08 July 2009
Bases and Fences
Sports is something that I rarely write about here, which is odd, since they taught me most of the lessons that I've learned throughout my life. They were also the tie to the first public introduction of me as an author.
We had been asked in a writing class in college to write a paper about the greatest betrayal that we'd encountered. Two weeks later, in front of a class of 300 of my peers, the professor said that many of the papers were very good, but that there was one paper in particular that in all his years teaching, stood out, because it didn't deal with human betrayal as one would assume.
It was at that moment that my face began burning and I murmured to myself, "please, no". He picked up my paper and began to read aloud the words that I had written.
I had recounted the last basketball game that I played on my home court as a senior. We needed a three pointer to go into overtime. Our coach called time-out and said to in-bounds the ball to me; I would make my shot and we'd go on.
It went according to plan, and as I launched to ball into the air, it felt right. I began stepping backwards, out of habit, to head back down the court, not inwards to rebound a shot that I knew that wasn't going in. I dropped to my knees as the ball spun around the rim and ultimately fell out while the buzzer rang.
Still, after all those years, I dream about that shot. Not that it would have catapulted us to greatness, not that it meant anything more than a different end to a game that mattered not at all. But that I was so certain it was going in.
I had made that shot so many times throughout my life: in the gym and in our backyard, the beam of the large yard light stretching across our cement court, in my grandparents barn. The one time that more than ever I wanted it to dance through the net with a quiet swish, it landed differently, and I had to get up of my knees and start something new after that. There were no time-outs or practices left. I had practiced for that moment, and I had failed. Life went on, and I needed to go shake the hand of my opponents and move on.
Last month, Big A had a ball tournament. It was hot that day, and I was sitting in the shade with some other moms there. Big A got up to bat and connected, hard, with the ball. I clapped as it landed in the outfield across from where I was sitting by third base.
She began running around the bases, and as I saw her looking at her coach on her way to third base, I expected her to slow down and hold up; I expected her coach to tell her to stop, to do the safe thing.
He didn't. "Go for it, kid!" he exclaimed, and Big A, her eyes wide, began to round third base.
I jumped up from my chair and ran to the fence so that I could run alongside her. I forgot about my arm and that I wasn't supposed to move quickly, and about the people watching, but I didn't forget about the fence between us--it was at that point in time merely a physical reminder of my limits.
I saw the throw coming in from the second baseman and thought, "She won't make it." And there was nothing that I could do, but watch her inevitable fall. She fell with gusto. She slid and banged herself up and was tossed out at the plate. And she arose with tears in her eyes and clutching her elbow and when she got back to the dugout I told her, "There's no crying in baseball. You were awesome." It was her pride injured, mostly, I think, not her arm.
Later on that night, I thought about that fence; about that moment. About what it meant to be a mother and the other fences that I will surely encounter along the way. I thought about what kind of mother I ultimately wanted to be.
Did I want to be the mother that stopped her child, congratulated her on a triple and tapped her on the helmet as she shook off her ball pants, or would I be the mother that, arms waving, shouted, "Go for it kid!" and turned to watch either a moment of greatness or a moment of temporary great defeat?
And in my heart, I knew the answer. And for the first time, I was grateful for fences.
And I reminded myself that I must heal my arm.
You cannot properly wave your child home if both of them aren't working.
Run, Big A, Run.
We had been asked in a writing class in college to write a paper about the greatest betrayal that we'd encountered. Two weeks later, in front of a class of 300 of my peers, the professor said that many of the papers were very good, but that there was one paper in particular that in all his years teaching, stood out, because it didn't deal with human betrayal as one would assume.
It was at that moment that my face began burning and I murmured to myself, "please, no". He picked up my paper and began to read aloud the words that I had written.
I had recounted the last basketball game that I played on my home court as a senior. We needed a three pointer to go into overtime. Our coach called time-out and said to in-bounds the ball to me; I would make my shot and we'd go on.
It went according to plan, and as I launched to ball into the air, it felt right. I began stepping backwards, out of habit, to head back down the court, not inwards to rebound a shot that I knew that wasn't going in. I dropped to my knees as the ball spun around the rim and ultimately fell out while the buzzer rang.
Still, after all those years, I dream about that shot. Not that it would have catapulted us to greatness, not that it meant anything more than a different end to a game that mattered not at all. But that I was so certain it was going in.
I had made that shot so many times throughout my life: in the gym and in our backyard, the beam of the large yard light stretching across our cement court, in my grandparents barn. The one time that more than ever I wanted it to dance through the net with a quiet swish, it landed differently, and I had to get up of my knees and start something new after that. There were no time-outs or practices left. I had practiced for that moment, and I had failed. Life went on, and I needed to go shake the hand of my opponents and move on.
Last month, Big A had a ball tournament. It was hot that day, and I was sitting in the shade with some other moms there. Big A got up to bat and connected, hard, with the ball. I clapped as it landed in the outfield across from where I was sitting by third base.
She began running around the bases, and as I saw her looking at her coach on her way to third base, I expected her to slow down and hold up; I expected her coach to tell her to stop, to do the safe thing.
He didn't. "Go for it, kid!" he exclaimed, and Big A, her eyes wide, began to round third base.
I jumped up from my chair and ran to the fence so that I could run alongside her. I forgot about my arm and that I wasn't supposed to move quickly, and about the people watching, but I didn't forget about the fence between us--it was at that point in time merely a physical reminder of my limits.
I saw the throw coming in from the second baseman and thought, "She won't make it." And there was nothing that I could do, but watch her inevitable fall. She fell with gusto. She slid and banged herself up and was tossed out at the plate. And she arose with tears in her eyes and clutching her elbow and when she got back to the dugout I told her, "There's no crying in baseball. You were awesome." It was her pride injured, mostly, I think, not her arm.
Later on that night, I thought about that fence; about that moment. About what it meant to be a mother and the other fences that I will surely encounter along the way. I thought about what kind of mother I ultimately wanted to be.
Did I want to be the mother that stopped her child, congratulated her on a triple and tapped her on the helmet as she shook off her ball pants, or would I be the mother that, arms waving, shouted, "Go for it kid!" and turned to watch either a moment of greatness or a moment of temporary great defeat?
And in my heart, I knew the answer. And for the first time, I was grateful for fences.
And I reminded myself that I must heal my arm.
You cannot properly wave your child home if both of them aren't working.
Run, Big A, Run.
07 July 2009
And The Band Played On
Sometimes, it seems to me that the smallest things; those that would appear insignificant; those that would give most people not even the slightest pause; those are the things that bring tears to my eyes and an ache to my heart.
I was heading into town tonight after work to go to the pharmacy; I'd been up since 2:00 this morning--awake all night while I replayed scenarios through my head; meaningless, of course, because the path has already been taken and I'm starting to realize that at some point, you just cannot turn back.
I pulled out of our driveway and started down our road when I saw a group of teens walking down the opposing lane, spreading fully across it. I slowed down as I neared them, I was so curious about what they were doing--there were six of them in total, three boys and three girls, I'm guessing between the ages of 15 and 16.
One of the boys carried a guitar, a girl carried a saxophone, another boy carried a pink helium balloon that read, "Get Well Soon". Since I was alone in the car, I didn't even need to try to mask my sobs.
My hope is that no matter what and no matter where, the recipient of those gifts will always, always carry with her the memory of opening her door and finding them there. My hope is that she will always have in her heart the music that they played. My hope is that no matter the roads that she wanders, she will know that she is never alone and that she was loved, greatly, and that this knowledge will carry her through even the darkest days.
And if I were going to write of things that I can't at this moment, I would say that after I passed them on my way back home and they waved to me, and my eyes connected with one of the girls that was walking, I would tell you that I walked in the door, checked my caller I.D. and email, pulled out my planner, took out an email that is ragged and has been softened from it's repeated removal and replacement in the place where I stored it, read it one last time with uncontrolled tears streaming from my eyes, folded it back in half and put it through my shredder.
And the band played on.
I was heading into town tonight after work to go to the pharmacy; I'd been up since 2:00 this morning--awake all night while I replayed scenarios through my head; meaningless, of course, because the path has already been taken and I'm starting to realize that at some point, you just cannot turn back.
I pulled out of our driveway and started down our road when I saw a group of teens walking down the opposing lane, spreading fully across it. I slowed down as I neared them, I was so curious about what they were doing--there were six of them in total, three boys and three girls, I'm guessing between the ages of 15 and 16.
One of the boys carried a guitar, a girl carried a saxophone, another boy carried a pink helium balloon that read, "Get Well Soon". Since I was alone in the car, I didn't even need to try to mask my sobs.
My hope is that no matter what and no matter where, the recipient of those gifts will always, always carry with her the memory of opening her door and finding them there. My hope is that she will always have in her heart the music that they played. My hope is that no matter the roads that she wanders, she will know that she is never alone and that she was loved, greatly, and that this knowledge will carry her through even the darkest days.
And if I were going to write of things that I can't at this moment, I would say that after I passed them on my way back home and they waved to me, and my eyes connected with one of the girls that was walking, I would tell you that I walked in the door, checked my caller I.D. and email, pulled out my planner, took out an email that is ragged and has been softened from it's repeated removal and replacement in the place where I stored it, read it one last time with uncontrolled tears streaming from my eyes, folded it back in half and put it through my shredder.
And the band played on.
05 July 2009
Four
Four.
Tonight you'll fall asleep a three-year old, and awaken to the morning sun a four-year old. Still my baby, you know. Always you will be.
Looking back, Little A, I cannot believe the road that we've come. That you've come; from a complete surprise to the complete world of so many. To think that once, I held your tiny little life in my hands, and now you hold mine within yours. Funny how the world works, isn't it?
You are the sun in so many skies, the smile on so many faces, the laughter in so many hearts. To know you, truly, is to love you.
Once upon a time, Little A, I was terrified at the thought of you; having not a clue how I'd manage you, take care of you, be a good mother to you. Once upon a time, I couldn't understand why.
Today, Little A, the "why" that I do not understand is how I have been so blessed. How God chose me to have you; how he gave me such an amazing gift. I thank Him for you so many times a day, little one. So many times.
And now here I am, on the eve of four, wondering how it is that just yesterday I found that I carried you within me.
I will always carry you within me, Little A.
Four. And four hundred times over.
Happy Birthday, Love.
12 June 2009
Crushed
Today was Big A's last day of elementary school.
She got up and got dressed, chattering the entire time; excited about the day, excited for it to begin, excited for it to end, as I quietly watched the being before me.
She slipped into a pair of my shoes that fit her perfectly and twirled to the mirror before us, leaving in the wake of her joyful spin a mother only able to place a hand over her mouth to stop the sob she felt rising within.
It was yesterday, I swear, that she started kindergarten. Just moments ago that she slipped into my shoes and tugged at the hems of my skirts and looked up at me, eliciting laughter at the sight of her trying to walk in heels far too big for her.
It seems like just a month ago that I prepared her first lunch for her. Today she made it nearly on her own, truth be told, she would have been fine without my interference, had I not insisted on fumbling around in the kitchen with her, pretending to add things to her lunch, to make things better, to show her that there is usefulness in me yet, "You still need me, Big A, please, still do, because the day you don't need me, who will I be then?"
We drove into school together, a family. I thought of the day that I drove her into elementary school, just she and I, a long winding road ahead of us, having no idea what was in store for us. Today HRH drove as we listened to Little A's music and looked for the deer that are out each morning.
I wish I could ride there, in that car, in that moment, every day for the rest of my life.
We pulled up and Big A hopped out; all smiles and tallness and looking so grown, kissed Little A and was off--just as she had been that first day of kindergarten.
I recall watching her outside the door after she kissed me goodbye that morning; I remember that she never turned to look back; that she just ran forward. I remember hoping for her that she would always be as such--face forward, running to what lies ahead...that she would always have that confidence and security within her.
Today I watched her tall shape walk up the sidewalk and her friends smile and laugh and run up to her, and I waited, truth be told, for just one look back.
She didn't turn around.
It made me so happy that she never hesitated or paused, I could barely feel the pain of my heart being crushed inside my chest, until the tears streaming down my cheeks belied it.
She got up and got dressed, chattering the entire time; excited about the day, excited for it to begin, excited for it to end, as I quietly watched the being before me.
She slipped into a pair of my shoes that fit her perfectly and twirled to the mirror before us, leaving in the wake of her joyful spin a mother only able to place a hand over her mouth to stop the sob she felt rising within.
It was yesterday, I swear, that she started kindergarten. Just moments ago that she slipped into my shoes and tugged at the hems of my skirts and looked up at me, eliciting laughter at the sight of her trying to walk in heels far too big for her.
It seems like just a month ago that I prepared her first lunch for her. Today she made it nearly on her own, truth be told, she would have been fine without my interference, had I not insisted on fumbling around in the kitchen with her, pretending to add things to her lunch, to make things better, to show her that there is usefulness in me yet, "You still need me, Big A, please, still do, because the day you don't need me, who will I be then?"
We drove into school together, a family. I thought of the day that I drove her into elementary school, just she and I, a long winding road ahead of us, having no idea what was in store for us. Today HRH drove as we listened to Little A's music and looked for the deer that are out each morning.
I wish I could ride there, in that car, in that moment, every day for the rest of my life.
We pulled up and Big A hopped out; all smiles and tallness and looking so grown, kissed Little A and was off--just as she had been that first day of kindergarten.
I recall watching her outside the door after she kissed me goodbye that morning; I remember that she never turned to look back; that she just ran forward. I remember hoping for her that she would always be as such--face forward, running to what lies ahead...that she would always have that confidence and security within her.
Today I watched her tall shape walk up the sidewalk and her friends smile and laugh and run up to her, and I waited, truth be told, for just one look back.
She didn't turn around.
It made me so happy that she never hesitated or paused, I could barely feel the pain of my heart being crushed inside my chest, until the tears streaming down my cheeks belied it.
08 June 2009
The Small Things
There we were, eagerly unwrapping our ice-cream requests from HRH. Big A and Little A were sharing one red Adirondack chair and I was sitting next to them.
Little A held up her treat, blue eyes wide open, smiling from ear to ear, "See what Daddy Bear gotted me? Do ya? It's so awesome! I so excited!" And then she placed into my hands an orange push-up that she needed help opening.
It happened that fast; within one moment--years were erased and existed no more. I was eight years old, climbing into a wood truck, eagerly anticipating stopping into the local store after a delivery of lumber to get my orange push-up, my smiling grandfather placing two quarters on the counter to pay for it.
And just as quickly, I was back. To that moment in those red chairs. To her blue eyes. To the knowledge that he is gone; the racing of my heart when I remember again that I've spoken to him and seen him for the last time.
It's still not real, you know. Oh, it's real enough when I choke back tears and clear my throat and walk into a different room to gather myself. It's real enough when I hear my grandmothers changed voice and read her letters speaking of emptiness that I don't want to know. It's real enough watching the Tigers and trying not to remember how many days of my youth were spent lying on my stomach, viewing the Tigers with my grandparents.
It is real enough.
And yet, I must remind myself of this frequently and I worry of what is to come. If something so large, something so true, is something that I must consistently tell myself of--what will life make of me later?
It's the small things, the little moments, that quietly sneak up and startle me. The blue of the sky, hearing a laugh that sounds like his, a blown save by a Tiger's relief pitcher, an orange push-up.
I've never lost someone that I loved so much, and yet I know that there will be greater losses. And the calendar days passing and my daughters so quickly growing do nothing to ease the fear that arises in me when I think of these things.
I try to capture time; to remember so much that it all becomes muddled and hazy--the things that I do remember are the small ones:
Big A's snarky comments, years beyond her age.
Little A's uncontrolled laughter anytime I squeeze her chunkins.
HRH laying side by side with me in bed, holding my hand all night.
A red wood-truck picking up a tow-haired girl at the end of her driveway.
I miss him so much. Still. In uncontrolled ways when I am honest with myself, sobbing in the shower.
And then I walk out of the bathroom, smile at the Queens and slide orange push-ups to the top of their container, all the while pushing down the small things that keep rising to the surface.
Little A held up her treat, blue eyes wide open, smiling from ear to ear, "See what Daddy Bear gotted me? Do ya? It's so awesome! I so excited!" And then she placed into my hands an orange push-up that she needed help opening.
It happened that fast; within one moment--years were erased and existed no more. I was eight years old, climbing into a wood truck, eagerly anticipating stopping into the local store after a delivery of lumber to get my orange push-up, my smiling grandfather placing two quarters on the counter to pay for it.
And just as quickly, I was back. To that moment in those red chairs. To her blue eyes. To the knowledge that he is gone; the racing of my heart when I remember again that I've spoken to him and seen him for the last time.
It's still not real, you know. Oh, it's real enough when I choke back tears and clear my throat and walk into a different room to gather myself. It's real enough when I hear my grandmothers changed voice and read her letters speaking of emptiness that I don't want to know. It's real enough watching the Tigers and trying not to remember how many days of my youth were spent lying on my stomach, viewing the Tigers with my grandparents.
It is real enough.
And yet, I must remind myself of this frequently and I worry of what is to come. If something so large, something so true, is something that I must consistently tell myself of--what will life make of me later?
It's the small things, the little moments, that quietly sneak up and startle me. The blue of the sky, hearing a laugh that sounds like his, a blown save by a Tiger's relief pitcher, an orange push-up.
I've never lost someone that I loved so much, and yet I know that there will be greater losses. And the calendar days passing and my daughters so quickly growing do nothing to ease the fear that arises in me when I think of these things.
I try to capture time; to remember so much that it all becomes muddled and hazy--the things that I do remember are the small ones:
Big A's snarky comments, years beyond her age.
Little A's uncontrolled laughter anytime I squeeze her chunkins.
HRH laying side by side with me in bed, holding my hand all night.
A red wood-truck picking up a tow-haired girl at the end of her driveway.
I miss him so much. Still. In uncontrolled ways when I am honest with myself, sobbing in the shower.
And then I walk out of the bathroom, smile at the Queens and slide orange push-ups to the top of their container, all the while pushing down the small things that keep rising to the surface.
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Although these writings are created by a lowly servant, they still belong to me.
Please, don't take them,
or it's off with your head.
Jenn's Profile
Although these writings are created by a lowly servant, they still belong to me.
Please, don't take them,
or it's off with your head.
Two Years: The Dime StoryThree
Four
Ten
Eleven
Impostor
Signs: Corner of Mt. Hope
HRH: The Lowdown
Fathers: The Truth
*And Then, The World Changed Me*
What I'd Give Her
Tribute: Of America & Heroes
R: The Final Post
Daddy
Dear Santa
Lines
Correspondence
In Memoriam
The God Factor
Super. Human.
Postcard From the Edge
Help Wanted
There's A Girl
Conversations With Girl
Goodbye Girl
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Ashley's Closet
Bgrateful
Breed 'Em And Weep
Crib Chronicles
Crow's Nest
Don't Take the Repeats
Fluttercrafts
In the Trenches
Loralee's
Lawyer Mama
Mama Mia No Sabia
Oh, the Joys
One Plus Two
Painted Maypole
PDX Mama
Petroville
Redsy
Single Mom Seeking
Slouching Mom
Spinning Yellow
Suburban Bliss
Suburban Turmoil
T With Honey
The Mother Load
The Redneck Mommy
The Wink
Watch Me
Where's My Cape
Zone Family
Cost of the War in Iraq
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