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Tennis Redux

Jul 1st, 2013 by

Back from a bit of a vacation which turned out to be off the grid. And yes, we’re back to the tennis theme. I’m beginning to think that my debacle at the Louisville Tennis Center was beshert (that’s Yiddish for “fate”). Because had the Most Control Freaky Guy in Louisville NOT have blown an O-ring, Simon would not have been in camp this week at the Louisville Tennis Club. Instead, he would have been playing outside and using up our remaining lessons.

Except he wouldn’t, because it’s raining and/or threatening to rain every day this week.

Meanwhile, things at the Louisville Tennis Club, which is indoors, have taken an amusing turn. Today was day one of their camp. On the way in the car, Simon began to complain of stomach pain. This happens a lot, and is or can be the result of nerves, fatigue, hunger, or any other number of causes. My stomach was always tricky as a kid, too, so I sympathize.

On the way in, we were greeted by a pretty and friendly college or high school student who had the same energetic, tom-boyish affect as Simon’s coach last summer. I told her what was up, and she was on it. “Hey little guy, you sit down any time you need to. No need to ask or tell. And if it gets really bad–and I’m hoping it won’t–you come to me and I’ll get you help. OK?”

He was already better. Feeling he was in very good hands, I went to drop off my information sheet at the front desk. The receptionist was on the phone, and there was one woman ahead of me in line. I was hoping to run home and get a run in, and the woman in front of me must have sensed my agitation.

“Do you just have a form to drop off?” she asked. “Why don’t you just give it to me. I have to pay and ask about schedules, so I’m going to be here for a while. There’s no sense in you waiting when I need lots of help and have nowhere to go this morning.”

That, my friends, was not the vibe I got the last time. But wait, there’s more. On my way out, I stopped by the glass viewing wall to see if Simon was up and playing. A middle-aged man in a red club shirt holding some sort of communication device caught my eye and came out to ask if I needed anything. He seemed to be one of those in charge. I told him what was up, he assured me he’d keep an eye on Simon, I assured him that wasn’t necessary, and we began to chit-chat.

After a while, I jokingly said, “Hey, don’t you have a bunch of kids to settle in?” To which he replied—and I promise I’m not making this up—“Not at all. I’ve got staff for that. I need to be available to check in on parents, answer questions, and make sure everyone leaves happy.” It took every ounce of self-restraint to not burst out laughing at this.

But wait, there’s still more! I made unusually good time on my way back to pick Simon up, and went inside the club store. Behind me, I thought I heard someone spelling out her last name on a phone call thusly. ” . . . l-d-s-t-e-i-n.” Had to be “Goldstein”, right? So I asked the shop clerk if there was a person named Goldstein she knew around here. “You mean A Goldstein, our shop owner?”  “Maybe,” I answered. “Did she just leave here?” “Oh no, that was C Goldstein, one of our regular Moms.” I told her why I was asking, and she smiled and insisted on introducing us.

Then I bought a great new running tank from their half-off rack.

So let’s sum this up: At the LTC I got publically humiliated and then privately excoriated. At the other LTC, I had one parent help me, a coach help my child, the program director be super friendly and charming, met another Goldstein, and shopped a clearance rack. And oh yeah, Simon was “player of the day” today for chasing down the longest forehand.

Louisville Tennis Club for the Win!

As for his stomach, he reassured me in the car that “the tennis helped make it feel better.” His stomach wasn’t the only one improved by the fabulous customer service today.

 

 

 

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Where Did All the Baseball Players Go?

Jun 21st, 2013 by

If a sucker is born every minute, then Matt and I lay claim to our respective minutes of birth.

About two months ago, as soccer at our recreational league was ending, we got recruited to sign up for and help out with baseball. Simon would be playing with R, a friend from school and old old soccer teammate, and we’d be reunited with Simon’s first soccer coach (R’s dad) and the head coach we worked with last fall.

Matt thought it was a great idea and got Simon on board. I came along reluctantly. I do not play, pay attention to, nor particularly like baseball. I explained that I would help out in terms of calling the roster, taking roll, making sure the kids have water and wear sunscreen, but that was it. I could not be a coach and didn’t want to be listed as such.

Somehow I failed to communicate this to Matt, so I ended up on the roster as a coach. Fine. I’d go and help manage the kids/herd the cats, but once things were settled, I planned to lay low for the 8-week season and watch like the other parents. Also, I was NOT wearing the ugly parchment colored coach’s shirt this time around, even when I was helping. I was not, under any circumstances, to be treated like a coach. Got it?

Well, best laid plans and all. First practice, our head coach delivered some surprising news. He needed to leave the first game early (no biggie) and would miss three games in a row in the second half of the season due to various family vacations and plans. Bigger Deal! This is in no way a one-person operation. Just  lining the kids up to bat and keeping them from killing each other while they wait is one job, to say nothing of catching, helping the kids at bat, and advising the players on bases. Also, one of those weeks we thought we were going to be out of town. So our head coach lined up the father of  sibling players R (different R than Simon’s friend) and B to stand in for us.

And this is where we turn to the second part of our story. If Matt and I ended up way more involved than we expected, the opposite seems to be true for many of our players. F missed at least two games in a row, but seems to be back now. A is about 50/50 for practice and games. B and R haven’t been around for three weeks now, making me think they quit. The other R, Simon’s friend, has missed three in a row alongside his dad. Tomorrow is the game B and R’s dad was going to coach, so it’s a good thing Matt and I will be around after all since (1) R Senior clearly won’t be; and (2) Our head coach is off the grid and would not be able to make back-up arrangements.

The hemorrhaging doesn’t’ end there:

  • K left with two weeks left; her family is heading out on vacation;
  • C is also out, a fact we learned at our second to last practice from his friend
  • T, who is also out effective immediately.
  • Simon’s friend R, the coach’s son, will be back for the last game of the season!
  • But by then F will be off on vacation.

By my count, this means that weeks 1-3 of our 8-week session we averaged about 10 players out of 12. Then we had a rain cancellation on game day followed by a practice cancellation due to extreme heat. Once we returned for weeks 5 and 6, our roster was down to 7 or 8. At this Wednesday’s practice, there were 5. For the last two games, the most kids we can have is 6. We might not even have that many.

I’m pretty miffed–where the heck did everyone go? And how did I get stuck doing so much?–but Matt is looking on the bright side. Our tiny practice was our best ever since it was easier to work with a small group. We’ll probably get through more innings these last two games since our roster is so depleted. Because I’ve been thrown into this mess more than I ever wanted or planned, I had Simon teach me how to bat. (Yes, you read that right. I never learned as a kid. Matt got me started, but then Simon took over as my primary coach and, even more hilariously, started pitching to me. He’s a good teacher.)

And the most glittering silver lining of all: In two weeks this mess is over. I just wonder if by then the celebration will be the sound of one hand clapping?

 

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12 Days

Jun 17th, 2013 by

That’s how long it took for Simon to be over summer, at least in some respects. I haven’t even had a chance to wrap up kindergarten (it’s coming, though), and he’s already missing it. How do I know? He’s told us, directly and indirectly.

Saturday morning, Simon told me that he had awoken from a great dream. “What was it?” I asked, curious to see if what would follow would be a real dream or an invented one that he wishes he’d had. “I dreamed we were out having lunch and Ms. Darlene was there.” That struck me as the real deal.

Then last night, after a full day of Father’s Day festivities, Matt reminded Simon that soccer camp began today. This should have been a source of unbridled joy. Soccer! Three hours of it! But no, his face grew long and he wistfully told Matt, “I wish I were going to school instead of soccer camp.”

Sometimes if Simon is tired, frustrated, or down, he’ll say negative things he doesn’t really mean. But I think this was the honest truth. As much as he loves soccer and will no doubt have a great time at soccer camp, he’d rather be in school.

When I was a kid–an older one than Simon–I can remember sometimes feeling the same way. But that was all about being lonely; there weren’t many kids my age in the neighborhood, my mom was at work at summer and couldn’t haul me around for many play-dates, and camp would only fill two weeks or so. So my days could get really long.

But Simon? Here’s what Simon has done since school let out on Wednesday the 5th:

  • Thursday-Friday: Sleepover at Grandma and Papaw’s house and play with friends Taylor and Jimmy;
  • Saturday-Sunday: Sleepover at our house with friend Griffen;
  • Monday: Hiking and lunch at Bernheim Nature Preserve; afternoon (soccer) ball control clinic;
  • Tuesday: Morning tennis clinic; lunch and afternoon with his Bubbie;
  • Wednesday: Morning visit with Zadie and Nana; afternoon at pool;
  • Thursday: Park play-date with kindergarten friends; afternoon trip to library
  • Friday: Return visit to Bernheim;
  • Saturday: Baseball game, drum lesson, trip to park to practice batting;
  • Sunday: Father’s Day at Grandma and Papaw’s house.

I think I’m leaving things out, too. We were non-stop, and other than a trip to the grocery, it was all fun. He’s had a blast. At the end of each day, he’s been a dirty, sweaty mess. But he misses school.

So I asked him today if he’d like to come home, do some math work-sheets, and then maybe work on a book report for one of the new books we’ve read. I was simultaneously sincere and calling his bluff. His smile was huge. “Oh Mom, I’d love to do that!”

What am I going to do with this kid? We’ve got nine weeks of summer left!

Posted in First Grader, Jessica | 1 Comment »

P.S.

Jun 12th, 2013 by

To yesterday’s post.

It’s Wednesday morning now, and the tennis situation just got a lot less funny. Apparently, my infractions were even worse than I knew, as today I received a blistering email from The Nicest Guy in Louisville detailing and calling me out for my multiple rule infractions. The best line, “I feel like I have to be rude to you to just to pay attention to my kids.”

Yeah, it was that bad. I feel utterly humiliated and about an inch tall.

I’m also a little shocked, as my approach to other teachers, counselors, and the like has never put me in this position. Quite the opposite in fact, unless you count my 6th grade Hebrew School Teacher and my 5th grade general teacher, both of whom loathed me.

Unfortunately, I’m still not that great at being loathed. Or humiliated. I’m not a bounce-back kind of person. So today’s note left me embarrassingly in tears and more than little rattled. I’m still shaky.

I wrote back what I hope was a dignified response and now have to decide what to do next. If it were just about me, I’d never go back. But the place is really good for Simon and he loves it. So do I suck it up for his sake and go the few times I can? Or should I write this one off as a miscommunication  and personality mismatch that has escalated to the point of no return?

 

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Fault!

Jun 11th, 2013 by

In case my humiliation as a student of tennis wasn’t enough, I’m now experiencing the humiliation of being a tennis mom. The wrong kind of tennis mom. How is that even possible?

So here’s the deal. Last year, Simon took tennis lessons at two different places. The first place, The Louisville Tennis Center, is run by Metro Parks and offers 1-hour clinics and was/is run by the Nicest Guy in Louisville. Who, for reasons that I cannot explain, I could never quite get along with. If I wasn’t standing in the wrong line for something, I was probably sitting in the wrong place.

Our relationship got off to a rocky start the second time Simon ever played there. I had a question about the coach Simon had worked with the day before, and I went to ask the pro about it on my way in. At KIP, this was the way things were done. The director was busy, and if you didn’t catch her at the door in the morning, you likely never would. I assumed deploying the same strategy here was the way to go.

Wrong! The pro has to watch the parking lot for kids and keep track of them and do countless other things that made any chit-chat on the way in a serious no-no. Which I get. But maybe I didn’t have to have it explained to me quite so thoroughly? The version I got was complete with lists and verbal bullet points and animated hand gestures meant to imitate me. I felt like I was 12 and was deeply embarrassed. The rest of the summer, I laid low and tried to avoid eye contact. I’m sure I still violated some rule or other. I never seemed to have gotten it right.

Then, at the end of the summer, we moved over the Louisville Tennis Club for a week of camp. Here I was fine with the establishment, it was the other moms I blew it with. Day one I sat in the viewing area and attempted small talk with another mom. Big mistake! No chit-chat at the Louisville Tennis Club unless that mom already knows you. Also, my hair was wrong, my clothes were wrong, my lack of make-up was wrong, my lack of honking diamonds was wrong, and my lack of an iPad was wrong.

Basically, I was a displaced person at this camp, a situation created by the difference in tax brackets, zip codes, and hair color between me and the other moms. I was 12 once more, only this time the put-down came from the mean girls instead of the teacher who hated me.

Today was the fourth day of summer vacation, and the first day the weather and our schedules cooperated enough to take a tennis class. So back to the Louisville Tennis Center I went, where I was greeted quite fondly by the Nicest Guy in Louisville yet again.

Score 15-0 Jessica.

Then I committed my first sin of asking about how many lessons Simon had left on his card from last summer. I was standing in the wrong line (again!) for that, and apparently they preferred it if I called and had them get back to me.

Score 15 all.

But wait! I tried that last week, and no one ever called me. Something I gently pointed out and that resulted in the information being looked up despite my being in the wrong line.

Score 30-15 Jessica

Then Simon goes to play, and I stand outside the fence to watch. The Nicest Guy in Louisville offers me a seat. I decline, explaining I’d honestly rather stand. He looks suspicious.

Score 30 All.

With mere seconds left in the lesson, I once again blow it. The kids had hit several balls that went over the fence and landed by me. As they played, I collected them. With about 2 minutes left before the hour was up, I heard Simon’s coach say, “All right boys. Help me clean up and then we’re finished for the day.” I took this as my cue to walk on to the court, thank the coach, and hand her the balls.

Game, set, match, Nicest Guy in Louisville.

You see, parents aren’t allowed on the courts. EVER. Even if the hour is up and you are just trying to help clean up. IT’S AN IMPORTANT ISSUE FOR THEM. Like, all caps important, and I once again was on the wrong end of a smiling but no-less humiliating correction.

Are there rules for this sh** somewhere? Something I can consult before once again violating the etiquette and being–nicely!–put in my place? Cause honestly, I now feel like someone’s embarrassing relative who’s had one too many at the family wedding or maybe even a rube given an audience with the Queen.

We’re going back tomorrow. I plan to keep my head down, find a park bench to read a book, and say as little as possible. Maybe nothing at all. I’m thinking a grunt and weak smile might be my safest option.

On the bright side, I’ve got over a month before I have to deal with the mean girls at the Louisville Tennis Club again, and at least there I think I’ve got a firm grasp of the rules. Anyone have a 5-carat diamond, Hermes bag, Land Rover, and iPad I can borrow?

 

 

 

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The Way Back Machine

Jun 7th, 2013 by

When people go looking to connect me to my family, I usually steer them to my mom’s side. The Kahn/Wolfson half of my family was prominent in my family’s synagogue, close with one another, and was anchored by a variety of extroverted store owners. Plus, I knew or know all of them and how we connect.

By contrast, the Goldsteins were less connected. Or, more accurately, my particular branch was less connected to the others. My paternal grandfather was one of seven, only one of which ever had much to do with him. And my Goldstein grandparents were much older—like 20 years older–than my Wolfson grandparents, so I simply don’t know and never knew where to look for any connections that might exist.

Throw in how common the name Goldstein is (more common than Whitworth by a wide margin), and that means that when someone asks me if I’m related to some other Goldstein, my usual answer is “no” or “I don’t know.”  I tell you this simply so you can understand the shock of what happened to me a few days ago. I stopped in a small clothing and uniform store to pick up pajamas for Simon and made chit-chat with the clerk.

“So,” I ask, thinking about all the family stores my grandparents and great aunts and uncles used to own, “does the Shaheen family still own this store?”

“Yes,” the rather handsome man who appeared to be in his sixties answered. “We still own it. I’m a Shaheen.” [I thought he might be when I first asked, as he looked Middle Eastern and the Shaheens are a Lebanese-American family.]

About this time I’m commenting about how nice it is that this particular family store has held on as I hand over my credit card to pay for the pajamas. And here is where my mind was blown.

“Goldstein!” he says looking down. “Are you one of the Goldsteins that used to own Goldstein Brothers around 3rd or 4th between Market and Jefferson?”

At first I had no answer. No one has ever asked me this, and I’m speechless. That store must have closed decades ago, possibly around the time I was born.

“Yes,” I finally manage. “Two of my great-uncles owned one store, and my grandfather and another uncle owned another. I’m not sure which was which, but I think they were pretty close to each other.”*

“I used to live around there,” the man explained. “And you really remind me of one of the younger brothers. It’s your eyes.”

“Aaron?” [that’s my grandfather’s name]

“No  . . . ”

“Wait, wait! Harry? [that’s what everyone called him]

“Yes, Harry! You must be one of his.”

I am. But as he died in 1981, when I was 11 and he was around 86-88 (we never knew for sure; it’s a long story), I don’t think anyone has ever made this connection. I was, and remain, very pleasantly stunned.

All of which makes me realize something about Louisville, a city I returned to eight years ago Memorial Day Weekend. Louisville can be unbearably clicky. Everyone here who’s from here looks for connections and usually goes hunting in your family tree or school history to find them. When I was younger, this was a source of misery. I wasn’t from an A-list family, and I didn’t go to the right schools. But now I don’t care about any of that, nor do most of the people asking.

I bumped into yet another cousin (on the Kahn side) yesterday while out, and she was telling me that her daughter will never, ever return to Louisville because everyone here knows you, knows people who know you, or is trying to find out who they know that knows you. “They’re all up your business; she says that’s why she’s never coming back.” I smiled and thought to myself, “But that’s half the fun of the place!” I had to leave for 18 years to understand that, but today I take great comfort in the ties that bind.

*So, a quick check with my Dad revealed that Max and Jacob Goldstein owned Goldstein Brothers, and Sidney and Harry owned Sid’s. The stores were a block apart. Amusingly, I was telling this story to my hair stylist yesterday, when his eyed widened in recognition. He remembers those stores. Darryl is around 50 and grew up in Shelby county, but his family would come to Louisville to shop and he remembers those stores. The other store he remembers? The Hub Department Store, where his family shopped all the time and where my Bubbie (the Wolfson side again) went to work after she and my Zadie sold their five-and-ten and “retired”.

 

 

 

 

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Hawk Watching

Jun 3rd, 2013 by

Twice in the past week, Simon has done something he shouldn’t. In both instances, I could have easily gotten angry and thrown a fit. In both instances, I chose not to because while the specific action was not OK, the motivation or thinking behind it was actually kind of awesome.

I’ll start with the little thing. One day last week, Simon was playing soccer in the living room when the ball hit a glass of orange juice (his) and knocked it over. So, about now you might be thinking, “Why is Simon playing soccer in the living room?”, to which the answer is, “because I decided to give up on what was looking increasingly like a losing battle.” Simon plays soccer all the time. If he’s not eating or sleeping, he’s playing soccer. This includes times when he is watching a show and playing soccer, playing basketball while playing soccer, and playing tennis while playing soccer. Did you know you can kick a ball into a basket and/or over the net?  You totally can! It’s a compulsion with him. I’m pretty sure sometimes he doesn’t even know he’s kicking a ball. Ergo, I’ve surrendered.

Anyway, pop goes the ball. Crash comes the ball on the way down. And over goes the orange juice. I’m in the kitchen at the time, unsure as to what the most recent soccer ball casualty might be. I only learned when I watched Simon run to the bathroom off the kitchen, grab a hand towel, and then come back a few minutes later to hang the orange-bedripping towel back up. Now, the towel obviously wasn’t the best tool of choice, putting it back is out of the question, and my floor is going to be ticky-tacky sticky. But I loved that he took the initiative to clean up on his own without asking for help. So instead of reprimanding him, I showed him where to put the wet towel and waited to do the real clean-up later when he wasn’t around.

Now here comes the biggie. Saturday night we headed over to Caroline’s house for dinner. While the guys went to pick up our meal at Cafe Lou Lou, the kids played outside and Carrie and I chatted and enjoyed some wine indoors. At one point, Carrie and I realized that we hadn’t heard the usual squealing and laughing for a few minutes. So we went outside to investigate, whereupon we found . . . nothing.

“Simon?” I called out, confused. “Simon and Caroline, where are you two playing?” I yelled a bit louder, this time with a voice tinged with fear. And then I saw it. Or Carrie did–I’m not sure which: Simon and Caroline heading up the street towards the house, with Caroline’s Dad immediately behind them and Matt following closely in the car. The two of them had decided to walk to Cafe Lou Lou to meet the dads. Matt and Barry saw them as they drove back from the restaurant, roughly half a block from the house, heading towards Bardstown Rd. (a busy street) Now might be a good time to note that their street, like ours, has lots of parked cars on it and no sidewalks.

So, yikes! We all know the myriad ways their grand adventure could have ended in tragedy. We asked Caroline if she knew where she was going, to which she replied, “I had a map in my head.” Carrie nodded and said she probably did. We also both agreed that neither child would do this on his or her own; partnership emboldened them.

At another time and possibly with another child, I would have blown a gasket. But honestly, I just couldn’t. In the first place, losing my temper would have gotten Simon so riled up that I’m not sure he would have heard what I had to say about safety. And in the second place, even though he went about it all wrong, I had to be pleased to see my once timid child try to do something so independent. And thirdly, I’m pretty sure I decided at a similar age to leave my house, walk up to Breckenridge Lane (a busy street), and sit in the ditch that doubled as the shoulder to watch the cars go buy. Smart kids can still pull some awfully stupid stunts.

Instead of yelling, I sat him down and calmly and succinctly explained that while I love to see him want to do things on his  own, this is something he must never, ever do again. He could have gotten lost, gotten grabbed, or gotten flattened. Anytime he wants to leave a yard for any reason, he must go talk to a grown-up first.

He got the message, as did I. For the first three to four years of his life, I had to watch Simon like a hawk because he couldn’t do much for himself and didn’t understand danger. Now the hawk-watching era has returned, with the twist that it’s precisely because Simon can do a lot on his own, even as he still doesn’t fully understand the danger.

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Simon’s Greatest Goal

May 29th, 2013 by

If there’s one thing Americans know about Soccer, it’s that it’s a low-scoring game.  It is not uncommon for a ninety-minute game to produce a single goal.  Think that’s bad?  Plenty of games end with no goals at all (or nil-nil, as we like to say), draws being perfectly acceptable in most matches.  Consequently goals are the epitome of soccer.  And given that, we can deduce: if Simon likes soccer, Simon loves goals.

It’s been mentioned before that Simon’s favorite TV show is 500 Greatest Goals (or “500 Gratist Goles” according to his All About Me worksheet).  This week we have already watched Greatest Goals of the 2012-13 Champions League, and Greatest Goals of the 2012-13 Premier League Season is scheduled to record this afternoon.  Simon doesn’t just love goals, he has developed criteria for ranking them:

  1. The goal is struck from distance.  Outside the penalty area is almost a must, near the half-way line is sublime.
  2. The goal humiliates the goalkeeper.  Chipping over a keeper who’s come off his line or leaving him flat-footed while the ball goes in the opposite corner is acceptable.  Nutmegging the keeper or forcing an accidental own-goal is getting somewhere.  Causing the keeper to injure himself, while regrettable, is comedy gold.
  3. The goal is the result of a feat of acrobatics.  These are the best, really.  Diving headers, sideways volleys, and, the crème de la crème, bicycle kicks.

Here is a goal from last Summer that checks all three boxes:

Bicycle kicks…part of a whole series of  ridiculous soccer moves that I see kids (including Simon’s cousin Ben) endlessly practicing, but never quite pulling off — kind of like skateboarders on Bardstown Road.  Simon has been practicing the bicycle kick for the last couple of months, and I always want to tell him to stop wasting his time and work on his fundamentals.  I don’t, mind you.  I let him have his fun.  And I have to admit that, for a fairly timid child, he can fling his body over backwards with a fearlessness I could never muster.  The first time I saw his overhead foot actually connect with a ball I just about plotzed.

Well, Simon made his first honest-to-God bicycle kick goal this past Monday. It wasn’t a real game — just a bunch of us horsing around at the field hockey goals in Seneca Park — but it was incredible! Simon and I were practicing crosses while his friend Menelik, tired from running around in the heat, was taking a turn in the goal.  I lobbed a high ball into the box, assuming Simon would head it, but instead Simon ran to position himself facing outward between the goal and the ball.  I could see the light go on in his eyes and I knew he was going to go for it!  The ball took a single high bounce, Simon went over backwards with his right foot extended, and WHAM! The ball went straight over Menelik’s shoulder and into the back of the net. I was stunned.

The only unfortunate thing about this? Simon didn’t really get to see the goal itself since he was in the process of landing on his back (and, I assume, trying not to break his neck). I suppose he’ll have to wait a bit until he has 10 slow motion cameras following his moves from every angle.  And while Simon loves to see the abstract goalies of TV land humiliated by a stunner, his sweeter nature takes over when the action is closer to home.  “I didn’t tell about my bicycle kick in Sharing Time today”, he told me when he got home from school on Tuesday.  “I was afraid Menelik would be embarrassed.”  Menelik doesn’t have anything to be embarrassed about, I explained to him, but Simon certainly has something to be proud of.

 

 

Posted in Kindergartener, Matthew | 1 Comment »

Saved by the Ball

May 24th, 2013 by

Well of course that’s how everything would work out. I should have guessed as much.

Earlier in the year, Simon was stuck in a troubled triangle friendship. He and the one boy remained close friends and the other two boys remained close to each other, but Simon and the third boy were proving not to be very simpatico. I have my theories as to how or why this happened, but the only part that matters is that Simon was caught up in a bad dynamic, and on many days he had unhappy stories from the gym or playground.

Then things took a turn. Simon started wanting to play basketball in the gym, and he found a few other boys who were interested in joining him. Not either boy from the triangle, but a new crew: Ayokunie, Menelik, Adarius, and sometimes Idris.  When the weather warmed up, a few of these same boys took to the soccer field. On days they didn’t, Simon continued his solo efforts on the monkey bars.

For weeks after the basketball club was convened, I heard nothing about the third boy from the triangle. Truly not one mention. Simon finally brought him up again on one of our runs, and then again on a car ride home. This time the report was that they ran races together recently, and that the boy was nicer to him than he had been before.

Piecing the timeline together is hard, but from what I can tell, things happened this way:

  • Simon becomes friends with two boys.
  • One of the boys starts being mean to Simon; Simon doesn’t know what to do.
  • Simon begins to play basketball with a new group of boys.
  • The new group takes their game outside to the playground, too.
  • After a few months of self-deportation, the third boy gets nicer.

Now, I have no idea if the other boy changed his tune because he matured, because Simon’s absence robbed the boy of a target, or if Simon’s social stock rose when he began regularly playing a big boy game with some of the older kids in class. Frankly, I don’t care, either. All I know is that Simon’s love of ball gave him an escape route out of a difficult social situation and widened his social circle.

All hail the power of ball.

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My Son, My Friend

May 20th, 2013 by

Out on a run with his mom

There’s this parenting maxim that nearly everyone hears at some point. It goes like this:

“You’re not their friend. You’re their parent.”

Or, inversely,

“My job isn’t to be your friend. You have lots of those. I’m your parent.”

Parent or not, I’m sure you’ve heard it. You may have even said it. I’ve probably said it myself, more than likely in judgment against someone whose parenting I found lacking.

But I’ve been thinking for a week or so now that I don’t actually believe this anymore. And I’m not talking about being friends with my own mom once I became an adult and fully independent. No, I’m saying I don’t believe it now.

I am Simon’s mom; I am also his friend. Or, more accurately, he’s my son and my friend. He’s not the kind of friend with whom I share my problems (not that I have many of those, really), nor the kind of friend who can take a sarcastic tone with me, nor a friend with equal powers or influence in our relationship. But he’s my friend nonetheless.

It’s a realization that had been coming for a while and developed fully this week when, on the eve of our wedding anniversary, Matt got very sick. (Strep, probably the result of a weakened immune system from his hernia surgery last month. It’s been a long spring for Matt.)

The sickness hit on Thursday afternoon, so I was charged with keeping Simon occupied and far, far way from his father. Thursday after school I took Simon straight to the running store, where he could be fitted for his own running shoes. He begged to go out with me on Mother’s Day, turning my 5-mile slow run into a 2-mile even slower one. He wasn’t tired in the least, and I promised him hills and greater distance on our next outing. Thursday evening, kitted out in his gray and orange New Balance 890s, we did 2 miles on park hills. He still wasn’t tired at all. All that soccer has conditioned him even better than I realized, and it’s looking like I have a new twice-a-week running companion.

Friday after school, on our actual wedding anniversary, Matt never budged from bed. So Simon and I headed out to our neighborhood coffee shop. I had a latte and vegan macaroons; Simon had a chocolate chip cookie; and we lingered around our favorite table talking about our week and playing banana-grams. It was a nice night, just not the one I had expected to have.

And Saturday? Saturday was the busiest yet. First, we went to Simon’s baseball game. Then we came home, ate a quick lunch, and headed out to his drum lesson, where I got to meet his new teacher and get an better idea of what goes on in there. After that was pilates.

Matt was still too ill to watch Simon, and I didn’t want to cancel my private lesson. Solution? I brought him along. He was excited to meet Ms. Holly, my teacher, and see what this pilates business looked like. He played soccer for a while, ate a snack while I worked out, and then asked if he could try something, too. Holly was fabulous about the whole thing and taught Simon how to do leg presses and some ab work on the reformer. I about died from laughter when Holly guided Simon to work his legs while “powering from your core” and staying “long through the pelvis.” Honestly, the addition of Simon made my workout about 10 minutes shorter than usual, but he loved it and I’ll certainly do it again. He’s already asking when he can go back.

After this, it was shopping time. Simon needed some running tees if he’s going to keep joining me. It’s getting hot, and cotton won’t do. I popped into a shop to look at tops myself, about which Simon had opinions.

“That one’s just mediocre mom.” [It was.]

“Oooh, I like that one.” [So did I; I bought it.]

“Hey mom, look at this: It looks like an Africa dress! If it were Ms. Agok’s birthday, we’d get it for her.” [Ms. Agok’s birthday was Wednesday, but I didn’t tell Simon that!]

Then we finally had dinner and some quiet time at home. During all of this, I learned much about Simon’s interior life. For example, I learned that he resolved the problem of the friend who wasn’t nice to him by deciding he didn’t want to be friends himself. “He likes to make fun of people,” Simon explained to me. “I’m done with him.” How awesome is that? I also learned that he’s kept the identity of his best friend, Caroline, a secret. “One day I was playing with Shaina when ____ started to tease me. ‘Simon has a girlfriend. Simon has a girlfriend.’ If I told him about Caroline, I’d never hear the end of it. Why would I do that to myself?”

Why indeed? I have no idea what we’ll end up discussing today. It’s Sunday, a day I promised him that we’d go 2.5 miles on the same park hills. But back to the point at hand. Given how much time we spend together, how much we enjoy each other’s company, and how he’s getting me interested in his hobbies and I’m dragging him into mine, what else could I call him other than a friend? And why would I want to squelch those feelings?

 

Posted in Jessica, Kindergartener | 1 Comment »

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