. And our coaching (my partner knows what he's doing, thanks God) and their teamwork has made this season a good time for us all.

And, I'm finding that what I've learned here can be generalized in all my other volunteer activities--as well as all my adult interactions.

So, as I come back to that conversation over dinner with my friend, I realize that not only was she referring to everything I've already done, but all the fun and adventure that lies ahead.

And yes, I am THAT blessed. And doubly grateful.

Smells Like Competitive Spirit

My life as my son's track coach calls my relative virtue into question.

Never have I been more conflicted, given more pause, or otherwise perturbed by the sheer level of competitiveness I feel like I am biting back at every turn. Hubby, however, laughs at me.

"You? You are one of the most competitive people I've ever met."

I don't see myself in this light, but I trust his assessment. He sees everything. And I often ignore anything that's not right in front of me.

I can't ignore the competitive thing right now, though. I took on track responsibilities to ensure that our kids had their own team. And yes, I wanted Nic to be a part of this team--for many reasons. And the right reasons--after all, he's learned more about teamwork and friendship these last 6 weeks than he has in the last 6 years. He's had fantastic modeling from his peers, who regard him with bemusement much of the time.

My reaction to Nic relegated to alternate status for the Penn Relays bugged me--after all, it was supposed to be all about the friendship, right? But here I was, annoyed that Nic wouldn't be able to run the relays again. Never mind he ran last year and was lucky to do it. And never mind that he was FINE being an alternate. And as luck would have it, the fourth slot opened up, and he ran again this year. And you would think that would be enough for me, right?

(You know what's coming....)

So, as I created the rosters for the upcoming champs, I looked at everyone's best times and assigned events accordingly. And I filled out Nic's events, with a small amount of regret, knowing that his season would end decisively on Sunday.

That is, until I saw the preliminary roster.

The top six slots in individual events advance to areas. And there were only 6 runners in Nic's age bracket for the 1600.

I could scarcely believe it. I had motivation for Nic to run. AND, he'd get a medal--a small payoff for the work I subjected him to, but hey, 6th place? Cool.

Although, in the back of my mind, I knew another school would see the opening. After all, Nic is legend for his lack of speed.

Thus, I shouldn't have been surprised when there was a seventh name behind Nic's in the final event program--a kid frequently called in to run whenever Nic is running because he can beat Nic.

So, I sat there before my computer screen, seething. Wondering why this coach couldn't allow my kid a scrap of recognition. And knowing that if I were in his shoes, I probably would have done exactly the same thing.

I have to ask myself the question--do I make Nic run an event he doesn't want to run, anyway? And why would my answer change over the enrollment of one kid? He should run it just because.

"I don't like running," he told me a few times this season. "but I do like my team."

I have the schedule. I have my own assignments. Nic has his.

He knows what I expect.

Or he thinks he does. I wonder what I expect, because my own expectations are suspect. I did this for one reason, yet others...let's just say I surprise myself. And not in a good way.

He will run. Or he will choose not to run.

There comes a point where I need to step back. And let him choose.

And I'm here. This time.

Showing up

90% of life is just showing up.
~Woody Allen

Nic ran his second Penn Relays Tuesday night.

I had an email from Jr boy #4's mom last Thursday letting me know that he was too busy for track. Thus, Nic moved from alternate to teammate. On the train ride to the relays, Nic was right there in the crush of teammates (4 to a 3-seater bench, two deep), sharing his Big Nate book and cracking wise with the rest of them.

I was also aware of the subtext; Nic was sitting with the senior boys, who were setting the example for the junior boys, who look askance at Nic. He's physically slow, he's different, and yeah, he's going to slow everyone down, but he's still a member of the team. And guess what--if he didn't run, none of you would be running.

Nic, alas, can't see any of this.

I do my best to reinforce what he can't see.

I strike a deal with Nic; if he surrenders his hat AND doesn't look over his shoulder, he gets money to buy a snack.

He surrenders his hat. He runs with focus.

But he is a good 10 seconds slower than his teammates in the 100s--an eternity, comparatively speaking. Nevertheless, he runs his heart out. And his team runs theirs. And they come in last place, by 1.24 seconds.

I think of the woman who wrote the Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mom and the whole ethos of "If you can't be in first place, why bother?"

I bother because place here is not the point. This is the one area in my son's life where he gets to experience first hand what teamwork looks like. He doesn't always get it, and he often makes loud, tactless comments that warrant correction on the subject. Fortunately, this is a fairly forgiving bunch of kids who are not afraid to correct him when he needs it, especially if I am not there to do it myself. I have modeled for them what correction looks like, and they are all phenomenal mentors for him as a result.

He is learning something I couldn't possibly teach him on my own. Likewise, he is teaching us all things we couldn't possibly learn without him.

We all win.

Where's the off switch?

I'm sitting in the confluence of several events.

In my volunteer life, I made a major deadline by the very skin of my teeth. I forwarded an email that is the equivalent of a bomb. And I answered an email with a smiley face in spite of my desire to spew invective.

In my work life, I answered a challenge with a bald question. And chased that with a balder (is that possible?) statement of fact. The inquisitor folded like a house of cards.

In my mom life, I marvel that my adult life dealing with idiots mirrors my kids' experiences. I am not happy about this. I worry.

Hubby laughs, because he's been telling me so for what, 20+ years? My eureka moments make him laugh. I'm reaching for the dark chocolate and wine. And wonder what I was thinking.

I don't have to wonder; the reality is this. I volunteer as much as I do because the result is that I get village elder status. Nobody can tell me--or my kids--no. And the truth is, I can do this village elder thing.

But the last 48 hours have left a bitter taste in my mouth. My near miss damn nearly cost us a lot; my kids are an afterthought, in more ways than one; and the new alignment in one of my volunteer efforts has me seriously considering tendering my resignation.

I have to ask the question: What's it going to cost?

Meh, it is already. I just have to figure at what point that I need to cut my losses.

Or just say no.

Stay tuned.

Geocaching my life

Geocaching is a real-world outdoor treasure hunting game. Players try to locate hidden containers, called geocaches, using GPS-enabled devices and then share their experiences online. (the offical definition from geocaching,com)

This past weekend, we had a conversation with a couple who have taken up geocaching with their teenage son. Using a GPS, they find a container, leave their name, and a little something behind.

I had an online chat with a friend last night that made me think of our lives as sort of a real-life geocaching adventure. We were talking about our respective challenges and our responses to them. And she commented that I am changing our little area of the world, and she is lucky enough to see it.

Which led me to think--yeah, I've always been one to seek opportunities for both of our kids. And wherever one has not existed, I create. It's just the way I roll.

It's sort of a geocaching for life. We find our moments, we leave our names, our marks, and little pieces of ourselves. And move on.

And others can find their ways in our footsteps, if they need to. And where they strike new paths, we can find our ways within the steps of others, as well.

It's a beautiful thing.

Waiting for Morning

"Mom, remember the night I couldn't fall asleep?" Nic asked recently.

There was no one time that immediately sprang to mind, and I said so. Truth is, Nic didn't sleep through the night with any kind of consistency until about third grade. He persisted.

"You know, that night where I tossed, and I turned, and I ended up at the foot of the bed."

OH. THAT night. And I do remember him at the foot of the bed, finally asleep.

"How old were you, Nic? Do you remember?"

*shrug* "First grade, maybe?"

"And why couldn't you sleep?"

"I was just waiting for morning."

The phrase jars me in a way Nic's random proclamations often do, and haunted me in the early morning hours as my little one climbs into bed with me and falls asleep. Lately, he's needed me more at bed time, and often wanders in the wee hours like a little ghost looking for me. And this morning, I realize with a great deal of dismay, he's grinding his teeth in his sleep.

Nic has ground his teeth in his sleep ever since he's had them. Gabriel has not. Until now.

So again, I find myself seized with fears in the darkness, wondering yet again if I am doing enough for him, what am I missing? What else do I need to be thinking about? Has the bus stop ruined him for life? How can I fix this? Is he already broken beyond repair?

I think of people I knew, and one person in particular who my mom said was a troubled soul.

I thought for a moment. "He was always a troubled soul, mom."

She was quiet a moment. And agreed.

So to what depth troubled? To what extent broken?

I find that I, too, am waiting for morning.

Why Bother?

Sometimes I have to ask myself the question: why bother?

Sometimes, these moments, where Nic's teammates help him run in the 1600, are the reason.


I remember the same place cheering Nic's completion of his first 400 last year and thought that moment would be a hard one to top. But when I heard one of Nic's teammates ask an official "Can we run with him?" as Nic struggled into his last lap, I could have cried. And watching those three boys--who had just finished their own 1600s--trot alongside him in the last 300 meters, it was all I could do NOT to cry.

But I do feel the unasked question: why make him run? Why do this when you know he'll never finish first?

He likes his team. He likes to be near them, even if he isn't always sure how to interact with them. And he can outrun most of the kids in his gym class, which has its own set of bragging rights, even if the people in the stands don't know that.

Why bother? Because Nic is a part of a team that would not be the same without him.

And that's a good enough reason for me.