Author: workingmomzblog

This is my favorite place.  It’s not exotic, it’s just the barn and field adjacent to my parents’ house which I’m lucky enough to come home to since my parents still live in the house I grew up in.  My son and I like to walk through the field where I used to spend hours riding during long summer days.  Those were of course days that included no cell phones, no constant media input of disturbing news, no Find Friends for my mom to track my location.  I could be gone for hours, all day, riding and going between neighbors’ houses or hanging out at the barn.  Days passed slowly and even left me with a good degree of boredom, but it was a pleasant, lazy boredom that reflected having nowhere I had to be, a slowing down of time, being present in the moment of that time.  A day like that might have ended with a game of Kick the Can in the cul-de-sac with our neighbors or skateboarding in the driveway until it got dark. Much of my summer passed with those structure-less days.  I might have had a piano lesson, maybe a morning theater camp for a few days at most, one family road trip coming up or already taken, leaving the rest of the summer with few plans.  I remember it all as a slower, less hectic time.  Fourth grade, 5th, 6th grades were long, full years.  My childhood seemed long.  My kids’ childhoods are going quickly and even they will remark how fast a year is going by, how the school year’s already half over, how they’re already about to have another birthday.  But my kids wouldn’t tolerate slow, endless summer days.  For them that kind of quiet, unstructured day evokes restlessness and irritation, a different intolerable boredom than the one I knew.  They’ve been conditioned to be on the go, every hour scheduled, every day an outing, a camp, a practice or game to get to.

On free weekends we come home to the house I grew up in.   In the summer the grasses have dried and the scent of sage in the field is so strong!  It brings me back to my childhood every time I walk here.   Looking southwest there are layers of green hills and beyond those the ocean, which by the time I was 16 I was driving to, my friends piled in the car to spend the day at the beach for one of those long summer days.  When I walk through this field my heart is so full.  Those endless days stretch out in front of me – the field, barn and hills behind them virtually unchanged.  I’m fortunate to be able to come back with my kids and share tales of my simpler childhood.  On one hand my summers may sound uneventful, but I think they get that there was an ease and a freedom I was lucky to have.  Those were good summers.

Last night I was up until 11:00 picking full grown lice out of my son’s hair.  Those with experience know full grown is in fact relevant – it means they’ve been around for a while.  Further adding to good reason for a mom/dad collective groan (proudly don’t panic about this one anymore, just groan)  was the fact that husband just happened to read an article about a great evolutionary lice milestone – apparently they have become resistant to the usual treatments!  Luckily our lice must have missed that memo because they seemed to be dying quickly with the usual remedy.   I naively thought we were through this stage since both of our kids are older now and it’s been a couple years since last experiencing this lovely venture.  Thankfully I was wise enough to have kept a full bottle of lice shampoo under my sink.  I’m quite proud of this too – experienced parents also know there’s in fact no guarantee of being out of any particular stage.  This saved me either the late night trip to the pharmacy OR the all night restless sleep (the too-lazy-to-go-to-the-pharmacy-so-toss-and-turn-full-well -knowing-they’re-hatching-and-multiplying-through-the-night, restless sleep). The upshot?  My son thought it was all quite fascinating!  One interesting scientific phenomena.  He loved looking at the dead lice and each microscopic egg I delicately extracted, now lying safely adhered to a damp tissue. And he wasn’t even worried about me having to inform his closest friends’ parents or that (great timing) there happened to be a lice check at school coming up.  I prepped him what to say as there might be remnants for the lice checkers to identify and how to handle it if kids got wind of this, and he practically scolded me  – Why would I think he would care what anybody said?  (Evidence of high self esteem!  Yeah!)

I’ve always thought there was something wrong with me because while others post sentimental captions under their FB birthday photos of their kids, I’m more relieved with every birthday.  One year further from those late night fevers, logistics of school holidays (which one of us is using a day off for this one?) or worse yet the babysitter calling in sick (mom/dad collective shit!).  And what’s up with those who warned, “It doesn’t get easier, just different.”  What perfect toddlers did you have?  It absolutely does get easier!  As they mature –  no more running after them in stores, scrambling to get sitters and nannies, sitting at the park (how boring was that one?), dinners ready by 5:30, preparing dinners every night for that matter.   (When is it ok to eat ice cream out of the carton for dinner – oh yeah, that’s college).  This list of course could go on.

What I will miss?   Snuggles at bedtime.  Crawling into bed with us in the middle of the night. Belly laughs.  (When’s the last time you experienced a true belly laugh?) All the firsts (first standing up, first words, first talent emerging).  Daughter texting me wondering when I’ll be home when I’ve only been gone a couple hours (because she MISSES me!!).  Unselfconscious hugs and love-yous.  Absentmindedly playing with my hair. Three year old aphorisms: Hey, that’s a no no!  Mama, it’s a yes yes!  Hey, when did you last take a shower?  Mama, I did yesternight.  “Mama.”  I’ll never tire of being called mama.  But lice at 11:00 at night?  Won’t miss that.

Fall Ball season is underway!   Nerves are of course running high, girls are a little excited, a little nervous.   The thing is, it goes unspoken that despite what they say, it does matter because Fall Ball is a precursor to tryouts!  So here I am, volleyball mom, commiserating with other parents, reassuring, being reassured, trying not to interpret the significance of a court assignment (that translates to over interpreting the court assignments.)   And indeed, girls are beginning to drop down courts, drop down time slots  – trust me on that one, it’s not considered good  –  while some are moving up, taking another’s spot on a higher court.  Others are staying at the top, or not being moved at all. And it all reminds me of something.  I can’t shake the feeling that there’s something familiar about it, this tension, this competition,  though I can’t quite place it.  Or can I? Because I have this fantasy – sort of a hero fantasy, I suppose.  It’s Monday night, we’ve just arrived, and there stands one of our young girls (not necessarily my own, could be any one of them) checking the board for her court assignment when I see that inevitable flicker on her face, of a face about to drop.  She’s located her name – it’s listed for a lower court than she was on the night before and she’s not happy.  I have this sinking feeling, the feeling I assume she’s battling, and then I…, I… fling myself in front of her and yell, “I volunteer as tribute!!”

‘Cause I just wish I could spare these girls from disappointment, embarrassment (it can be tough when this transpires among one’s peers!), failure  (perceived of course, none of them are failing).   They are getting better at handling it all as they get older, at least mine is, but at times they still have their moments and it can be hard to witness. And catching the sight of a young face trying not to crumble elicits another familiar feeling, an even stronger one though – that ache l felt when I saw the look on my son’s face as a preschooler, when he tried to give a little friend a present and she looked at him oddly, turned around and ran away.   (He was so thrown by this that he then proceeded to run to me and give me a good kick in the shin, so on some level I guess I did take that hit.)  The time he came home from a birthday party to tell me how he’d been excluded, the time my daughter didn’t get a part she wanted (trust me to say she wasn’t happy), or the time she had something insensitive said to her at school (really wasn’t happy).  And here comes that fantasy – I’m lunging in front of them (in slow motion, of course),  I push them aside, Take me! 

But we survived it all, once upon a time, all these growing pains and disappointments, so they very well can, can’t they?  Of course I know they will. But wouldn’t it be nice if they didn’t have to navigate these wrenching battles of emotional survival quite yet?  Can’t they all just experience kindness and inclusion, joy and success?  The world’s got plenty of people behaving badly, they’re bound to encounter some meanness later. Their lives will bring them tough challenges, long shots, heart breaks. There will be some real failures. Wouldn’t it just be so nice if every experience possible right now could be an exception to all of that, since there’s enough we won’t be able to spare them from later?  I hear all the rebuttals coming – these experiences make them stronger, it’s part of life, it strengthens character, humility, confidence ultimately. I suppose there’s truth in all that. But this one time I’m going to spare her a little heartbreak. I’m going down and I’m playing on that lower court for her! I’m going back in time, to that party, that audition, that playground where my kids had to endure those heartaches and insensitivities and I’m taking their places!  (I’m not going back to that preschool –  my shin still stings from that one.)   She’s going back to resume her place on a top court, he’s going back to that party  where he’ll be equally in the mix, she’s going back and laughing with friends on the playground, getting that role, enjoying being part of the show like every young girl should – optimistic and happy, care free, having fun.

Does anyone else find worrying gets worse as you get older?  Here is a short list, in order they present themselves, of a few of the things that keep me up at night.  It goes something like this:

– How the hell am I going to get my daughter to practice on Monday?

Yes – this beats out all other worries as my number one worry.  Because, lets see… I don’t get home until —, and my husband doesn’t get home until —, and both children have adamantly spoken about not wanting a sitter any more despite my attempts to redefine said sitter as a “driver.”  It also doesn’t help that coaches announce the date and time of practice at most two weeks prior to the first practice. I have a vague recollection of an instance, when my daughter was really young, of receiving an e mail asking me to list my top three choices of dates/times for practice.  (This had to have been the obligatory soccer venture of every young parent.)  This courtesy seems so implausible, however, that I’m wondering if I dreamt it. Further annoying is that despite what I thought was a generation of two working parents, all others seem to be getting their kids to their respective extra-curriculars with no problem. Who are these families that have at least one parent with complete flexibility – that one parent who is “working from home.”

– Speaking of practice, what else am I remiss in doing in helping  my (5’1″) daughter achieve her club volleyball ambitions?

What brilliant person (uh – that’d be me) thought it would be a good idea to encourage my young daughter to take up this sport when I myself am only 5 feet tall, so via the natural law of genetics (on both sides actually, mother in law is shorter than I am), and according to the American Pediatric Association, she’s projected to be at most 5’4”, suggesting this is going to be a monumental (but doable, dammit!) task , or require an act of miracle growth.  For more of my worries about being a volleyball parent (I’ll spare you here, this list is a long one) refer to Blog #1, Confessions of a Bad Volleyball Mom. If you’re disinclined however, trust me to say that dear daughter’s volleyball career has been the culprit of many rough nights.

– Speaking of extra-curriculars…Shit!  I forgot to sign my son up for  – –  (insert whatever sport/club/activity he asked me about this month).  

Sigh.  He really should do something in addition to piano.  I really need to put more effort into his life.  But alas, unlike with his older sister,  I don’t know the parents in his class, didn’t get around to signing him up for the obligatory soccer until he nagged me into it (or maybe husband made that one happen?), don’t know the names of more than three of his classmates (’cause those are the ones he has over), and only once volunteered to be his room parent.  And I only have two.  I don’t have an excuse for this younger child fatigue considering only two, especially since I see my counterparts with four kids effortlessly juggling it all. Still, Second Child Fatigue  – and Guilt –  should be a recognized phenomena.

– Speaking of piano, why hasn’t my son’s piano teacher texted me to reschedule his lesson?

I wonder if it has anything to do with the fact that he practices a total of 10 minutes at a sitting, a couple times a week at best, and at every lesson I explain to his teacher again (like I’m saying it for the first time), “Oh, it’s been a busy one! This week he’ll have a lot of time!” I should call her… should I call her? I definitely want him to keep playing, but then again when the heck can I fit this in and how and when am I going to get him there? (See worry #1, and add  another dose of bad-parent guilt here too.)

The panic I experience trying to figure out how I’m going to get my kids where they need to go (let alone on time) is tantamount to the same panic one feels when waiting on the results of potentially dire blood work. I kid you not.  And what tomorrow’s schedule is, is the only topic of conversation I seem to be able to initiate with my husband. I otherwise seem to be at a loss for conversation.  Now, for those thinking this girl should be grateful if these are in fact her greatest worries, make no mistake. I have all the worries of the average middle class American too!  (Money, death, great harm to the kids, global warming, terrorism, disease, Trump…). In fact my psyche has developed an efficient system so that if the anxieties of the common every day have been alleviated (carpool now in place, kids are – thank god – back to school after most logistically challenging summer), then life’s greater concerns may surface, so that I can now toss and turn about them! Imagine if you will an ocean, with the top layer of water (the “Mixed Layer” – I just looked this up), representing the every day worries, parting so that the lower layer (the “Thermocline” – just looked this one up too), representing the more profound worries, may rise and spread out to replace it. It’s very efficient!  Actually, I learned there’s an even deeper layer of ocean water (appropriately called  “Deep Water”),  which may, say, represent the existential worries.  This is very convenient because I have them too!  So the Deep Water may rise if both the Mixed Layer and Thermocline have parted!!   Anyway, the bottom line is that I’m increasingly guaranteed sleepless nights, and I’m convinced it’s not age or caffeine or menopause that makes it harder to sleep as we get older, but the cumulative layers of worry we’ve acquired with life’s great parenting responsibilities.

OK, I admit, I’ve been a bit stressed about my daughter’s next volleyball tournament. The thing is, my daughter’s team is struggling. They’re in fact in good position to get a “bid” to Junior Nationals, what I like to call the Oz of club volleyball.  But in past weeks they’ve been in a slump and, I confess, it’s hard to watch, and even harder to imagine them pulling it off and winning that bid – the ultimate goal of a club volleyball season. And I’m the ultimate example of a bad volleyball parent for observing and worrying about this and wanting it to happen. (Uh oh, do I want it more than she does?). There are unspoken rules in club volleyball! We are not to get too involved, too worked up about it all. Actually, there are many rules which apply to us – more rules than in the actual game of volleyball.

For example, we shouldn’t, as parents, be nervous for club tryouts or ask our girls about how it went afterwards (anxious parent!), care whether or not our child makes a “1s” or “2s” team (anxious, overly involved parent!), or question whether or not our child is “starting” or getting enough play time (anxious, overly involved, demanding parent!). We are not to express our glee when they make a team (it’s not about us!) or feel or express disappointment when they get moved “down a court” in pre-season. (Yes, even in pre-season the evaluation process has begun!) We’re not to speak directly to a coach – players only should approach a coach! Or if we must, we are to wait the 24 hour grace period from when we first felt so compelled – a cooling off period, if you will – a necessary policy put in place to ward off us overly involved, anxious and demanding parents. And we are absolutely never to coach our own child. (Don’t get professional coaches started on this one!)

Wait, there’s more! Despite the natural adrenaline rush evoked while watching an athletic event (Ok, who of you hasn’t yelled during a Giants or Warriors Game? Now imagine it’s your child on that court!), we are not to get so caught up in it, to the point of vigorously clapping, cheering loudly, or yelling. One must practice restraint when the volleyball parent sitting beside you blurts out a critical remark about the player who just shanked a ball (eh hem.. who happens to have been your daughter). And one absolutely must not blurt out a critical remark about the player who just shanked a ball (whose parent – oops – is sitting beside you).

There is one thing we should do, one cardinal rule above all others: We must be POSITIVE! After a game or practice – What? You stay and watch practice? Overly involved parent! – we CAN comment with minimal inflection, “I enjoyed watching you play,” but not too enthusiastically, mind you. While criticism will devastate her (there’s pressure enough), too much praise will make her even more ego centric (life already revolves around her).

Added to these rules of club volleyball, is the hormonal chaos of pre-teen/teen girl to reckon with: irritable girl, sullen girl, manic girl, tearful girl, post-practice-adrenaline- pumped-suddenly-talkative ecstatic girl… And there are the contradictory comments to de-code regarding what’s needed from you… “Mom, did you see my great save!” “Mom, that was so embarrassing when you were cheering!” “Mom you weren’t even smiling.” The rebuffed attempts at conversation on the ride home…“I don’t know… I don’t know… I don’t know…” (Insert any benign non-volleyball related question before the mumbled “I don’t knows.”)

No one talks about how hard this is! We have spent thousands of dollars (yes, thousands!), driven hundreds of miles (yes, hundreds!), witnessed the first time they “dug a ball,” feeling the excitement of potential – like the time they took their first step. (Good grief, I’ve compared this to a major developmental milestone – evidence I’m an overly involved parent!)   Later witnessed them “let a ball drop” losing a critical point, acutely aware of their shame in that moment of perceived failure. We’ve keenly observed these devastated looks and later consoled them when they were “moved down” or didn’t make the team they hoped for, didn’t start in a game, didn’t play at all, all morning, or lost an important game they had been so confident they’d win. We witnessed their joy when they did get to start, made a critical point, and finally experienced the glory of victory.  (And then shamelessly, enthusiastically, we agreed to, sure! get in line with our hands up for a parade of high fives, and hey! better YET! lets make a human tunnel for them to run through!)  Despite that we gave birth to this child and have an innate biological instinct to want her to succeed, despite it all, we must suppress all evidence of this!

Furthermore, we commuted home from work (yes, there’s the day job) in time for carpool, first making a warm dinner for them to eat in the car on the way between soccer practice and volleyball practice (a reference here to the dreaded years she was determined to do both – heaven forbid there should be a true off season for any sport anymore). But on the ride there, while she ate her thoughtfully prepared warm dinner – and, btw, how often were we granted a thanks for that one? – we were not to ask them what they’re working on in practice! And afterwards we were absolutely not to ask them how practice went! (“I hope you enjoyed practice! I enjoyed watching you play!” we remarked with great restraint, and with minimal but not to be mistaken, positive inflection!). We’ve bought and baked and packed our assigned pot luck items for each day of what will be a three day tourney in the lovely…wait for it… smoke filled casinos of Reno! We’ve risen at 5:15 am, early enough to fit in a Starbucks run (for what has now become a superstitions pre-game good luck ritual that cannot be broken), then driven the umpteen hours to get our kid on the court by 7:15 (did I say for what will be a 3 day tourney in…Reno?). We’ve rousted the younger siblings, dragging them along with book and device in hand; or not seen them at all, all weekend, leaving them at home with good volleyball dad. And when we finally arrive…? More RULES! We are NOT to bring food into the gym! 13 point deficit given to the team associated with bringing food into the gym!!  Above all else, we are not to point out that the score is wrong – even if it’s a 3 game nail biter match for a bid!  Despite giving birth to this child and having an innate biological desire to see them succeed, we are to keep a stoic (but not to be mistaken positive!) face during that 3 game nail biter match, during which our child has just been subbed in to serve from behind 22-24! (Why are you biting your nails? It’s only a game!! They’re only 12!!!)

Whatever you do as a volleyball parent, you are not to be demanding, anxious or overly involved. But we volleyball parents typically come in one or more of these three personality types – I think I’m a combination of the latter two. There does seem to exist the ultimate cool volleyball parent who can be seen standing quietly to the side, though I’m convinced they’re a closeted anxious parent who’s secretly checking the scores and rankings when no one’s looking. If the ultimate cool parent does exist, they’re the one with the already- 6’4”-by-sixth-grade-and-still-growing, naturally-athletically-inclined player who, it goes unspoken, never has to worry about any of this, as she’s already been signed to the University of Nebraska.

Here’s the thing… I actually agree with all of these rules. I don’t want my child to feel any more pressure than she already does. I don’t want her to become (even more) ego centric. I don’t want to be so desperate to be living vicariously through her. I love that my child is participating in a sport that teaches the great lessons of life with all its successes and failures, and I’d like her to experience these without being concerned with what I think about it all or how it affects me. That parent I see shouting emotionally at courtside – I don’t want that to be me. And when I’ve broken one of these rules (clearly there’s been a few occasions), I’m filled with an, I’m-a -bad-volleyball-mom shame that takes a good while to shake off. I’m just saying these rules can be hard to follow…Sigh… Jus’ sayin’…

So, I suppose these thoughts are a little for the coaches and club directors who have to deal with us. Mostly though, it’s for my fellow volleyball parents for those occasions they’ve slipped up – my fellow “bad” volleyball parents who’ve been up since 5:15 (for the third day in a row), who held that stoic (but not to be mistaken positive!) look this weekend when their daughter shanked a ball on a critical point and then managed to suppress their glee when their daughter (yay!) served the final winning point (hopefully for the win that secures that coveted bid)! Come see me when you’ve just put your hand over your mouth in shame after yelling, “Score! Score!” I won’t judge you – I promise. I’ll double check the score for you on my iphone score keeping app.

Yours Truly,
Deb
Aspiring Good Volleyball Mom

Dedicated to my brother, Club Volleyball Connoisseur, who painstakingly tries to advise me, almost daily, on how to be a good volleyball mom

Loves of my life – all worth it!