Still In The Game

“Never let the fear of striking out keep you from playing the game.”

― Babe Ruth

While it’s true he did not leave our city under the best of terms, and yes, that curse did some damage, you have to love Babe Ruth for his contribution to the game.

Babe Ruth, Fenway 1934. NB: My family seats were right where the guy on the dug out is squatting down. I grew up on hallowed ground

 Recently the topic of sports came up in our house, but specifically youth sports. My children were given every opportunity to play any sport that interested them. We had Saturday mornings of soccer and hockey, afternoons of basketball, field hockey, and, my personal favorite, badminton. With my boys, they were “One Season Wonders.” They tried one season of more than a few games and then, by about 4th grade, they were done. Neither of them found that playing an organized team sport was for them, but they both are active, fit, and enjoyed boxing, skateboarding, and biking.

My daughter, however, really bloomed in high school sports. She joined the track team, both winter and spring, as well as fall cheer, and will graduate in 2020 with at least two varsity letters. This is pretty amazing for our family because I had so little experience as a sports mom. Oh, and for the record, yes, cheer is a sport. You try doing backflips down the entire length of a football field, and tossing teammates into the air (and catching them too.) When I went to a track meet, thankfully a friend from high school, who had a child on the opposing team, was able to tell me what was going on, because honestly, from the stands, I had no idea. There were javelins, and heavy disks, and people running around and leaping over things. I was expecting it to be all dreamy, like Chariots of Fire when they all run on the beach, with a crisp musical score. It was really fun, but definitely not like the movies.

I didn’t get to every game or meet my daughter participated in, and the same was true for her brothers. While I was often the driver and got everyone to and from most practices and games, there was no way I could go to all of them. Honestly, there were some I never even tried to get to, like the football game on a wicked cold Friday night, in the rain. When I picked her up I had hot chocolate, so that has to count for something, right? Well, in the discussion on sports, some parents said they made it a point to go to EVERY. SINGLE. GAME. I was asked, “Why would you not go to the game?” Um, did you not hear me about the rain? Someone even sent a link to an article by some “expert” that implied that going to every game was critical, and your kids are not telling the truth when they say it doesn’t matter. It matters. Capital “M” matters, like, it’s a huge deal if you don’t go to every game.

Hell’s bells people, I am THISCLOSE to having gotten my last child to adulthood. You’re going to tell me now that some 2nd-grade soccer scrimmage that happened while I was browsing the shoe aisle of Marshall’s will have my kid in therapy? Trust me when I tell you there’s lots more material than that. I’m not buying it, not even a little. I’m so over the ever-changing criteria of what constitutes a good parent. Let’s not even start about how mothers are held to a different standard than fathers, that’s whole other column. It’s insane, and it needs to stop. You know how the statistics show that children and teens today are experiencing unprecedented levels of stress and anxiety? It’s real, and while anxiety, OCD, depression, and other mental health issues are all neurobiological medical conditions and certainly nothing to laugh about, you have to wonder if some of the everyday stress that we all experience comes, in part, from other parents. 

We all know that one SpongeMom JudgyPants on the sidelines, taking mental attendance of who is there and who is not, and who didn’t take their turn bringing the orange slices. There’s always at least one Frat Dad screaming from the stands because he’s clearly smarter than the coaches, the umpires and the rest of the dads who didn’t show up. Stop it already. A parent’s presence at a game is a beautiful thing, except for that time when a bunch of angry baseball parents stormed the field and a 13-year-old umpire had to break up a brawl. At least a few of those “sports fans” should have stayed home. I might not have been at every field, but I haven’t struck out yet, and I’m still very much in the game.

The judgment has to stop. No one should be scanning the bleachers and making assumptions about why so-and-so isn’t at the game. Some random Internet child expert doesn’t know me, my kids, or our lives. I will be in the stands when my daughter is recognized at Senior night, even if it rains, but if you don’t see me at some other game or meet and you think that makes me a bad mother? Blow it out your seabag, as my mother used to say. Remember, when you point your finger at someone else, you still have three more fingers pointing right back at your own face.

Everyone is a Genius

“Everybody is a genius. But if you judge a fish by its ability to climb a tree, it will live its whole life believing that it is stupid.”

--- Attributed to Albert Einstein

Talent is a funny concept. We say someone is talented if they can do something well, but the fact is, everyone has some kind of talent. The iconic 80s movie, “The Breakfast Club” about a group of high schoolers from different social groups gathered together for Saturday morning detention, has a scene where they are all discussing particular talents they have, besides the typical labels of “brain” “athlete” and “popular.” It’s a key scene that is meant to show that everyone can do something unexpected or out of line with how they are perceived.

 

The problem, in the movie and life, is that there are general standards and benchmarks for education, jobs, and just about everything else and many times they aren’t necessarily on point. There is always some rubric, some set of criteria that has to be met to assess proficiency. While it’s true that all of us have specific skills, there can be a disconnect on what we are good at and that on which we are judged.

Let’s start with education. Naturally, we have to educate our children in several areas of study. While it used to be the “Three Rs” we have, thankfully, moved away from such a narrow focus. Not mention that two of the three don’t even begin with an R, so it’s a good thing we’ve updated the standards. I may not be a genius, but I can read and write. Arithmetic is another matter. 

Just recently I had to buy a disposable party tablecloth to cover a ping pong table that was going to hold snacks and hot dishes. A ping pong table is 9 feet by 5 feet. Table cloths come in sizes measured in inches. There I stood, in the dollar store, because nothing but the best will do for me, trying to figure out how many inches were in 9 feet. My times' tables were never a strong suit. There’s some trick you can do when you get to the nines table, it involves your fingers and adding them up to get an answer, but judging by the looks other customers were giving me, I had either just flipped off the cashier or thrown up a gang signal.

It’s almost as if my brain was whizzing along and just slammed right up against the front of my head, coming to a dead stop, flummoxed completely by simple math. On the same day though, I had come up with a written proposal on how to showcase a retail analytics software package and a plan to incorporate assisted selling demos in stores, to a cosmetic company looking to change up their brand image. So, while in my math class I might be the fish that can’t climb a tree, in other areas I’m putting words together that can maybe, in a small way, impact a financial bottom line.

I am not special in this way. We all have a mixture of talent and shortcomings. I went to college with someone who is now likely one of the top five people, nationally as well as internationally, in a very complex field. However, when studying poetry during my junior year? Not so much. I spent more than a few hours explaining Keats, Yeats and Blake, the symbolism used in their work, the meter of the words, the allegory and other elements and how their life experiences and the current events of their time were reflected in the imagery of the poems. At one point, he looked at me and said, “Ya, you’re just making that up. It’s a poem about some flowers he liked, that’s it.” He was, of course, horribly wrong, but it’s OK, he had other talents, as we all do.

While there have to be basic standards in education, and everyone, even if they just barely make it over the finish line with a passing grade, has to take math, we should be paying more attention to individual gifts and talents. What can you do that maybe someone else cannot? I’m in awe of people who understand the mechanics of anything. I had to seek tech support from the fine people at Green’s Hardware when I didn’t know how to reload my heavy-duty stapler. Changing a tire? Nope, it’s been explained and demonstrated to me several times, still can’t do it, nor can I jumpstart a car. However, if you need someone who can make a bed you can bounce a quarter off, complete with hospital corners, I’m your girl. Waitressing taught me how to get five plates of food and a tray of drinks out of a kitchen and to the correct table, and even to the correct diner, but I can’t cook anything more complicated than burgers, mac and cheese, and salad. We can all be a genius, even if it’s just in one small area. If there’s something you do well, do it! If you know someone who struggles with a certain task, help them out. Maybe less of us will feel stupid, and that’s always a win.

Galumphing About

ga·lumph

/ɡəˈləmf/

verb: INFORMAL

To move in a clumsy, ponderous, or noisy manner.

"She galumphed along beside him."

---Oxford English Dictionary

 The other day someone used this word to describe me (and they are not wrong) and while I thought it was a made-up word, Oxford says it’s real. It’s hard to argue with the big book of the mother tongue, so galumph it is. Seriously, my family doesn’t call me Grace because I look like that other famous Kelly girl, who was in the movies. They call me that because, more often than not, I galumph about, bashing into walls and dropping things. It’s been that way my whole life, and while it’s occasionally mortifying, it’s my normal.

When actress Jennifer Lawrence tripped up the stairs on the way to getting her Oscar in 2013, everyone thought she was delightful. It was a well-executed move; honestly, there aren’t a lot of people who can rock an evening gown, stilettos, and a face-plant, but she managed it. Twice, actually. When she arrived at the 2014 Oscars, she biffed it on the red carpet. America’s sweetheart, take two. Somehow it never works that way for me. My random gravity checks seem to happen most often in my kitchen, reaching for a can of frosting…I mean, an apple, and winding up Lulu’s over teakettle onto the floor. I did complete a glamour fall once, wearing a prom dress, and it was epic, but that was before E! and TMZ were around. Also, no red carpet, just a pesky sidewalk curb. It was also pre-social media, thankfully.

 

It’s not just my bones that get bumped around; there’s a real cost to my housewares budget. While paper plates and plastic reduce some risk, you know the real reason we can’t have nice things? Sure, there’s a snorty, hyperactive pug at my house, but she’s innocent. It’s me; it’s all me. Waterford crystal is a favorite of mine, but the few pieces I have are located up on high shelves, and not handled by me. It’s really a bit sad; it’s Irish, beautifully made, and when the sun hits the facets cut into the triangle of my New Year’s Eve Times Square crystal ball ornament, it’s really gorgeous and yet, untouchable.

Still, it’s no use crying over spilled milk, right? A good friend recently nailed it when she said, “You’re a glass half full kind of girl, until you break it, that is.” Spot on, Rickey. It’s become about safety more than grace at this point. When you galumph, rather than glide, there’s often a trail of destruction that follows. Ceramics, glass, sharp objects, and precious knick-knacks are best kept out of my reach. Also, open flames. You know how instead of cursing the darkness, we are told to light a single candle? 

That’s for everyone but me. You can all glow in the flickering light of beeswax; I’ll be the one with the flashlight, likely cursing because the batteries are gone from when I dropped it and broke the cover. You start one small kitchen fire and it’s all, “Can someone check the smoke detectors? Brenda’s making dinner.” In my defense, how could I be expected to know that a glass cooktop stays hot for nearly twenty minutes after you shut it off, so while I didn’t burn the cookies in the oven, they were pretty crispy after sitting on top of the stove…on parchment paper. Pro tip: parchment paper is flammable outside of an oven. Somehow that was never covered in my high school physics and chemistry classes, or Home Ec for that matter.

Actual photo of untouchable Waterford, right next to where I started a fire

So far, there haven’t been any major injuries, if you don’t count a concussion from a run in with a mop and a tile floor, which, truthfully, could happen to anyone. The upside is I am now exempt from mop duty, which is a win if you ask me. As time goes by however, safety has to be a priority. Perhaps wearing my bike helmet in the shower might be a good idea? I’m a big fan of firefighters, but it’s probably wise to just buy a cheeky calendar instead of having them show up at my door because “I’ve fallen and I can’t get up.” That’s just not a good look for me. In the meantime, flat shoes (but still red) are probably best, along with staying away from stairs, breakables, slippery surfaces, and heavy objects that are easily dropped. Here’s to staying upright:::lifts paper cup in a toast::::