There is no "I" in Team...but there is a "Me"

No self-respecting ranter in our neck of the woods could possibly resist tackling the topic of kids' sports. It's almost too easy...parents have made such asses out of themselves, that finding humorous stories is like shooting fish in a barrel.

Maybe it's not like this where you live (if so, please send me your zip code so I can start searching the real estate listings).  Maybe you live in a town where kids' sports are just one more extracurricular activity. Where parents drop their kids off at practice and head to the grocery store or the library until it's time to pick little Johnny up.  In your town, maybe the parents go to Little League games and root for the TEAM and smile when their kid misses a fly ball because he was watching the game going on in the next field and the ball hit him in the head, and cheer when he catches the next one and then when the game is over, they all go out for ice cream and then get on with their lives.  (That's probably the same town as the Hidden Valley Ranch commercial where the kids line up to get their cardboard containers full of raw broccoli.)

waiting for the broccoli vendor to come by

Unfortunately, where I live, kids' sports has taken on a bit of a Hunger Games vibe.

I live in a place populated by neurotic, overachieving parents who are convinced that THEIR kid (who incidentally has his cleats on the wrong feet) is destined for a career in the NBA/NFL/MLB/MLS/whatever professional organization exists for "lax" players. (When I hear lacrosse referred to as "lax", I always conjure up an image of the old Ex-Lax commercials.)

Many parents in my community believe that the only thing standing between THEIR exceptional child and a life of athletic stardom and lucrative endorsement deals are all those other players on the team taking playing time away from THEIR kid and the crappy parent coaches who wouldn't recognize true talent if it bit them in the ass.

As the parent of multiple-sport children and the wife of one of those crappy dedicated coaches, over the years, I have seen everything.  And there are times when I have felt like screaming "OH MY EYES...MY EYES" like Phoebe from Friends.

It all started with baseball, that quintessential American sport. My husband loves baseball and it was always his dream to coach a son in Little League.  So when our oldest was about five years old, we signed him up for t-ball and dragged him out to the ball field in a hat that came down over his eyes and pants that drooped so low, you would have thought he had a diaper on underneath them.

The t-ball learning curve is pretty steep for five year olds and pretty dismal for their parents.  If you have never suffered through watched a t-ball game, the best analogy I can give you is this:  imagine the process of trying to peel a bandage off a bad scrape. You start excruiatingly slowly, inch by inch.  It becomes more and more painful. You believe the pain is never going to end.  Finally, when you think you just can't take it anymore, you RIP the whole thing off (and maybe cry a little).

Repeat the process every Saturday morning for four months.  Welcome to t-ball.

Eventually, however, you become used to seeing the first baseman wander into right field, fascinated by a parade of ants carrying a pretzel crumb.  You no longer wince in pain when the batter hits the ball, conks himself on the head on the follow-through swing and runs triumphantly to third base. You ignore the fact that the coaches (after screaming "RUN TO FIRST BASE" a hundred times) are popping Tylenol like Skittles and washing them down with straight vodka out of a Dasani bottle. And you come to realize that the kids are really only interested in the post-game snack.

So after a year or so of parent purgatory t-ball, the children graduate into regular Little League.  And this is where the parents begin to undergo their metamorphosis.

Because I have logged over two million hours watching my kids play sports, my boredom creative mind has led me to devise a "Baseball Parents Classification System" to help differentiate the three distinct groups into which parents can be sorted.

The first group is comprised of parents who want their kids to get some exercise, be part of a team and learn to love the sport. These parents get their kids to practices and games on time, respect the authority of the coaches and cheer for every kid on both teams.  We'll call these the "normal" parents. Unfortunately, they are the smallest of the three groups.

The second group is made up of those parents who are so concerned about the physical and mental well-being of their child that they hover right outside the dugout juggling water, Gatorade, ice packs, snacks and a warm sweatshirt.  (I actually once saw a parent leaning over the fence and feeding his child--who was playing left field at the time--a hot dog DURING THE GAME because "it was his lunchtime". )  These parents often did not play sports themselves growing up and have kids that are klutzes somewhat less athletically inclined. We'll call this group "the helicopter parents."

That brings us to my favorite group of all: those who can't differentiate between kids' sports and the Olympic Games and dammit, could do a hell of a better job than that volunteer crappy coach who sometimes makes kids SIT ON THE BENCH so that other kids get a chance to play. (I've always wondered why none of these experts ever "step up to the plate" and volunteer to coach. I guess it's more fun and less pressure to sit back and criticize.)

These parents are the ones that no one wants to sit next to during games because they never stop yelling out instructions to their kid (often contradicting the instructions being yelled by the actual coach).  When they're not focusing their attention on their kid, they're berating the umpire.

(I would like to take this opportunity to remind parents that most Little League umpires are teenagers, picking up a little extra money.  They are well-trained and most take their responsibilities seriously and want to do a good job.  Parents yelling at them is kind of mean and can be pretty scary. I have firsthand experience of this....when my oldest son outgrew Little League, he started umpiring.  Unfortunately, one day he was assigned to umpire behind the plate in a must-win game in which my other son was pitching and my husband was coaching. Oddly, none of us was bright enough to recognize the potential pitfalls in this scenario.  I was apparently off my meds that day, and to make a long story short, my older son ended his Little League umpiring career after that game.)

So going back to group #3...these parents badger the coach with phone calls and emails, pointing out that their kid is WAY TOO TALENTED to be wasting his time playing in the outfield and should be pitching every inning of every game and of course, batting first in the lineup.  These parents could not care less how the team does, as long as their kid gets plenty of playing time and looks good doing it.  (Why these people choose team sports is completely beyond me.)  We'll call these the "raving lunatic parents".

You might assume that the raving lunatic parents would be just dads--maybe some of whom never had success in sports themselves and are trying to live vicariously through their sons.  It might surprise you to know that many of the raving lunatics are moms.  My husband was once loudly berated by a mom  for taking her son, who was pitching, out of a game.  This kid had a strong arm but absolutely no control. I guess my husband was just supposed to ignore the fact that the kid had beaned three kids in a row and nearly decapitated the catcher.

You'll have no problem recognizing the kids who belong to the raving lunatic parents.  These are the kids that are decked out in Under Armour from head to toe, carry an equipment bag the size of an SUV, play with a $300 Limited Edition Mizuno glove and carry six different bats in their ginormous bat bags. They talk about their "hitting coach" and their "conditioning coach" and how they "carb-loaded" before the game.  If they strike out or make a bad play, they come storming back to the dugout either crying or flinging their batting helmet into the dirt.  Or both. Some of these kids are average players whose parents keep telling them (and everyone else) that they're awesome.  And some of these kids are really good ball players who will eventually burn out and have their love for the game extinguished because of the constant parental pressure.

For the most part, I have bided my time as a charter member of Group 1.  On a few very rare occasions, I got caught up in the moment and briefly crossed over to the other side as a member of Group 3. The "I don't know you" look on my son's face was usually enough to snap me back to sanity.  (Plus my husband banned me from coming within 20 feet of the dugout during a game and refused  to open emails from me that had "how you could be a better coach" in the subject line.)

So I will attempt to STOP THE MADNESS with a few helpful observations that I have gleaned after years of life in the bleachers:

First, if your kid is blessed with extraordinary athletic skills, people are going to notice without you pointing it out. But remember, sports are full of opportunities for kids to learn humility--don't blow those teaching moments.

Second, if your kid is of average ability, do him a favor and don't constantly tell him he's better than he is. He knows the limits of his abilities and will wonder why he can't live up to YOUR expectations.

Third, kids are tougher physically and mentally than parents give them credit for.  Feed your kid before the game, send him with a thermos of water and then don't offer snacks during a game. If he strikes out, don't go rushing over to console him.  Let him sit and sort out his own emotions.  Believe me, hovering parents aren't just embarrassing for the kids--they also inhibit kids' abilities to develop the coping skills they're going to need in life.

Fourth, try REALLY hard to remember that the people coaching kids' sports are volunteers.  They have full-time jobs in the real world and would rather not read your "helpful" emails all day.  They leave their jobs early to make it to practice on time.  They read books and attend clinics to learn how to be an effective coach and role model.  They love the sport and want the kids to love it too.  They want to win, but believe it's more important to teach kids to learn life skills like losing gracefully and always giving your best effort. They spend hours creating lineups that give all the kids an opportunity to try different positions.  Please teach your child to respect their coaches and umpires. A "thank you" once in a while goes a long way.  And PLEASE try to get your kids to practices and games on time.  When a kid just doesn't show up, it wreaks havoc with those carefully drawn up lineup and practice plans.

And finally, carefully consider if team sports are the right fit for your family.  If your child has to have the spotlight on him at all times, sharing the playing time with 10 other kids will just end in frustration for you and him.  If you can't understand why the coach doesn't pinch hit for the kid who hasn't made contact with the ball all season when he comes up in the bottom of the ninth inning with two outs, then you are not cut out for team sports. Remember--live by the team, die by the team.

And if, after all my helpful advice, you're still clinging to your membership card in the raving lunatics club, then please don't sit next to me. 

Step Away from the Glue Gun

Before I begin my rant story, I would like to state that by no means am I trying to throw teachers under the bus. My mom was a teacher, some of my best friends are teachers and I have close relationships with most of my children's current and former teachers.  Their jobs are challenging and their monetary compensation is not even remotely commensurate with their importance. I would not change places with any one of them for 10 minutes.

Every so often, I step back and try to ascertain exactly when my mind went off the rails. I am convinced that one of the primary causes of my insanity can be summed up in two words: school projects.

About twice a year, the little part of my brain that is still somewhat lucid stops to wonder "what in the hell am I doing?"  as I contemplate the absolutely unreal amount of time and effort I (and my peers in the super- mom-community) devote towards our childrens' school projects and costumes.  (As an aside, when did it become the thing for kids to dress in costumes when presenting reports?   It's no longer enough to research and write a compelling report on the life of Cleopatra--we now have to dress in the latest of Nile fashions while delivering it?)

Anyway, prior to becoming a parent, I viewed arts and crafts the same way I viewed two-piece bathing suits and dancing in public: something to be avoided at all costs.  However, one of the many things no one tells you before you have children is that once they start school, you will be expected to produce museum-quality art projects out of "things you have lying around the house".  I guess they were referring to Martha Stewart's house because I have yet to figure out how to create a model of the Alamo out of empty wine bottles and cat hair.  And since I don't happen to live in Martha's house, over the years, I have spent an amount equal to our monthly mortgage payment at Michael's craft store.  (For future reference--school project moms are easy to spot at Michael's--we are the ones slumped over our carts, balancing three trifold boards, muttering "science fair" under our breaths and searching for the perfect tacky glue).

So let's go back in time and examine where it all started to go wrong.

My first project assignment was, in my view, a creative triumph.  Oddly, others in this house still see it as an epic fail.  Either way, I lay it all at the feet of  Dr. Seuss.  You see, back when my oldest son was in first grade, it was time for the annual celebration of Dr. Seuss' Birthday (this is a big deal in elementary schools...go figure).  That year, every child was required to come to school dressed as a character from a Dr. Seuss book.  

Mindful of my lack of craft-type abilities in the past, I broke out in a cold sweat and had to put my head between my knees.  This was my first test of elementary school motherhood.  Any idiot can take care of a baby--it takes tons more skill to make your child successful in first grade.  Was I up to the challenge?  What if I failed?  Would this shoot all his chances for a college scholarship?  Etc.

Once the waves of nausea passed, I asked my son which character he wanted to be.  

"I don't care," he said.

I started naming all the Dr. Seuss characters I could think of.

"I don't care,"  he said again.  "Can I go outside and play?"

My husband put in his two cents:  "Let's just go to the store and buy a Cat in the Hat hat and be done with it."

"I don't care,"  my son said, " I just want to go play."

I thought for a minute and was about to take the easy way out my husband's advice when I realized that every other kid in that school would be dressed as the Cat in the Hat.  Here was an opportunity to rise above the masses and be different.  No pedestrian, run-of-the-mill characters for us.

I went into my son's room, grabbed all the Dr. Seuss books off his bookshelf and started paging through them.  I immediately rejected the obvious like the Cat in the Hat, Thing 1 and Thing 2, The Grinch, Sam I Am, etc.  Those were for the conformists, the slackers.  The Nutmegger family was more creative than that.

Eureka! Finally I had it.  One of my favorite Dr. Seuss books (though my kids loathed it) is The Sleep Book.  There is a character in that book called the Jedd (presumably because it rhymes with "bed", but with Dr. Seuss, you never know). The Jedd is covered in some kind of weird pompom-type furry things (or something like that--it's been a while).

My brain was racing--I COULD MAKE A JEDD COSTUME.  No other kid would be dressed as a Jedd (red flag #1: ignored).  My kid would be praised for "his" creativity and would stand out amongst all the Cats in the Hat (red flag #2:  ignored).

I would take an old sweatshirt and one of my husband's ball caps and cover them in furry pompoms. Genius.

My plan formulated, I jumped in my car, raced to Michael's, and in the throes of my heretofore unknown/untapped creativity, bought several bags of neon colored pompoms and my first glue gun.

I returned home and after several first degree burns carefully following the hot glue gun directions, I began gluing the pompoms to the hat and the sweatshirt. I glued and glued and glued. Dinnertime came and I was still gluing. My husband and son tiptoed around me, frightened by the maniacal  look in my eyes.  Finally I was finished.

I stepped back from my masterpiece.  "Voila!" I announced.

"What is it?" my husband asked.

"It's a Jedd" (what is WRONG with these people?)

"I don't want to wear that," my son wailed, "it looks stupid.  I want to be the Cat in the Hat."

"Are you kidding me?  You'll be the hit of Dr. Seuss Day.  No one else has such a creative mom who would spend literally ten hours gluing pompoms.  Not even Martha Stewart would have thought of this."

My masterpiece.  Is it weird that I still have this?

He went away in a sulk.  The next morning I dressed him in his Jedd costume and sent him off to amaze his classmates.  I spent the day anxiously awaiting pick-up time so I could find out how it went.  When he got in the car he was quiet.  "How did Dr. Seuss Day go?  Did they like your Jedd?  Did you win a prize?"

"I was the only kid dressed in stupid pompoms.  Everyone else was the Cat in the Hat.  No one knew who I was and I had to spend the whole day telling people which book I was from."

I was indignant.  How dare these people not know what a Jedd was?  How dare they not reward my his creativity?  Any slacker busy parent can slap a Cat in the Hat hat on a kid's head and call it a day.  We went above and beyond!

At this point, a rational person would have been thinking: I spent ten freaking hours gluing on pompoms when a five dollar Cat in the Hat hat from the party store would have been cheaper, much less time consuming and saved my son from going to school dressed in furry pompoms (a fact that 10 years later, he still remembers). 

In case you haven't guessed by now, I am not that rational person.

"I told you so," my husband replied when I vented my frustrations to him later that evening.  "Why didn't you just let him do what he wanted?  It was HIS costume, wasn't it?  No one asked you to glue hundreds of pompoms to one of my hats."

"Who asked for your opinion?" I spat out.  "This was a freaking awesome costume and they were just all too stupid to appreciate it."

"You have to let the kids do these things themselves.  After all, what are they learning if YOU do all the work?"

(Ten years and three kids later, I have two words for him:  PINEWOOD DERBY. Who was it who spent hours in the garage sanding and adding graphite to tiny wheels to gain a millisecond more speed?  Who made me order bags of expensive tungsten weights from Amazon to make the car(s) half an ounce heavier in the back?  Who spent hours on the phone with MY FATHER looking for hints on how he built winning cars for my brothers a million years ago?  Who searched hundreds of websites looking for the perfect aerodynamic shape that would bring victory (and a tiny little trophy) to the Nutmegger house?  Oh, and while all this was going on, where was the 8 year old Cub Scout whose name would be on the car?  Watching TV, obviously).

I rest my case.

So here we are.  That first grader is now in high school and his brother and sister have celebrated their own Dr. Seuss birthdays and completed approximately 1,500 additional school projects.

I would like to be able to report that I learned my lesson from what is referred to as "the Jedd Incident" and that I never went overboard for a school project/costume again. I would like to be able to say that I never stayed up half the night trying eight different types of glue trying to find one that allowed me to cover a picture frame with plastic gemstones so that they didn't keep randomly falling off like the dripping of a leaky faucet. I would like to be able to tell you that I never accidentally stapled a piece of cardstock to my dining room table and then attempted to pry it off with a screwdriver.

And I would love to righteously assert that when MY children are assigned dioramas, trifold boards, science fair inventions, Greek god costumes and scale models of the Parthenon constructed entirely out of sugar cubes, they spend hours painstakingly putting together their own work and taking pride in their own creativity.

Yeah, right.

Walking Uphill Both Ways...the Wussification of our Kids, Part One

It is already 11 AM and I have yet to empty the dishwasher, make my bed, start the laundry, etc.  That's because the idiots on the school board county officials have declared yet another "2 hour delay"  due to the fact that apparently eight flakes of snow fell somewhere within our 400 square mile county.

The topic of weather-related school closings has generated quite a bit of debate around here lately and watching parents slug it out on Facebook has provided yet another way for me to waste time.  The debate seems to break into two camps: the "safety of our kids comes first/it's too cold for our precious children to be outside" whiners against those who declare "what the hell is wrong with you people/kids should be in school/we are raising a nation of wimps" .

We live in the Washington, DC suburbs.  Not really the north and not really the south...sort of a weather catch-all.  We get the worst of all seasons...cold winters and hot, humid summers, broken up by two additional seasons called "mud" and "pollen".  After many years living in the deep south, I was excited to mosey back towards the northeast where I grew up, and introduce my kids to the joys of snowmen, sleds, and the beauty of a snowy winter's day.  (Obviously my memory of winter weather was stalled at about age 10, since I have come to discover that as an adult, snow basically sucks).

7 or 8 years ago, we had our share of snow days and delayed openings and sometimes we complained about it (the parents, not the kids), but all was generally forgotten as soon as the snow melted away. However, something changed within the last several years.  Suddenly, school was being closed at the mere forecast of snow or ice, whether or not anything actually hit the ground.  Instead of  parents waking up to check to see if school was closed, the idiots county officials started calling school off the night before (and sometimes even the afternoon before).  Within the past three years, we have seen school closed for RAIN (the hurricane that wasn't) and PREDICTED snow (that somehow disappeared between the clouds and the ground).

What happened last week was what has led me to conclude that our country is doomed:  the county closed schools because it was TOO COLD.  It was definitely cold, no doubt about it.  However (and this is the important part that seems to be lost on all these brain dead parents) IT IS WINTER.  IT IS SUPPOSED TO BE COLD.  WHY IS EVERYONE CARRYING ON LIKE THIS IS ONE OF THE SEVEN SIGNS OF THE APOCALYPSE?  I could understand it (maybe) if we lived in southern Florida and no one owned a coat and the schools/buses had no heat and this was a freaky occurrence not to be repeated for a hundred years.

But we live in a place where it gets cold EVERY YEAR.  Everyone I know owns winter wear and snow shovels and boots and ice scrapers and has a fireplace.   The schools have heat, the buses have heat, mittens are $2 a pair at Walmart.  Cold weather in JANUARY is something that is PREDICTABLE and EXPECTED.  Decades from now, we will not be reminiscing with our children, telling stories that start out "remember the year it was cold in January?".

I grew up in Connecticut.  Many of our friends come from places like Wisconsin, Michigan, upstate New York, etc. At the risk of sounding like one of those "I walked uphill both ways in the snow with no shoes" grandparents people, we all managed to go to school during the cold weather in winter.  We wore coats and gloves and scarves and hats and boots (sometimes with plastic bags on our feet to keep them dry).  We were cold, but I never recall hearing about a child who, after five minutes outside, suffered frostbite over 90% of his body and keeled over.  We even...gasp in horror...went out for RECESS.  Were our parents child abusers?  Did town officials blithley ignore our safety and gleefully tally the body count?

No.  It was winter and we bundled up and went on with our lives.  For children, that meant going to school. For parents, that meant zipping up jackets, shoving a hat on our heads and propelling us out the front door to WALK to the bus stop and STAND OUTSIDE waiting for the bus while they went back to their coffee.   And for teachers, that meant getting us outside at some point during the day so that our pent-up energy did not have us hanging from the ceiling tiles by 2 PM.  Somehow we all survived, spring eventually arrived and the hats/coats/ gloves were put away until the following year (when it was discovered that nothing fit anyone anymore).

January school attire, circa 1978

Fast forward thirty a few years and the stoics of the 70's and 80's have produced children that have somehow genetically mutated into creatures who are incapable of sustaining the most basic functions of life if they are exposed to temperatures dipping below 15 degrees.

So last week when the (scary music) POLAR VORTEX (what I believe was previously referred to as "cold air") descended upon us, the powers that be proclaimed that in the interest of public safety and the welfare of our most precious angels, the heated buses would not be bringing the children to their heated schools to further their education.  No, it was decided that it would be in the best interests of our offspring to stay home and play XBox Live with all the other precious angels while their parents gazed at the cloudless blue sky and shielded their eyes against the brilliant sun and wondered why the hell their kids were wandering around the house at 10 AM on a Tuesday.

Dear Diary...?

I have always loved diaries.  Well, I've always loved the idea of a diary.  I picture myself sitting down at the end of the day (with a cup of herbal tea), ready to record the innermost thoughts and thoughtful observations that would provide valuable self awareness as I progressed through my life.  Alas, every diary I have attempted to keep has been abandoned within weeks.  I've never even been able to achieve a Bridget Jones-like accounting of weight and alcohol consumed.  It's not that I lack discipline, since I am disciplined in most other areas of my life (some people might replace the word "disciplined" with "rigid", but since those people have never once put anything back where they found it, they aren't exactly in a position to be passing judgment on the only person in this house who can find scissors/socks/homework/cleats on short notice). I could blame it on a lack of time (the excuse I use for just about everything else I don't feel like doing), but that's not really it either.  I think reliving my thoughts and feelings (with beautiful penmanship in a leather-bound book with gold edged pages) is one of those "that's who I WANT to be" ideals that doesn't quite measure up to who I AM.  Not to mention that I'm not a tea-drinker.

I am a list-making linear thinker.  I am orderly and practical, but not particularly introspective.  I was baffled by philosophy courses in college because I never saw the point of just sitting around thinking. My attempts at achieving serenity through meditation were laughable.  The way I understand it, you're supposed to clear your mind and concentrate on a word or phrase, and before you know it, you are on your way to peaceful self awareness.  HAH.   When I gave this a try, within 15 seconds my mind was racing--I should be folding the laundry before everything is a wrinkled mess and I might have to.. gasp...iron. What am I going to make for dinner? What's in those Tupperware containers in the back of the fridge and how long have they been there?  Do people still have Tupperware parties?  Why is there so much cat hair on this floor? How often am I supposed to bring the cats to the vet? How long has that crack in the wall been there?  Is our foundation shifting?  How would we know if it were? Why am I sitting here?  I should at least be on the treadmill...etc.  After five minutes of this, I wandered off to grab the vacuum and do something about all the cat hair.  Pathetic.  

However, I guess it's all a matter of perspective.  My husband maintains that I  "think too much".  Without addressing the irony of that assertion, I think he means that I (like many women) am prone towards looking for the deeper meaning in his words and actions (and then gnawing at it until a fight starts or I get distracted by a looming kid-trastrophe). But that's not really DEEP thinking--it would probably be better described as nit-picking (my experiences picking actual nits can wait until a later post).  As an aside, after 20 plus years of marriage, I think I am finally starting to agree with him that there is no deeper meaning in his thoughts and actions--what you see is what you get.  Men are simple like that.  

So as a non-deep-thinker (invented word), here goes my latest attempt at finding a happy medium between my type A tendencies and my desire to do a little mental uncluttering.   I accept that I will never be that mom who calmly sinks into a Pottery Barn chaise with my steaming cup of tea, reflecting on the highs and lows of the day while my cherubic children occupy themselves making snowflakes out of recycled junk mail envelopes.  And I am not going to find enlightenment by yoga or mediation since those activities cause me to stress out about all the things I'm not accomplishing.  So I'm setting the bar a little lower: sitting down at my computer with a glass of wine and tapping out some random thoughts while my children text and play Xbox until their fingers start showing the early signs of arthritis and I start screaming "has ANYONE done their homework???".

Wish me luck.