On Why I Will Never Complain About Participation Medals...

            Today marked the end of an exhausting softball season.  It was exhausting because the girls collectively played four games a week. Dinner was a constant act of eating what we could when we could and we tag teamed more often than we wanted so that we often felt like ships passing in the night.  That wasn’t the exhausting part though; the exhaustion for me was the heavy emotional attachment I had to this season.  Both girls play rec ball, but Avery had played on the same team for three seasons in a row.  For some reason, she was not kept on that team this season  - instead they kept a handful of their best girls and joined together with another team’s handful of best girls.  Avery’s new team became a collection of softball misfits - girls who had not played much before and never together with a head coach that had to be recruited out of volunteer assistants.  The week practices started they still didn’t even have a team sponsor.  At least one girl was able to switch off the team after her parents called the league and asked  for replacement on a new team and another three or so never showed up.  Avery’s team was lucky to field 8 players a night and were often severely outmatched. 

            This team lost EVERY single game – often in a series of innings that were called only due to the five run mercy rule.  Too often their team saw three up three down.  Avery got to bat about one time a night as a result.  As someone who thrives on success, it was painful for me to watch. 

            The freshness of the players meant Avery got to pitch almost every single game.  She threw roughly two strikes total.  I am pretty sure she never got someone out through pitching unless the coach that had to relieve her happened to throw two strikes in a row. 

            And the picture above is what she looked like tonight as this miserable season ended...

As the night came to a close I found myself on the brink of tears.  It made me so sad to see the David and Goliath moment these children and kind coaches were placed into every game with no David win to finish it all off and make it worth it.  It made me angry that rejection placed my child in this situation.  It made me angry that a rec league had no system to prevent this situation. 

            But those tears were a waste of my energy.  Tonight I realized that this deplorable season made Avery fall in love with the game again.  She was smiling and cheering the whole game.  She was a leader for the other girls helping shape the positive tone that was so characteristic of these players and their parents.  The fans cheered more supportively than any I had ever seen before.  Never has a group of girls been kinder to each other, and never have I seen such small successes treated like home run moments every time.  The team was so proud to gather around to receive medals and pose as a team.  Avery yelled, “Mom!  Take a picture of us!”  At the end of her season last spring she was the one in tears the whole way home from what was supposed to be a team celebration because she was so fed up with the negative bench talk.  

            The whole thing left me questioning the notion of success.  More specifically, it left me questioning society’s recent total disdain for participation trophies.  The stance has always annoyed me as a mediocre athlete who took home many a soccer and softball trophy just for playing… I still somehow turned out okay.  Tonight it especially bothered me because it made me realize what a dichotomous opinionated society we live in.  Our beliefs make us hypocrites.  We say we embrace growth mindset which preaches acceptance of failure - What better embracing of failure than a child getting up to pitch game after game and batter after batter only to be defeated each and every time?  Why isn’t that worthy of celebration?  We say we want children to be more active and claim technology will be the downfall of society (while also lamenting the lack of STEM interest in kids) yet we get angry when kids are rewarded just for showing up for a physical activity night after night.  We want kids to be good sports and remember the love of the game often admonishing parents who take little league too seriously while only wanting trophies for winners. 

            It’s a wonder anyone can grow up in this world not full of self-loathing, confusion and doubt.   For every belief system there is an equally strong opposing belief system tearing down all our actions.   I guess the only way we can live with ourselves despite being told our traditions suck is because somewhere in each of us lives the spirit of the little kid who crawls into bed still wearing the medal that says, “You showed up, you stuck it out, and I am proud of you for that.”  Isn’t showing up half of life anyway? 

On that decision to have one more child... A post over three years in the making

Meeting Strangers on the Dolphin Boat

Over three years ago a friend of mine with two children asked me what life was like with three kids, and I told her that I had actually been contemplating that question as a blog topic.  She then asked me to get on writing that because she needed to read it.  I think most people always think one more child than they have is crazy.  Many couples know exactly how many they want, and the decision to stop is an easy one for them.  Others, like us, find (or found) themselves on the fence.  I was never sure if this friend sought affirmation that her decision to have two was the right one, or if she was on that fence like we were before finding out we were pregnant with number three.  

            It has taken me over three years to write that promised blog, and it is largely because of the brutal honesty I knew the post would entail.  Having three kids is really hard (or for others reading this maybe I mean having one more than when you were satisfied  - life was good but you were on the fence about that one last baby – that bonus baby…).  You never feel like you have your life together once you have your bonus child.  As a result, there will be moments when you look at the family before bonus baby and worry that you messed that family up.  You look at bonus baby (mine is currently eating cereal straight from the box while she watches Netflix so I can write this) and worry that you totally messed her up by basically surrendering in the last parenting round.  At this point you proved you could raise decent children, but it’s hard work.  If you throw in the towel with the bonus child no one will really judge you, right? 

            On top of bonus children being inherently hard, ours was uniquely challenging.  After two pretty uneventful pregnancies my third caused my blood pressure to temporarily spike, ignited a bout of carpal tunnel that has been intermittently plaguing me for over three years and pushed me over the edge knee pain wise.  After two who more or less slept when and where they were supposed to, Maggie was a TERRIBLE sleeper.  I constantly tell people our inability to sleep train her reminded me to stop judging other parents who were just not trying hard enough at any random parenting skill.  Maggie was born with a hemangioma that instantly meant working in frequent dermatology appointments and had tubes in twice by the time she was two years old.  In her three years she has gone to three different daycares and is currently in one that cuts our workday short and costs a fortune. I could go on about juggling schedules, and workload, and exhaustion and laundry, and clutter, but if you have seen the bags under my eyes or stepped into my house since 2011 you get it.  If you have a bonus child, you really get it… 

            Luckily, for us, our bonus child is also about the cutest, funniest, most energetic, strong-willed and (at risk of bragging) intelligent toddler on the planet.  (Actually all of those things are general causes of some of the struggle but that’s another post…).  She also has the biggest blue eyes and white blonde hair.  She literally turns heads wherever we go.  I have never had so many strangers stop me to comment on a child as I have with Maggie.  Just last week she was chatting it up with some strangers on a dolphin boat in Alabama.  I apologized for her incessant talking and they said, “Oh no!  She’s beautiful.  Those eyes – and her excitement about life!  She’s truly beautiful.”  I found myself reflecting on how often she makes people smile on a regular basis.  I thought about her genuine joy as she does big things like crashing in waves for the first time, but also in everyday things like marshmallows in cereal.  I reflected on the laughter she causes and the way she warms my heart.  I thought of the moments I have watched her sisters’ hearts grow because of her.  In that exact moment, I realized she makes our life enriched and interesting and snuggle-filled and hilarious, but as I have for the past three years, as if my mission in life was finding the answer for others on the bonus child fence, I found myself asking, “but is our life better?” 

            Fast forward to last night when we were having a large family dinner and people were stressed and snippy and she sensed it.  In the middle of the tension, she yelled, “I know this is a horrible meal, but I’d like to join it!”  (I should have mentioned earlier that she has the most adorable innocent yet emotional filled squeaky voice, and it is one of a million things that keep me enamored with her amidst the frustration.)  Everyone sat in silent surprise for about two seconds, and then we burst into laughter and the typical banter and noise of plates passing and utensils clicking began.  She was just what we needed just when we needed it.  It suddenly occurred to me what a stupid question it was that I had been pondering for almost three years.  Stupid because the answer is obvious and at the same time, stupid because I thought something as complicated as the decision to add another child to a family could be boiled down to a black or white question and answer. 

            Our family was perfect before Maggie, but it’s perfect now too.  The decision to have a bonus child (if it is even yours to make) is not an easy one.  But if you decide to go for it, I promise there will be moments, amidst the chaos, where you realize you’ve never been surer of any decision you have ever made. 

Meeting Strangers on the Dolphin Boat

On the Fear of Success

“You're off to Great Places!
Today is your day!
Your mountain is waiting,
So... get on your way!”

― Dr. Seuss, Oh, The Places You'll Go!

           

In school we talk about kids sabotaging their own success.  In the past I have always chalked that up to crazy psychobabble to excuse failure, but as I experienced it myself more deeply than I ever imagined possible last week I think I finally got it.  It happened after a meeting with my ever patient professor who has stood on the sidelines mostly gently prodding me (though sometimes looks of scorn have been just as helpful and even more needed!) towards this goal ten years in the making  - completing all the work necessary to earn the title, Danielle Johnson, PhD.  This title is pretty meaningless in some ways.  I get no raise or promotion at work.  My life will look basically the same on each side of the goal.  I have actually slowly lost courses at MU these past few semesters as the landscape of the department has shifted and changed over a decade.  In fact, I found out last week that I officially have no teaching assignments at MU in the foreseeable future.  So next year – though blissfully less busy will be one marked with a reduction in income and prestige right in conjunction with completion of the biggest academic and professional goal of my life.  As I drove home from the meeting where I learned this news I found my spirit crushed.  I almost burst into tears as I wondered if all this sacrifice – most importantly sacrifices costing my family my time and devotion - has been for nothing. 

            After more careful reflection I wondered if what I was experiencing was less disappointment over my teaching loss and more a true fear of success.  That meeting marked the closest I have ever felt to my goal of actually finishing this graduate program.  Most people quit their jobs while they pursue PhDs and put family plans on hold so they can wrap up the task in three to four years.  I never quit working – maintaining a teaching position at Oakland, giving birth to all three children during different stages of the program, and maintaining status as a graduate teaching and research assistant so I could still experience university life.  I was published multiple times and presented at more conferences than I can count.  I have written close to 1,000 pages all said – the last 250 to be defended and bound later this spring.  I should be proud and inspired, but I mostly feel sad….  I am not sure who I am outside of this goal. 

            What happens when you work TEN years towards one goal and actually reach it?  How often does this happen?  How much of my identity has been caught up in this pursuit?  To what extent will I lose this identity on the other side? Telling someone you are working on a PhD earns admiration (and some “better you than me” taunting).  Saying you are done just sounds like bragging.  Or nostalgic…  Oh yeah – I was a grad student once…  (I keep thinking of that line from Dirty Dancing about going slumming.) 

            As is often the case, I found some comfort talking to my dad this evening.  As he nears retirement he was able to immediately relate to what I am feeling and offered a fitting metaphor.  He said that I am about to stand on top of a mountain that I have been climbing for awhile – and after you get to the top and look around there is really nothing you can do but come back down.  The ascent has been quite a ride – painful and fraught with conflict – but also joyful beyond measure.  I have no idea what the descent will feel like.  I have been shamelessly advertising my celebration (have you marked your calendar for May 21^st yet) with the assumption that I needed people to toast me, but maybe what I really need is people to help me through the grieving process. 

            I guess it’s time to start seeking out new mountains.  That might be the only thing to tamper a genuine fear of success.  I also have to be comfortable with mountains that only can be climbed with intrinsic motivation as the only prize at the top is self-satisfaction of a job well done.  Maybe I have to be okay with small mountains like organizing the clothes drawers of three spoiled little girls born to a mom with a passion for discount kids clothing or swimming laps on a more regular basis. 

            Humans are complex beings able to live out oxymorons like fear of success.  I am blessed to have been able to spend the past ten years learning more about us.  I hope I can use the experiences and knowledge gained along the way – especially the gripping fear I felt last week  - to do what I set out to ten years ago; to be better and do better for all the children I come into contact with – especially the ones who fear the mountain.    

On Moms and the Magic of Christmas and an Apology 30 years in the making...

When I was about Avery’s age I wrote something terrible on a piece of paper and folded it up and shoved it in my bedroom junk drawer.  It said something to the effect of “mom ruins the holidays.”  I am not sure exactly why I wrote it.  I didn’t feel that way all of the time, but that day I must have felt it.  Perhaps she raised her voice as we were fighting in the background while she tried to finish up homemade teacher gift treats.  (I still remember the pride I felt carrying in chocolate covered Oreos for my second grade teacher.)  Maybe she forced me to clean my room as were getting ready to have friends over to exchange gifts and bake roughly 200 hundred dozen cookies.  (When I think of Christmas I think of red tins filled with angel cookies with white lace skirts trimmed with silver balls and secretly dream of my mom surprising me with a batch someday.)  It could have been because despite having bought and wrapped mountains of presents for me in the dead of night I still was complaining about not getting a Cabbage Patch Kid and she pointed out my greediness.  Maybe it was as simple as me not understanding why she wasn’t getting into the magic of the season as much as the rest of us.  I have these very distinct memories of sitting in the dark in the living room with my dad – the glow of turquoise lights from our Christmas tree and the hum of a musical clear glass Christmas tree music box in the background.  It was one of the safest and warmest moments of my childhood, but it didn’t involve my mom.  Where was she anyway?  Why was her joy and excitement for the season not quite as unbridled as ours… 

            Flash forward to my drive to the donut store at 6:30 this morning to buy treats for my advisory class where I found myself in tears as I remembered this cruel note.  I was tired and emotional after a week tackling this to do list:

            Wrap white elephant gifts for three different events

            Plan activities for Girl Scout Christmas Party

            Wrap presents for husband’s family Christmas on Saturday

            Buy food for husband’s family Christmas

            Address 100 Christmas cards

            Pick up stamps for said Christmas cards

Prep gifts for teachers at Ridgeway and EEE in time to deliver them when I go to read a holiday story to Unit A

Shop and cook for party for 50 at my house Friday

Secure sitters for holiday functions

Do laundry nightly so we are ready for our trip this weekend

Pack for trip this weekend
Pick up bananas for class Christmas party

Pick up present for Emma after remembering that even though she doesn’t teach at Ridgeway she should be on our teacher gift list because she teaches our most loveable (read challenging) child in the most dedicated of ways

Clean house for party

This is all in addition to the normal feed kids, bathe kids, go to work, etc, etc….  and the abnormal grade MU finals, shut down classroom for the semester tasks

I feel like most of the holiday to do list falls on me.  I know Sephus will help if I ask him too (he is a wonderfully loving and caring dad and husband), but the initial awareness that it needs doing tends to come from me and the busier I get the more I just do it because who has time to talk about doing it.  This seems to be a universal experience for wives and moms based on conversations with women my age.  Knowing that my friends too are overwhelmed by these activities and the constant burden of bearing the responsibility for all these tasks made me feel suddenly connected to my mother in a deeper way than I have ever felt since starting this adventure called parenting.  It suddenly occurred to me that the reason that my mom could not completely embrace the magic of Christmas with the rest of us was because she WAS the magic of Christmas.  Moms are like the house elves of the holidays toiling tirelessly so that these treats, packages and experiences arrive like a feast before us to make the happiest days of our childhood.  Though we don’t realize it at the time, our apprenticeship into being a mom comes as we watch them each December prepping to one day recreate this joy for our own families even if it means missing out on some of it ourselves. 

One of the most shameful moments of my life came when my mom found the note a few months after I wrote it when I no longer felt that way at all, but I did not know how to apologize or explain what I felt when I did write it.  To this day I have hoped that the memory was simply written off as one of 2 million horrible things your children say to you as you raise them.  I hope to make up for the way I surely made her feel that day with an apology thirty years in the making and a genuine Thank You…   Thank you mom.  I see you now in ways I couldn’t see you then.  Thank you for forgiveness.  Thanks for selfless acts of love.  Thanks for being our magic.