Feels like 108 degrees. Actually 95. The sun is blaring. The humidity makes the air so thick you could choke on it. My daughter Mia and I are at her track meet. But not just any track meet, the Field Finals for the Little Green Classic.
I have written about the South Lincoln Track Club. (See blog post: "Jocks and Candy Bars") It is a fantastic organization that has been around Lincoln for generations, encouraging young people to fall in love with athletics. Great history. Great cause. Tonight was the Field Event finals for the year. Next week are the running events. Tonight was the first test for these young "ath-el-etes." A culmination of several months worth of training. The events consisted of TENNIS BALL THROW or the traditional LONG JUMP. Mia chose to compete in the LONG JUMP.
We got to the event. Water bottle filled with mostly ice. Mia's hair=appropriately cute. (How different, starting my parenting journey with two boys in sports. I had no idea how important having a "cute-yet fully functional hair style" was for sporting events.) I am pinning Mia's number to the back of her uniform, when I find out that Mia is competing in the 5-year old category.
"What?" I say, concerned. "She just turned 5 on Saturday!" I was imagining her competing against Amazonian kindergartners, hopped up on juice boxes and steroids. Mia is small for her age, so you can imagine my concern when I find out that my newly-turned 5-year old will be competing with children that have up to 362 more days experience in their 5-year old bodies than she does. They have spent a whole fifth of their lives acclimating themselves to the way that their bodies work. Mia just turned 5 this past weekend! I was questioning the unjustness of everything in my head, until the coach reminded me that Mia has been competing against these same kids all year. Silly Mommy.
I sit over by the long jump sand pit and wait for Mia's group to compete. They play round after round of Duck, Duck, Goose until it's their turn to jump. The little girls all line up to do their best. Because of the incredible heat index, the director of the organization makes the decision that this is a "one-jump only" contest. Usually, they give the kids a "best-out-of-two" option, but because it is oppressively hot, one jump is enough. The director advises the kids to "give it their all" and wishes them luck.
The girls (all with incredibly cute variations of incredibly cute hair) line up to jump. Mia is in the second heat. She is the second competitor to go. The first girl jumps five feet, five inches. Mia gets ready to run and jump, cheeks flushed, hair adorable (a little bit curlier in this heat), look of intensity on her face. She lands five feet, even. A few of the other girls jump, and they are not even close to the front runners, so I go over to congratulate my baby.
The group of girls waits and waits. The woman in charge of handing out the ribbons is obviously confused as to where the girls who jumped in that heat are sitting. "Over here!" I say loudly. She doesn't hear me. "Over HERE!" I say, trying to get her attention. This woman hands out ribbon, after ribbon, trying to match competitor's numbers with their appropriate standing. She starts handing out ribbons to the girls who competed after Mia, while Mia still hasn't gotten a ribbon.
"Hey, what about number 345?" I say with support from some of the other parents and a coach who was concerned about Mia not getting a ribbon.
"Uh,......here ya go." The lady says and thrusts Mia a green ribbon.
A green ribbon. Well what the heck does that mean? Did she earn that green ribbon? I was listening to the distance monitors and didn't think that Mia had won the green. I wasn't sure, but the lady who was handing out ribbons just handed her the green one, because that was what she had left in her hand.
At this point, I had a decision to make. I never want to be one of "Those Moms" who whine and complain all of the time about the unfair treatment that their child is getting. I want to have faith in my coaches, that they know what they are doing, and I will respect their positions. I think my kids will learn lessons from all of the adults around them, and I don't need to step in to be the "Mom on Wheels" and fix all of the problems.
But it felt like 108 degrees. Actually 95. The sun was blaring and the humidity was so thick you could choke on it. So I complained. A little. "Did Mia earn that green ribbon?" I asked a coach. He did some checking and in fact Mia was second in her heat and indeed earned a red ribbon.
I would not have cared if Mia did earn "just the green," but the point is that we should all be rewarded accordingly for our efforts. Mia would never have known that she didn't receive the honors that she should have received. A ribbon is a ribbon in our house. But when a person gives something their best, they should be rewarded for it. And not some slapped together, half-excused "gimme," but an honest-to-goodness real validation of achievement. In a world where vacuous celebrities seem to have it all, hard work should be valued. We should be able to earn our honors. And celebrate life's victories! Especially when you're competing against 5-year olds.
After the meet, Mia and I went to TCBY and relished in her achievment. Red ribbons and sprinkles on cotton candy frozen yogurt. Victory!
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
Thursday, June 17, 2010
Mr. Bruns
So I just found out that one of my English teachers from high school is on Facebook. Not just any English teacher...Mr. Bruns, the toughest English teacher of any public high school in Illinois, maybe the entire Midwest. Mr. Bruns would require us to diagram every sentence in every paper that we would submit for his class. Every single sentence. (And yes, I know that that was not a complete sentence. I fracture sentences in this blog for emphasis, not grammatical correctness.) And I can't remember exactly, but I want to say that he would fail us if we misspelled two words. I think he gave us one as a "gimme."
Tough guy. But I think that twenty years later, we could use some more tough guys. Not that I don't think my children have fantastic teachers, they do. But there was something so severe, so scarring about making a mistake in Mr. Bruns' class, that you just did not want to mess up. You would want so badly to impress him, to show him that you were not an idiot. There were a bunch of us "smarties" in his class. We tended to be at the top of our classes and were able to coast in a lot of the classes we had in high school. When you're considered academically advanced, a lot of teachers don't really mess with you. They give you the curriculum and are pleased as punch that you follow it. Mr. Bruns challenged us.
I don't think that I have ever tried so hard to impress a teacher before Mr. Bruns and certainly not after. College professors, after having Mr. Bruns for English in high school, were like a bunch of pot-smoking, corduroy-jacket wearing, wimpy feel-gooders who were looking for content and emotion instead of good ol' fashioned grammar. The only thing I learned from those teachers was the Art of B.S. (which I am sure you have realized by now, I am pretty darn good at....or is it "at which now, you realize that I am pretty darn good.")
In any case, the whole point to this little blog is to encourage all of us to do our best for our own "Mr. Bruns-es." (Again, not sure if I've got that one right.) We should try to do the very best we can do. Everyone can do mediocrity. Everyone can get by and get people to like them and laugh at their silly jokes. (Run-on sentence...I know! Again, for emphasis.) But not everyone can get an "A" with Mr. Bruns.
Tough guy. But I think that twenty years later, we could use some more tough guys. Not that I don't think my children have fantastic teachers, they do. But there was something so severe, so scarring about making a mistake in Mr. Bruns' class, that you just did not want to mess up. You would want so badly to impress him, to show him that you were not an idiot. There were a bunch of us "smarties" in his class. We tended to be at the top of our classes and were able to coast in a lot of the classes we had in high school. When you're considered academically advanced, a lot of teachers don't really mess with you. They give you the curriculum and are pleased as punch that you follow it. Mr. Bruns challenged us.
I don't think that I have ever tried so hard to impress a teacher before Mr. Bruns and certainly not after. College professors, after having Mr. Bruns for English in high school, were like a bunch of pot-smoking, corduroy-jacket wearing, wimpy feel-gooders who were looking for content and emotion instead of good ol' fashioned grammar. The only thing I learned from those teachers was the Art of B.S. (which I am sure you have realized by now, I am pretty darn good at....or is it "at which now, you realize that I am pretty darn good.")
In any case, the whole point to this little blog is to encourage all of us to do our best for our own "Mr. Bruns-es." (Again, not sure if I've got that one right.) We should try to do the very best we can do. Everyone can do mediocrity. Everyone can get by and get people to like them and laugh at their silly jokes. (Run-on sentence...I know! Again, for emphasis.) But not everyone can get an "A" with Mr. Bruns.
Saturday, June 12, 2010
Big Ten?
So the news broke yesterday, the University of Nebraska will be joining the Big Ten athletic conference. It is with mixed emotions that I receive this news, for I am a graduate of the University of Illinois, also in the Big 10.
I have lived here in Nebraska for almost 10 years. I gave birth to my children here. I worked extensively in the community here. I bought a house here. I wear red every Saturday and most Fridays. I crave Runza's weekly. I can differentiate the smell of a Fairbury hotdog sizzling on the grill from a run-of-the-mill dog. I even think that Herbie Husker is pretty hot. (Sorry Lil' Red. You are a great mascot, but you don't have the muscles. Or the chin.) I know Bo. I have watched every Husker game on tv. (No, I don't listen on the radio. Sports on the radio are stupid. You have to watch. People WATCH sports and then LISTEN to people talk about it later. It's okay.) I love the Big Red.
But I bleed orange and blue. I spent the formative years of my life in Champaign, Illinois. And by formative years, I mean the years where I learned how to be me. I fell in love in Champaign. I fell out of love in Champaign. I figured out what I was feeling "wasn't really love anyway" in Champaign. I met some of my best friends in Champaign. (And thank you Facebook for bringing them back.) I learned some hard lessons in Champaign. I partied, I rocked, and I learned a heck of a lot in Champaign. But I did not watch football.
I do think I went to a couple of games. I know I didn't pay attention. I was more of a tailgater. At the radio station I worked at down there, we had one heck of a tailgating operation. Big huge tent. Killer tunes. Brats. And Leinenkugle beer. Mmmmmm....Leinies. As part of the promotions team, it was our job to set up the tent and run it for all of our listeners. And I always wound up being part of the clean-up team. The duties for that included sitting around and talking rock music, and making sure that that Leinenkugle keg was lighter for the guy taking it back to the distributor. I am such a giver.
Champaign was where I fell in love with radio. The music and the excitement and the creativity. We had a room at the back of the radio station called "Studio D." It had smelly faux leather couches and obnoxious shag green carpeting. Sometimes people would study there. Sometimes people would crash there. The best ideas in the world came out of that little room. Not that any of us can remember those fabulous ideas. You just have to trust us.
That was then. This is now. I moved to Lincoln almost 10 years ago. I am a mom now. I drive a mini-van. One of my main responsiblities to to feed, clothe and discipline three adorable monsters. I pay taxes. I go out once a month instead of 5 nights a week. I carry a purse. (Big no-no in college. If you wore a purse at U of I, you were a major prissy dork.) I don't eat ramen. I drink wine. And I watch football. Big Red football.
I wonder if there's some kind of cosmic twist to all of this. The end of my radio career coinciding with the Cornhuskers joining the Big Ten. The death of one phase of my life, but yet the spark of my past is kindling. UNL will host the Illini. I will have college friends come to visit me and relive the old days. Illinois will host the Big Red. Chris and I can roadtrip to Champaign and visit all of my old haunting grounds. (I wonder if Willie's is still there?) Death and rebirth. Or something like that. I am sure I am overthinking this whole thing, but then again, I am not in Studio D.
I do know this...I bet a Fairbury hotdog would taste fantastic with a Leinie's.
I have lived here in Nebraska for almost 10 years. I gave birth to my children here. I worked extensively in the community here. I bought a house here. I wear red every Saturday and most Fridays. I crave Runza's weekly. I can differentiate the smell of a Fairbury hotdog sizzling on the grill from a run-of-the-mill dog. I even think that Herbie Husker is pretty hot. (Sorry Lil' Red. You are a great mascot, but you don't have the muscles. Or the chin.) I know Bo. I have watched every Husker game on tv. (No, I don't listen on the radio. Sports on the radio are stupid. You have to watch. People WATCH sports and then LISTEN to people talk about it later. It's okay.) I love the Big Red.
But I bleed orange and blue. I spent the formative years of my life in Champaign, Illinois. And by formative years, I mean the years where I learned how to be me. I fell in love in Champaign. I fell out of love in Champaign. I figured out what I was feeling "wasn't really love anyway" in Champaign. I met some of my best friends in Champaign. (And thank you Facebook for bringing them back.) I learned some hard lessons in Champaign. I partied, I rocked, and I learned a heck of a lot in Champaign. But I did not watch football.
I do think I went to a couple of games. I know I didn't pay attention. I was more of a tailgater. At the radio station I worked at down there, we had one heck of a tailgating operation. Big huge tent. Killer tunes. Brats. And Leinenkugle beer. Mmmmmm....Leinies. As part of the promotions team, it was our job to set up the tent and run it for all of our listeners. And I always wound up being part of the clean-up team. The duties for that included sitting around and talking rock music, and making sure that that Leinenkugle keg was lighter for the guy taking it back to the distributor. I am such a giver.
Champaign was where I fell in love with radio. The music and the excitement and the creativity. We had a room at the back of the radio station called "Studio D." It had smelly faux leather couches and obnoxious shag green carpeting. Sometimes people would study there. Sometimes people would crash there. The best ideas in the world came out of that little room. Not that any of us can remember those fabulous ideas. You just have to trust us.
That was then. This is now. I moved to Lincoln almost 10 years ago. I am a mom now. I drive a mini-van. One of my main responsiblities to to feed, clothe and discipline three adorable monsters. I pay taxes. I go out once a month instead of 5 nights a week. I carry a purse. (Big no-no in college. If you wore a purse at U of I, you were a major prissy dork.) I don't eat ramen. I drink wine. And I watch football. Big Red football.
I wonder if there's some kind of cosmic twist to all of this. The end of my radio career coinciding with the Cornhuskers joining the Big Ten. The death of one phase of my life, but yet the spark of my past is kindling. UNL will host the Illini. I will have college friends come to visit me and relive the old days. Illinois will host the Big Red. Chris and I can roadtrip to Champaign and visit all of my old haunting grounds. (I wonder if Willie's is still there?) Death and rebirth. Or something like that. I am sure I am overthinking this whole thing, but then again, I am not in Studio D.
I do know this...I bet a Fairbury hotdog would taste fantastic with a Leinie's.
Thursday, June 3, 2010
Endings and Dirt Digging
Spencer has been crying for the last half hour. I've sat and snuggled with him, but he can't be consoled. Today was the last day of school and he is very, very sad. His first kindergarten teacher Mrs. Bauer had to leave midway through the year, and now his most recent kindergarten teacher Miss Hendersen is changing schools and won't be around next year.
It is his first ending. Or at least his first awareness of an ending. Last year he wasn't quite in-tune with the ending of pre-school. But this time he knows that he will probably never see Miss Hendersen again. When you are in kindergarten, there is no Facebook.
He's also upset that he won't be seeing any of his friends over the summer either. Of course that is not true. He is playing t-ball. He sees some of his friends at the neighborhood pool. And then he will see all of them next year. He is just feeling a little sensitive right now. Kindergarten is over.
Endings are hard. New chapters are hard. When you don't know what the future holds, the present can be hard to enjoy. How can I enjoy myself now when I need to be worried about what is on the horizon? Things won't be the same and I don't like that. What if things are worse?
Miss Hendersen was thinking though. She had the kids make memory books and she even made a cute little movie with pictures of the kids doing fun kindergarten-y things: painting, exploring, learning the alphabet, digging in the dirt. A good idea for all of us, especially when we don't know when those endings are going to come. Sometimes endings can take us by surprise. It's a good idea to keep a memory book. Or make a little movie. Or write a blog. Something to remind us that when we do reach that next chapter, when things are even better than they were, we had a great time in kindergarten.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)