The Day We Introduced Sports

Now here's the thing with the Jones family and sports: We don't do them*. We don't watch them. We don't listen to them. Odds are if you ask us if we watched "the game" you'll receive a vacant, ignorant stare in return.

In spite of this errant social behavior I still believe we live full, contented lives.

The other day, however, I had a horrible, sinking feeling. I suddenly realized that our non-sports lifestyle could possibly have led us to a grand oversight in the rearing of our children! What if one of them actually would like sports? What if one of them could be truly talented at any given sport but will never be given the chance? Parenting 101 dictates exposure to all types of activities in order to cultivate a child's natural abilities, right?

FAIL.

Solution: Start with the only sport I was ever any good at**. For $7.99 I picked up a teeny-tiny glove and ball and begged the little ones to gather around me as I taught them the basics of softball/baseball. What ensued was hilarity at it's finest.

Once we convinced Curtis to throw the ball with his free hand rather than using the glove to launch it, the ball ended up being tossed in my general direction more than it didn't. Awesome.

Catching it, however, was a bit of a problem. Certainly due to the fact that we've skipped the whole "catching a ball" part of parenting. Fail again.

I'm not even sure what he's trying to do here:

The boy quickly tired of it, but to my great delight (and profound surprise) Lindy ended up taking a real appreciation for this favorite American*** pastime.

All in all I believe our first foray into the world of sports was a success. While we may need to visit other types of athletic adventures for Curtis (he appears to be only interested in full-contact, sword-wielding type activities) and possibly a different approach with Ellie (she was content to watch it all from the sidelines) we did enjoy a little sunshine, a lot of laughter, and a great bunch of family time.

Now THAT'S parenting!

* Ian would like me to clarify that mountain biking is a sport. So, for the record, by "sports" I am only referring to highly-publicized, career-making, rockstar-status, competitive sports including, but not limited to, football, baseball, basketball, and the like.

** I did possess a smidgen of natural talent for soccer as a child. But, as my childhood memories have long since been reduced to a hazy fog of un-recallable**** details I had to choose a sport from more recent years.

*** Canadians play the sport too, folks. Don't get all overly, patriotically, possessive on me. I'll have to pull out my Blue Jays World Series paraphernalia and get all up in your face.

**** Is "recallable" a word?

I Haven't Done My Job

Every once in a while I find myself in a position where my failures as a mom are glaringly apparent. These moments are especially embarrassing (entertaining?) when my shortcomings are announced publicly.

During the lesson in Ellie's primary class today, her sweet teacher asked, "How can we choose the right even when other people try to get us to make bad choices?"

Ellie's response: "We hit them."

And after the teacher kindly encouraged her to rethink her position...Ellie remained firm: "Yup, we hit them."

Sigh.

The Queen of Tantrums: Post Edit

I started reading a book today. A parenting book. (I know...I swore I'd never do that. But, as it turns out, I'm not a natural at this whole mom thing. So...I'm reading a book.) And it suddenly occurred to me (because the author specifically pointed it out) that in most of my disciplining attempts I'm really the one throwing the temper tantrum.

It's true.

When things don't go my way I have a tendency to REACT. And YELL. (Yes, people I yell. I'm a champion yeller. If there were Olympic medals given for yelling I'd be a gold-medalist. If some natural disaster struck and disabled all forms of communication I would be able to compensate with my loud, booming voice. Do you see where I'm going with this?)

And sometimes I cry.

Oh, and sometimes I throw things. (Not my children...just things.)

You see? Tantrums.

Post Edit: Lest you think I'm worse off than I am...I'm only throwing things like stuffed animals. Legos. Cheerios. You know...SMALL things.

I Feel Like Crying

This morning started off as any other. Lindy and I bickered and fought over clothes, hair, socks, shoes, breakfast choices, and various other semantics of the day. Typical. As I drove her to school this morning I was, to be honest, quite sick and tired of dealing with her.

As she bounded out of the van, however, my heart caught in my throat as I watched her trip, limbs flailing, up the sidewalk. It was quite a fantastic fall. She immediately turned and caught my eye and I watched helplessly as her little face crumpled. I had a sudden, forceful, urge to jump out of my van to gather her in my arms and make it all better. But, before I could move, I saw my brave little girl gather her dignity around her like a jacket and courageously march into the school.

Suddenly I was the one fighting back tears. Because being a mom is tough. All the nuances of the day can be...well, exhausting. But, this morning I realized we've only just begun. Dealing with my daughter's idiosyncratic behavior will never be more challenging than having to stand on the sidelines and watch while she faces pain. And the problem is this: pain is the plan.

And that really stinks.

Thrills and Spills

Today was another big day here at the Jones household. (Is this going to continually be a theme as my kids grow up?)

Top of the list...Ellie's highly anticipated First Day of Preschool finally arrived. She was, at long last, able to don her class shirt and brand-spankin-new backpack and join the throng of school-goers worldwide. She was ecstatic. She had a fantastic time and informed me on the way home that she LOVES her teacher and can't wait to go back. Phew!

Later on I took Ellie to visit our dear friends at the pediatricians office. She is on her doctors' "watch list" for asthma-related issues and, following a rough night of breathing troubles, we went in to make sure everything was as it should be. She got a shot in the leg--not her idea of fun--and then we made our way home. I planned on settling right in and cooking dinner for my family.

It was not meant to be. Shortly after arriving home from the doctors' office my fearless little boy decided to do a swan dive off the back seat of the van. This acrobatic feat ended with blood spurting out of the back of his head. Biting back the panic, (anyone who knows my mom knows I was raised to panic) I calmly tried stem the flow and be tough. This was also not meant to be. I finally conned a nurse friend into coming over to examine the wound (thanks again, Ivana!). She soon gave me allowance to pursue a course of slight panic. This led to my second visit to the pediatricians office in one day. Then came the restraining of a cranky boy to put a staple in his skull!

It's just one little staple. But, sweet mother of a badger, it looks awful. I'm starting to think that my whole philosophy of "he'll learn not to do it again" may not be as foolproof as I originally thought.

And now...I'm worn out. I'm going to ignore my predisposition to stay up late. I'm going to bed.

Time Out

Look how pitiful he looks...I nearly had to get him out. Good thing his time out is only a minute.

Seriously?

I never had doubts about becoming a mom. I don't know if it was immaturity, over-confidence, or a mixture of both, but at the age of 30 I felt completely ready, and qualified by life experience, to embrace the role of Mother. (Don't laugh...I know now.)

Growing up I remember my mom often sharing the humorous anecdote about when my older brother decided to run away. She let Wade know she really didn't want him to go, but if his mind was set on it she'd help him pack. Which she did. At the door she gave him a hug. She reiterated her wish that he stay with his family and let him know he could always come home, at which point she bid him farewell. She nervously watched from the window as he lugged his suitcase down to the end of the walk. He stood, glancing around for a few seconds then lugged the suitcase back, knocked on the door, and informed her that he had "missed the bus". He never threatened to run away again.

Savvy, right? Playing it cool while calling your childs' bluff, all the while letting them know that you love them and really, really want them to stay...awesome, right? That's what I thought.

Which brings us to today. Following a "lecture" on why we are all responsible to clean up after ourselves because we are a family and we work together, blah, blah, blah...I spent a little time cooling down, trying to spare my children any residual mom-grumpiness. I soon decided I'd been a little too harsh, and made my way upstairs to apologize to my children (something I don't do often enough) and was greeted by this:

Yes, folks. This is my 6 year-old daughter packing her stuff to "Move out of this house where I can be happy!" Attempting to follow my mom's example, I calmly asked her where she was planning to go. Her reply: "I'm going to Jody's for 3 days and if you don't appreciate it, I'm staying for 8 days, and if you still don't appreciate it, I'm staying for a week, and if it's not better I'm going to stay FOREVER!!!" I brought her close to me, hugged her tight, told her I was sorry for yelling (yes, I yell) and that I really, really, really would be sad if she decided to go.

No dice. She continued packing. I tried to explain nicely that Aunt Jody wouldn't be able to take care of her because she worked during the day. No matter, she said...Mike could help. I asked her how she'd get there, and she said I would have to drive her. When I told her I wouldn't be able to do that, she informed me that she would just "figure it out!" End of discussion.

After packing all essential items including clothes, stuffed animals, blankets, an inflatable bed, a picture of her and Ellie, shoes, books, toothbrush, socks, and underwear, she somehow roped Ellie into helping her "move". I stood at the window expecting to watch her walk to the end of the driveway, look around, discover she really had no options, and turn around and lay this whole thing to rest.

Was I really surprised that it didn't exactly play out that way? No, I suppose not. As I watched her resolutely march down the sidewalk I realized she was really leaving! I quickly put my baby in a stroller and hurried to catch up with them. I met up with them just as Lindy solicited the Babcock family for a place to stay. Apparently Morgan said yes. Crushing Morgan's dreams of a "sleepover" I managed to turn my girls around, luggage and all, and take them back home. I was treated to various amounts of grumbling and additional threats as we walked but I seemed to smooth things over a little by helping carry most of her stuff for her. She is now asleep. In her own bed. Hopefully snug with the knowledge that she is loved and we are glad she's here.

Note to self: Don't "play along" next time she threatens to run away. She's organized and she'll really do it.

Plea to friends and neighbors: If my child knocks on your door asking for refuge, please know that I do not want her to leave. I have not banished her from our home. Please send her back and let her know that her mom loves her and wants nothing more than to have her home.