Re-Post, Home Run

Was looking through the blog today getting inspiration for the book I'm working on. Came across this and it made me cry.

This one is for moms who are struggling as they watch their kids struggle today:

Home Run.

Love.

Home Run

Tim told me our local little league would like to name a sportsmanship award for Jack. Right after I spit out my tea, I paused to think about whether this would be an appropriate way to honor our son. You see, sportsmanship did not come naturally for Jack.

But really, I cannot think of a more fitting tribute.

A lot of things came very easily for Jack--talking at a ridiculously young age, reading, math, Latin, logic, art, acting, and earning stellar grades.

But when Jack was young, we wondered if he would EVER be able to play a team sport. Sure, he had intense, laser-like focus, but the happy-go-lucky camaraderie of being on a team? Not in evidence. You could see this at his cub scout meetings where he would sit quietly while the other boys, who knew each other from school, would be squirming and giving each other wedgies. I blamed some of this on Tim, also an introverted, “mild mannered reporter” who hasn’t so much as once (voluntarily) farted in front of me in the past 20 years! I mean, if a dad doesn’t teach a son about lugees and farts, how is he ever supposed to fit in as a guys’-guy? “You and Margaret are good at being around people,” Jack would say. “Dad and I don’t really know what to do.”

And there were other issues.

You know the kid who might have fun at a party, or might leave wailing at the injustice of it all? Well I do. He lived in our house for a time.

Or the one who walked around by himself for a few years during recess because he didn’t know how to integrate himself into games?

The one who cried easily and bitterly when things weren’t “just so?”

Uh huh.

But around second grade, after I had decided Jack would be relegated to staying home doing origami with me, his love of baseball took off, fueled by sharing an obsession with his dad.
Jack did well in baseball, and was blessed to have warm, compassionate coaches he admired --the coarse, tough as nails types didn’t appeal to him.

But who can EVER forget that 4 month period (unfortunately spanning part of both a basketball and a baseball season) when Jack would go crazy about close losses. I’ve told you my guy was quirky, right?

Close wins, great.

Big losses, fine.

Close losses?

Oh dear.

My laid-back friend and mother of four said as she watched Jack freak the freak out after one close loss, “Don’t worry, gifted kids are just more sensitive, Anna.” Love you, Jen. Margaret said, “Mom, I feel kind of sorry for him and kind of embarrassed for us.” Amen, Sister. A sportsmanship award seemed as likely as being given a free trip to Fiji.

But here’s the thing: Jack grew and changed. Birthday parties became a pleasure. Recess found Jack not only playing games, but commentating them like a sportscaster, using crazy nicknames he made up for all his classmates, who loved and accepted him. He was a leader and inventor of neighborhood games which they still play today. Jack became more flexible and more forgiving of himself and others. All of this seemed like an impossibility to us in earlier years.

My point is, while it may seem ironic to name a sportsmanship award after someone who didn’t always exhibit it, the fact that Jack’s sportsmanship was so hard fought makes it all the more precious.

Jack’s final season of baseball illustrated this.

Here’s what he faced in a more competitive environment than before: Reduced playing time. An adjustment to a different sized field. A slew of kids who were bigger, stronger, faster , more talented and in many cases YOUNGER than he was. Practices every day, when often Jack would rather be home playing with friends or practicing for the school play.

The protective mom in me wanted him to play down a level.

No way. He was so stinking excited, and he chose the harder path.

And then, after several years of doing well in baseball, he found himself struggling to make a hit, to make plays in the field. But his shoulders didn’t sag, game after game. He did not complain about going to practice every day, as he might have in year’s past. He never railed against the injustice of it all--why could Joe and Kevin hit home runs, when Jack couldn’t even connect with the ball anymore? He calmly talked about his progress, or lack thereof, during our bedtime chats, and I silently prayed that his season would turn around. Didn’t happen. But he didn’t let it ruin his attitude, his season, or his love of the game.

I know I’m not writing about anything extraordinary. Kids play on teams all the time. They make sacrifices. They suck it up. But for Jack, an intense and sensitive kid, all of this was hard fought and notable. It was just ONE more way that we saw this amazing kid growing through struggle and growing into the best person he could be.

Here’s what we saw all season: a great attitude. Someone who threw himself into practice. Someone who helped carry the ball bucket. Someone who held his head high, even as the people on the bench and in the stands may have been thinking, “Oh, boy. Jack’s up again.”

After the season ended, he signed up for baseball camp, so that he could improve his game for fall baseball—a team he got to play with in only one scrimmage before the accident. I don’t know what, if anything, the other boys remember about Jack from that one measly game. Was it the fact, as one of his old coaches said, that “Jack was the only player who looked like he could fit inside his bat bag”? It surely wasn’t powerhouse hitting, but perhaps a big smile, a quiet nature, and, we hope, good sportsmanship.

Be Kind
Pay Attention
Think
Never Give Up
Play
Share Others’ Joy

A Swish and a Wish

So what do you do when the adorable kid with special needs is the one your kid is to guard in basketball? I’m sure you would say a silent prayer that the other child does well and that your kid remains calm and positive when the boy keeps grabbing his arms, or knocks him over in his exuberance. For 4 periods, your prayer is working, and life is good.

What about when this adorable kid with a heart of gold and awesome attitude “GREEAAAT Game!!” manages to break away from the defender (your son), hooks the ball one-handed over his head and sinks a glorious shot, possibly his first ever? Would you whistle and cheer with the rest of the crowd—an explosion of admiration and awe?

Well, I would and I did. It was stunning and beautiful!

What would you do when your kid, hearing your hoots and the thunderous applause, sags and crumples, chokes back tears for as long as he can, then ultimately gives in to his emotions and needs to sit out for a while? What do you do when the entire gym falls silent, while the coach tries to talk to your son, whose body language says, “I’m done with this! Don’t even bother?”

Well, I tell you what I did, later in the car. I apologized for seeming to betray him, but I explained that this beautiful moment probably meant the world to the other boy, his dad (the coach), and the bystanders who don’t even know the family. It meant even more to the boy that no one just let him score, but that he got that gorgeous shot by working his tail off against a great defender. I explained what a wonderful example the boy’s stick-to-it spirit was to all of us, even the 40-somethings who are prone to give up when things are hard.

Our cheers were for the boy and his accomplishment, not against my son.

As I write this, I am struck by several things:

…how inspiring it is to see someone work extra hard with an awesome attitude to do what comes so much easier to others, and what others take for granted. This makes me want to try harder when faced with challenges, and remember to APPRECIATE what comes easily to me.

…that some people’s struggles are overt, told by a stumbling gait, a too-loud voice or other mannerisms, while others struggle in ways we can’t see, until they come bubbling up like they did for my son.

While most people do not face anything as difficult as the challenges the little boy, Nate, has to deal with every day, many people struggle in small ways every day—ways we can’t see.

It is so much easier for me to show grace to those kids and adults with overt struggles, such as physical challenges, than those which I can’t see immediately or to which I can’t relate.

To Nate, I’d like to say thank you. Thank you for the joy you brought the crowd by trying your hardest. Your heart is huge. You even tried to comfort my son when he was crying.

And to my son, I’d like to say: Trying something new like basketball is not easy for you, but you accepted the challenge. I like the way you have taken chances with hard things like going to camp by yourself, playing on teams, and navigating difficult friendships. Being coachable and staying positive take extra effort from you. I see how hard you are trying. Some days are better than others.

My wish is that you remember these words and that they go all the way into your heart: Your emotions may seem too powerful to you, and that is hard, but they are part of what makes you you. I love you, I love the way you are made, and I am proud to be your mom.

It Ain't Easy

I do not fantasize about having an Easy Kid, because I believe God has given me the perfect kids for me, but I surely know that Easy Kids exist. I’ve seen them. Easy Kids can make it through a birthday party, someone else’s or their own, without curling up in the fetal position weeping or yelling about the injustice of piñatas or relay races. And I don’t mean when they are 3. Think older, much older.

Easy kids join sports teams for the love of the game. They joke with their fellow players, want to go to practice, and are coachable. They don’t consider every practice to be a personal assault on their coveted private time. They don’t blame the sun, the wind, the coach, their teammates, or cruel, cruel fate whenever they miss a play. They shake things off; they move on. They don’t act surprised-- nay shocked and outraged—when it’s time to go to church on Sunday, even though they have gone every single week for their entire lives.

Easy Kids pick up social cues and care more about fitting in than always being right, justified, or morally superior. This makes Easy Kids pleasant to be around.

I know I usually have the right responses to the not so easy child in my midst. I am sensitive to this child who “feels things deeply,” as I like to put it. I know about adequate rest, over-stimulation, introversion, extroversion, God-given temperament, and special needs.

I understand that my child has strengths and weaknesses, and I try to be accepting. Goodness knows I have my own, probably more weaknesses than strengths. It’s just that as a people pleaser, it’s hard for me to relate to someone who isn’t out to please. I would have died if I knew I irritated my teachers with fidgety, erratic, or goofy behavior, but a not so easy kid doesn’t seem to care.

Sometimes it gets old being the mom of the adorable kid who doesn’t always act adorable. Sometimes I feel fed up. I want to say just ride the damn rollercoaster, eat the damn chicken, hit the damn piñata, and play on the damn team. See the bright side, run errands, give a wedgie, pig out, suck it up.

Sometimes my child does all of these things and it is a relief and a surprise, and I feel guilty being surprised, as I let out a big breath and life seems easy for a moment.

It’s not just about being labeled the mom with the basket-case kid, although at times it has been hard to admit that things aren’t perfect over here. Things aren't black and white. They are gray.

It’s more that as the mom of the not so easy kid, I see all of this kid’s wonderful parts, and I want the rest of the world to have a chance to see them too: the smarts beyond smart, the playful sense of humor, the complete honesty, the consideration for other’s feelings, the facility with language, the incredible generosity, the snuggles, the kind heart.

I know that although my growing up years were pretty darn easy, they didn’t seem so at the time. I spent several years feeling left out and miserable, while on the surface I looked like I had it made. Looking back at my report cards, I had stellar grades, with lower marks in self control. I cried easily and loudly. I wanted life to be fair. I preferred the company of adults to children. I dug in my heels.

Hmmm. One could just say it’s the apple not falling far from the tree, but what for me amounted to a few miserable years, primarily around puberty, for this one, for this little one, life seems so much more difficult.

For this one, for whom life seems to be challenge after challenge, quirk after quirk, will the road be that much rougher than it was for me? For I was an extrovert, and generally a pleaser, and those things helped bit by bit, year by year.

I wonder, what can I be doing differently to make the journey easier for my child? My friends who have kids with diagnosed disorders know which social worker, therapist and OT to call, or which medication to use. I feel torn between intervening and accepting or embracing. How much do I try to “fix” and how much do I just let be? My parents didn't try to fix me. They sighed, gave me a wry smile, and let me spin myself into a tizzy, time and time again.

How much is just personality and how much is my being too kind, too sympathetic, too tolerant of certain behaviors?

How can I affirm who my child is, and how my child has been since birth, while also helping to navigate this fickle world, a world I know to be harsh? What do I do to help my child blossom later while not affixing labels today that could be really hard to peel off?

"I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made; your works are wonderful, I know that full well."—Ps 139:14