As I’ve mentioned before, I grew up in a pink home. The world of boys, balls, and sports was beyond foreign to me. Of course, girl world can be full of sports and competition too, but I wasn’t one of those girls. It was all violin, barbies, and piano. Jumping rope on the playground was about as active as I got. My sisters and I played paper dolls inside and made salads out of weeds and acorns outside in the woods. 

Then I entered the world of boys. And wow – mine like to run around, like a lot. The natural thing to do is to get them into something – anything – to burn off some of that energy. So around age two while still in diapers, they both began to run off their toddler chub up and down the soccer field. It’s the first activity the little ones can enter around here, and thus our world of sports began.

For L, soccer quickly transitioned to T-ball and Tuff football and so on and so forth. And here we are now possibly faced with baseball drafts and tackle football. 

Eek.

My stomach is in a knot. Really… really? Is that what happens now? He’s eight. Does that seem incredibly young to anyone else, or am I just being naïve? I can’t rationalize it all because it all just seems so… intense.

The schedules can be intense. The coaching can be intense. The parents can be intense. People talk about each others kids… or a lot about their own. Try-outs are strange. The politics that go into it all can totally suck you in. Who is better friends with which coach, who has an older brother that has lead the way, who is playing house ball versus travel versus flag versus tackle. Who is playing up, who is playing down. Who is taking lessons, who has a private coach, who did the extra camps. So much chit chat about something that is still so… innocent.

At least I like to think it is.

See, I watch the games to see L’s face light up when he hits that line drive. Or when he slides into second with a goofy grin. I cheer just as hard for his friends – competition or not.

I like to bring popsicles for the little siblings who are cheering on their big brothers, and once in awhile an occasional adult cocktail for that 5PM Saturday practice (wink wink). 

I buy Vikings gear when L is a Viking and dress us in red, black, and white to cheer on his best friend in tackle.

I try to teach L to thank the coaches after each and every game because it is a lot of work and time to fit in for dads who simply don’t have a lot of time to give.

I pack full sports gear for B so he can somewhat think he’s on the team while I’m snapping photos of plays and texting them to grandparents. I cheer at an appropriate level and bake hot dog melts after Sunday night baseball practices and serve warm bowls of chili after 45 degree football games. We have teammates over to bond and run and play in our wide open front yard free of rules, parents, and coaches. Always the best games, in my opinion, not to mention we have the most extreme ball and gatorade bottle hunt in the world the next morning (sorry Tina!). 

Because that’s the appropriate world of sports in my opinion, for an eight year old. It’s one I can wrap my mind around and be proud to be apart of.  It’s what I’m going to continue to encourage and to stand by, as everything else is insignificant. And most importantly, I’m going to be sure that L (and B!) understand that after each and every game all I feel is this.

Who’s with me?
C

P.S. The ‘race to nowhere‘ is a wonderful view, should you have the time.

It’s time to kick off the new year, motherhood wise! And hey, what’s more appropriate to talk about during the time when everyone seems to be dashing off to the gym (hello, holiday weight) than body image. Specifically, body image and being a new mom.

It’s crazy the pressure we moms feel after we have a baby, isn’t it? The media in all forms blasts us with photoshopped (read: fake) images of what a mom should look like within 12 weeks of giving birth. Flat abs, well rested (???), and posing in a bikini, of course.

Really…? Really? I often wonder if they think people are dumb enough to actually believe that is what occurs. And yet I’ve felt the pressure myself. Not to get bikini ready for the masses, but to get back to what I consider normal as soon as possible. I look back now, years later, and think of how ridiculous it was to have those feelings. It’s simply a waste of energy at a time when you don’t have the energy to waste.

See, the weeks and few months post-partum are tender. Really tender. The highs are oh so high and the lows are oh so low. You just grew a human. Then you birthed that human. You aren’t sleeping much, if at all. You feel fat. Nothing fits right. Your hips have shifted. And what the heck are those white lines that have magically appeared after you had the baby? Ah yes, you may think you escaped the stretch marks and yet once your tummy is deflated – voila, there they are.

I recall a very specific moment in the hospital with B. And it’s something I hold dear and try to reference whenever I’m having an off day. I was all alone with him in the evening. The visitors had gone, M was home with L, the nurses were leaving me alone. It was just me and B. One of the best moments of my life, really. I was staring in amazement at him, as most moms do with their newborns, and decided it was time to get myself up for my nightly stroll. I scooted over to the side of the bed, painfully lifted him and myself up, managed to get him safely in his crib while I slowly walked myself over to the bathroom, dragging my IV behind me. It had been a few days since having him and I hadn’t really looked at my….body.

I took a moment to brace myself. I had a rough idea of what I’d look like, as this wasn’t my first rodeo. Deflated tummy, swollen bleeding c-section scar, stretch marks scattered about. I opened my gown and what I saw I was not prepared for.

All along my back, my entire back, were what I thought (hello drugs) were white stretch marks. I examined them more closely – there must have been 100. And you know what? I didn’t panic. Not for one second. I immediately thought of that precious baby sleeping in his crib. So what if I didn’t wear a bikini again? Or an open back dress? It might have been the vicodin pumping through me but it was oh so accurate: he was perfect, so I didn’t have to be.

Well, once the hard drugs wore off and I told M about it all, we determined they weren’t actually stretch marks (although I do have some!). It was simple creases made by the hospital sheets. Warning: post-partum drugs can make you wonky.

The point I hold dear, though. And I referenced when I was frustrated a few months later when I couldn’t pull my skinny jeans up. He was perfect. I didn’t have to be. Repeat.

Of course there comes a time where it is beneficial to start moving again and setting healthy goals for yourself. But not in those first few tender months. Let your body rest – recover – settle in a bit. Give yourself credit for growing and birthing a life, not for rocking a bikini 8 weeks later. Trust me, the latter just isn’t as important.

The photo above was taken 12 days after I gave birth to Beckett. My sister-in-law was getting married and I was not missing it. Somehow, alone, I managed to shower, dry and style my hair, and squeeze my way into a forgiving dress. I went downtown, chaperoned by my parents, feeling beautiful. Really, I did.

Then something happened. An hour or so into the reception, someone who knew I had been pregnant came up to me. He asked when I was having the baby. I chuckled – thinking he must be kidding. I said I had him on the 6th to which he replied, “Wow, you still look really pregnant.”

I felt the tears well up. A tender moment – a tender time. Obviously a concept someone so ignorant just couldn’t understand. I took a moment to gather myself and then I remembered that moment in the hospital. Beckett was perfect. I didn’t have to be.

So to those dads, uncles, brothers, grandpas out there. I leave you with this:

“The most incredible thing you can do for your recovering wife, is hold no expectations. If she desires to go to the gym… let her. If she is happy with her body, and lets her child’s feet walk on her squishy tummy, embrace the tenderness of that moment. If she cries because she cannot fit into her old jeans, hold her and tell her how amazing she will look in new jeans, and that her curves from children stir your soul.” (shared from the 4th Trimester Project from The Oesterich Family.)

Too much? A simple “you look great” works. Every. single. time.

Here’s to our children being formed more perfectly than we’ll ever be. And hey, you really do look great.
C

You hear it over and over again – patience is a virtue. A virtue. The ability to wait without getting upset or complaining or angry is a quality to aspire to.

If you’re a mom, especially a mom of a toddler, you know that your patience is tested every single day, all day long. Take, for instance, a conversation that occurs multiple times a day in our home.

B: oiethskdng:SIejt;se! (somehow I decode this to mean smoothie!)
C: Can you say ‘please’ B?
B: pleeeeeeeeeeeeease
C: Ok, what color straw would you like?
B: Blue. (I go and get the blue).
B: NOOOOOO green. (I put the blue back, and get the green).
B: NOOOOOO lelllow. (I put the green back, and get the yellow.)
B: Ninyon seosethethe! Ninyon seosetnothe! (Decoded: Logan, smoothie).
C: Ok, Logan do you want a smoothie with your brother?
L: No.
B: NINYON SMOOTHIE NINYON SMOOTHIE NINYON SMOOTHIE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
C: Logan, can you please just have a smoothie with your bother?
L: I don’t want one.
C: Sigh. (Ok, he’s right. Just because the toddler wants him to have one doesn’t mean he has to have one).
C: Ok B, Logan doesn’t want one. You can have one. Tell me what color straw you want.
B: (in tears over Logan not having one). Orange. (Sob). I get the orange straw.
B: NOOOOOOO pink.

Cue C pulling out her hair.

I have to say, I have good days and bad days with that oh so fickle concept called patience. It can be trying, putting up with the demands and pickiness of a strong willed and energetic toddler. I recall that when L was B’s age, if you cut his sandwich the wrong way his world literally ended. I will never forget him trying to piece it back together, in tears, yelling ‘like a puzzle!!!! like a puzzle!!!!’ Dude, everything is going to be okay…

Jennifer Senior wrote a book entitled All Joy and No Fun – The Paradox of Modern Parenting. It’s a wonderful read and a certain element hit home with me, hard. Many times throughout my days of mothering, I reference it in the back of my mind and it helps. See, she explains that there are biological reasons why toddlers drive us batty. Adults have a fully developed prefrontal cortex, the part of the brain that sits just behind the forehead and controls executive function of day to day life. It regulates reason, focus, inhibition, planning, forecast, and pondering our future. Littles ones do not have this; in fact theirs is barely developed at all. They are in a constant state of RIGHT NOW because it’s all they can mentally be in.

To B, the decision of the color of his straw is the only decision. It’s major. It’s life changing. It’s almost just too much to process. Just like coming from playing outside to eating lunch inside evokes a reaction of complete and utter distress. To him, he’s not quite sure he’ll ever go outside again.

I have to say that in those trying meltdown moments, it’s so helpful for me to step outside of my shoes and into little B’s. Showing empathy can go a long way with a toddler, and something as simple as ‘I know it’s hard to come inside but after your nap we can go back out!‘ can change the game. Sometimes, I mean… it’s toddlers.

If that doesn’t work? Leaving the scene for one minute to take a deep breath. Seriously, helps every time.

That and a glass of wine.

Or two.

Even children are busy now, scheduled down to the half-hour with classes and extracurricular activities. They come home at the end of the day as tired as grown-ups. I was a member of the latchkey generation and had three hours of totally unstructured, largely unsupervised time every afternoon, time I used to do everything from surfing the World Book Encyclopedia to making animated films to getting together with friends in the woods to chuck dirt clods directly into one another’s eyes, all of which provided me with important skills and insights that remain valuable to this day. Those free hours became the model for how I wanted to live the rest of my life. – The Busy Trap, Tim Kreider

It’s funny. I know many 8 year olds who have a busier calendar than I do, my own included. I feel tired just hearing about the extra curricular sports and classes that many are involved in, on top of school and homework. They get home way past the dinner hour only to begin school work, eat a meal, take a quick bath, and hop into bed only to wake up and do it all over again.

Like the article (read it!) above suggests, it’s hip to be busy. You are important if your calendar is jam packed, you’re interesting, you matter. Excessive plans and appointments can be oh so validating. And it’s a feeling we seem to be passing on to our kids. I find myself getting caught up in it at times. When asked by a friend what I was doing on a particular Friday or Saturday night,  why did it feel weird to say… nothing?

Let’s be honest. I love doing nothing. I thrive on being home. I am probably one of the most motivated homebodies you’ll ever meet. I’m not lazy or boring or dull because of it. Having time and space to shut out the world a bit and think is what I seem to crave more than anything else. I am ok with it being just us – or even, just me. I enjoy calm.

And that – the art of just being – is what can be lost today. See, I feel you are doing something right if your kid says “I’m bored” when I know that many would be sent into a panic. “Who can I call to play, what Pinterest craft can I set up on the table right now, what class can I sign them up for,” and so on. Not here. You’re bored? Go outside and build a fort. Play with your brother, read a chapter in a book that you want to read, not one your teacher is making you read. Bored is good. Bored yields creativity.

We have a rule with L when it comes to activities. Now that baseball and football have morphed into a pretty serious commitment (3 months each sport, 3-4 times a week), we tackle one sport at a time. That’s it. We control his calendar, not him, and he’s always been very good about that. He’s allowed one other activity, which is typically church class. The rest of the time he is at home. When asked why he wasn’t doing Fall baseball (he loves baseball!) on top of football since it’s “only once a week” my answer was “because we want to be home.” One or two football games a weekend is plenty, thank you.

Call us lazy. Call us crazy. Call us unmotivated. I highly doubt I’m depriving the world of the next Ryne Sandberg because L skipped a mere season of Fall baseball or didn’t attempt travel ball at the age of 8. What I hope I’m raising for the world is a kid with an imagination. A kid who plays. A kid who is outside, often unsupervised, for hours at a time. He’s figuring things out on his own, outside of the structure of school, activities, and parents. No one is telling him what to do, wear, rush off to. There are key social skills to be learned out in the yard. He’s often being a leader (or being challenged as one) in the neighborhood pack. Does he mess up? Heck yes. That’s a part of it all.

For now, little B is just tagging along to L’s calendar, yet he’s already pushing limits out in the yard just like L used to do. And I love it. I know one day he’ll be old enough to join sports and we will feel twice as busy and yet even then, it will be manageable because we’ve laid the groundwork for it to be so. We feel, for our family, we’ve struck the perfect balance of work (school), dedication (sports), and play. It’s a formula that may not work for all, but we’re certainly glad we’ve chosen it because, well, the time at home together is… precious.