Basketball is a huge topic of discussion in my house these days. It is, after all, the beginning of March Madness when the top college teams battle it out for the National Championship. My husband and son will soon be feverishly working on their brackets, making picks, predicting upsets. As always, I'll root for my alma mater, Boston College, as well as an assortment of likely-win favorites and underdogs. Nothing, though, not even a major upset like a #20 seed knocking off Duke or U-Conn will move me as much as the story about the kid from the little town outside Rochester, New York.
For those who may have been in hibernation, the story is about Jason McElwain, the 5 foot 6 inch Greece Athena high school student who has autism. For the past two years as basketball team manager, Jason has been an enthusiastic supporter - keeping statistics, handing out towels, fetching water bottles, encouraging his teammates. He never missed a practice, made all but one game. For the last home game of the regular season, Coach Jim Johnson decided to give Jason, a senior, a chance to feel what it was like to sit on the bench wearing a uniform instead of his usual white shirt and black tie.
With four minutes left, Coach Johnson sent Jason into the game, hoping he might somehow get a basket, make a memory. After missing his first two shots, Jason got unbelievably hot, hitting a 3-pointer, and then another and another and another. In four minutes, he'd drained six 3-pointers and scored 20 points, tying a school record. His final shot, a nothing-but-net NBA distance 3-pointer swished through as time expired. The crowd went crazy, storming onto the court, surrounding him in a wild frenzy, as they whooped and cheered. It was a moment of pure magic.
There is so much to like about this story it is hard to know where to begin. With all the problems I've both witnessed and read about in youth sports these days - coaches yelling and berating, parents whining and interfering, fans complaining about calls-here was a refreshing example of the polar opposite. This story is a life lesson for coaches, teammates, fans and communities on how to do things right.
Here is a coach who showed compassion, giving a dedicated hard-working kid a chance at a dream. Here are players enthusiastically supporting their teammate/manager who they fondly refer to as 'J-Mac.' Here are fans - on both sides of the court - cheering, encouraging. And here is a kid, against all odds, achieving what he never dreamed possible.
The other part of this story goes back in time. Like many communities, the Greece Athena school system had been struggling with how to best serve kids with special needs. Six years ago, the school district was cited by the state of New York for not doing enough for kids with disabilities. Special needs students in this now progressive district are an integral part of the schools. The integration is so entrenched that at first the team didn't understand what all the fuss was about.
"Jason is so much a part of us and our program that we kind of forgot he was autistic," one teammate said. There is a lesson here for all communities - both large and small - about creating opportunity, embracing difference.
I missed the report when it was first broadcast, learning about it later from my husband and son who'd caught it on ESPN. When I finally saw it, I watched in awe and wonder. Like many people, I was completely overcome. It wasn't so much that this kid was making these amazing shots. It was the reaction of his teammates and the crowd that was so touching. It was the fans yelling and waving signs with Jason's picture when he stepped onto the court. It was the hooting and howling and jumping and screaming, over and over, longer and louder after each basket. It was the complete and unequivocal support for the "little guy."
After my son and I finished watching the report for a second time, I struggled to describe the feeling. My son turned to me and said, "It kind of gives you chills." Yes, that is it. That is exactly what it does.
This March Madness season, I'll be watching and cheering through the Sweet Sixteen, Elite Eight, Final Four and Championship game. As in year's past, I'll go crazy over Duke and Gonzaga, U-Conn and Kentucky.
There will no doubt be buzzer-beaters and upsets, overtime games and amazing thrills. But there will never be a moment like the four-minute miracle in Greece, N.Y. Not the kind that leaves you breathless, stirred. Not the kind that takes you away to another place. Not the kind that leaves you trembling - in a good way - with incredible chills.
(This column was originally published on townonline.com March, 2006)
Sunday, March 18, 2007
Saturday, March 3, 2007
The Pleasure and Pain of a Ski Vacation
Like many families, we went skiing over winter school vacation. My son took a friend, and other friends with their teenage sons also stayed in Waterville Valley, so it all worked out quite nicely. It had been a while since I’d skied. My husband, kids and I vacationed at Mount Snow three years ago, and we skied in Canada several times before that. I have fond memories of those ski trips—the thrill of winding down a trail, the invigorating coolness, the quiet beauty of the mountains. Memory, it seems, is a very peculiar thing.
I’d forgotten all the work connected with skiing, which is much like camping in that respect. There’s the pre-trip task of finding things—long underwear and ski socks and goggles and mittens. There’s the renting of the ski equipment, and the schlepping around in those clunky ski boots, the ones that press painfully into shins. There’s the cold and the wind and the frost-bitten fingers and toes. And there’s the difficult mission of making it down the mountain, suffering quiet humiliation as kids whiz past, no problem.
There’s the long, arduous walk to the car at the end of the day—back straining, quads aching, shins bruising, skis and poles perched precariously on sloping shoulders. Since it’s only been a week since our trip, these are my memories. In time, I know I will recall the fond ones.
As a kid, I was an excellent skier. During my high school years, my family went to Utah every Christmas where we skied down the majestic slopes at Snowbird and Alta and Park City. The conditions were perfect—ankle-deep powder, no lift lines and weather so mild we’d often ski in our sweaters. We’d hit the slopes as soon as they opened, skiing all day on intermediate and expert trails with barely a break. We never thought of taking a day off to rest. Not a chance.
I had several things going for me back then that I don’t have now—limber legs, infinite stamina, agility and, most important, no fear. The trepidation I’ve developed since my youth led me to choose the No Grit intermediate trail over the True Grit double black diamond trail at Waterville Valley.
When I think about it, my pleasant memories from our recent trip have little to do with skiing. My most idyllic moments include sipping coffee with a splash of hot chocolate while reading my Pushcart Prize collection of short stories (during one of my many ski breaks), kicking off the shin-bruising boots at the end of the day and lingering in the hot shower back at the lodge. Mostly I loved sitting around in the evening with friends, talking about our day and our children.
If I try a little harder, I can recall some ski-related good times, like the thrill of making my way down Oblivion, Tippecanoe, And Tyler Too before the pain in my quads became unbearable, and my success getting on and off chairlifts without falling, or worse, wiping out a stranger. And I will never forget the beautiful sight of the snow-capped peaks from the top of Sunnyside.
Some not-so-great memories, though, are still on the surface. Like the panic we felt at the top of White Peak, when after stopping for coffee we were hit with winds gusting at close to 60 miles per hour. Skis and poles (thankfully not ours) were blown clear off the mountain as I crawled on my hands and knees to retrieve mine. The winds had blown most of the snow from the trails leaving huge patches of ice. In the midst of the blinding snow-swirling wind I thought, “This is about as far from fun as it gets.” I wondered how I’d ever make it down alive, and just how bad conditions had to get before they closed the lifts. After two more wind-whipped runs, all but one lift was closed for the remainder of the day.
For the most part, the bad memories are starting to fade. It seems there is a direct correlation between the level of pain in my legs and my recollection of what caused it; as the aches subside, so too does my memory. Like childbirth, in time I’ll forget—or at least repress—the pain, remembering only the good parts before eagerly choosing to go through it all again. Who knows? Next time I may even try True Grit.
I’d forgotten all the work connected with skiing, which is much like camping in that respect. There’s the pre-trip task of finding things—long underwear and ski socks and goggles and mittens. There’s the renting of the ski equipment, and the schlepping around in those clunky ski boots, the ones that press painfully into shins. There’s the cold and the wind and the frost-bitten fingers and toes. And there’s the difficult mission of making it down the mountain, suffering quiet humiliation as kids whiz past, no problem.
There’s the long, arduous walk to the car at the end of the day—back straining, quads aching, shins bruising, skis and poles perched precariously on sloping shoulders. Since it’s only been a week since our trip, these are my memories. In time, I know I will recall the fond ones.
As a kid, I was an excellent skier. During my high school years, my family went to Utah every Christmas where we skied down the majestic slopes at Snowbird and Alta and Park City. The conditions were perfect—ankle-deep powder, no lift lines and weather so mild we’d often ski in our sweaters. We’d hit the slopes as soon as they opened, skiing all day on intermediate and expert trails with barely a break. We never thought of taking a day off to rest. Not a chance.
I had several things going for me back then that I don’t have now—limber legs, infinite stamina, agility and, most important, no fear. The trepidation I’ve developed since my youth led me to choose the No Grit intermediate trail over the True Grit double black diamond trail at Waterville Valley.
When I think about it, my pleasant memories from our recent trip have little to do with skiing. My most idyllic moments include sipping coffee with a splash of hot chocolate while reading my Pushcart Prize collection of short stories (during one of my many ski breaks), kicking off the shin-bruising boots at the end of the day and lingering in the hot shower back at the lodge. Mostly I loved sitting around in the evening with friends, talking about our day and our children.
If I try a little harder, I can recall some ski-related good times, like the thrill of making my way down Oblivion, Tippecanoe, And Tyler Too before the pain in my quads became unbearable, and my success getting on and off chairlifts without falling, or worse, wiping out a stranger. And I will never forget the beautiful sight of the snow-capped peaks from the top of Sunnyside.
Some not-so-great memories, though, are still on the surface. Like the panic we felt at the top of White Peak, when after stopping for coffee we were hit with winds gusting at close to 60 miles per hour. Skis and poles (thankfully not ours) were blown clear off the mountain as I crawled on my hands and knees to retrieve mine. The winds had blown most of the snow from the trails leaving huge patches of ice. In the midst of the blinding snow-swirling wind I thought, “This is about as far from fun as it gets.” I wondered how I’d ever make it down alive, and just how bad conditions had to get before they closed the lifts. After two more wind-whipped runs, all but one lift was closed for the remainder of the day.
For the most part, the bad memories are starting to fade. It seems there is a direct correlation between the level of pain in my legs and my recollection of what caused it; as the aches subside, so too does my memory. Like childbirth, in time I’ll forget—or at least repress—the pain, remembering only the good parts before eagerly choosing to go through it all again. Who knows? Next time I may even try True Grit.
Thursday, March 1, 2007
In Pursuit of the Golden Oscar
Now that the quest for Olympic gold is over, we can turn our attention to another golden pursuit: the Oscar. Like their Olympic athlete counterparts, those who vie for the ultimate prize on Academy Awards night are hard working, determined and exceptionally talented. As in the Olympics, the field of competition plays a major part in who goes home with the gold. While the quality of the film and acting performance are obviously key factors, winners (and therefore losers) are often determined by which other films and actors happened to be nominated that year. And, like subjectively judged events such as Olympic figure skating, the Academy Awards voting process doesn’t always produce the “right” result.
The list of ‘great ones’ who never won an Oscar is both long and surprising. It includes actors Charlie Chaplin, Buster Keaton, Cary Grant, Claude Rains and Peter O’Toole. And actresses Greta Garbo, Gloria Swanson, Lauren Bacall and Judy Garland. Directors who never got an Oscar include Robert Altman (who will receive an honorary Oscar this year), Hitchcock, Fellini, Truffaut, Renoir, Kubrick and Scorsese. The problem was obviously not talent, but timing.
In no year was timing more significant than in 1939, undoubtedly the greatest year in American film history. While it is hard to argue with the decision to name “Gone With The Wind” best picture, in any other year, any one of the other nominated films could have taken home the big prize. The other films up for best picture that year were “The Wizard of Oz,” John Ford’s classic western “Stagecoach,” “Mr. Smith Goes to Washington,” and the haunting “Wuthering Heights.” Several other outstanding films were not even nominated that year—the classic adventure film “Gunga Din,” “Only Angels Have Wings” with Cary Grant and Jean Arthur, “Destry Rides Again” with feisty saloon singer Marlene Dietrich, and “The Hunchback of Notre Dame” with Charles Laughton’s unforgettably heart wrenching portrayal of Quasimodo.
Vivien Leigh’s Scarlett nabbed best actress that year, leaving Bette Davis ironically less than victorious in “Dark Victory,” and Garbo anything but laughing in the romantic comedy, “Ninotchka.” Robert Donat shocked all by winning best actor for “Goodbye Mr. Chips,” beating out three of Hollywood’s most famous and talented leading men in some of the best performances of their careers: Clark Gable as Rhett Butler, Jimmy Stewart as Jefferson Smith and Laurence Olivier as Heathcliff. Talk about a packed field!
Many times the Academy is asked to choose between entirely different films, with sometimes surprising results. There was “How Green Was My Valley” winning over “Citizen Kane” (1941), “Rocky” over “Taxi Driver” (1976), “Annie Hall” over “Star Wars” (1977), “Ordinary People” over “Raging Bull” (1980), “The English Patient” over “Fargo” (1996) and “Shakespeare in Love” over “Saving Private Ryan” (1998). It hardly seems fair, pitting such different but equally exceptional films against each other. It’s a classic case of apples vs. oranges—like asking us to choose between Michelle Kwan and Bonnie Blair.
Sometimes the problem isn’t a packed field, but a disgraceful mistake, like the Academy’s failure to even nominate Chaplain’s greatest film, “City Lights” (1931), the original “King Kong” (1933), the brilliant Cary Grant—Rosalind Russell newspaper flick “His Girl Friday” (1940), or Hitchcock’s “Rear Window” (1954). And perhaps the worst blunder in the history of film, when the entertaining but frivolous “The Greatest Show on Earth,” won best picture over “High Noon” (1952). It was enough to make Gary Cooper leave town for good, even if he did walk away with the best actor award.
This year is an interesting one, with the best picture nominees having more in common than in recent years. Four of the five films up for the top award are either biopics or based on real life events. As has been the case in recent years, I’ve been slow to see new films, having seen only two of those nominated—“Goodnight, and Good Luck” (terrific) and “Crash” (had some good moments, but a bit too neatly tied up). I suppose when choosing between venturing out into the cold and sitting at home curled up on my couch, I’ll choose home, even with the considerably smaller screen. And, being the old movie buff that I am, it’s likely I’ll watch something filmed in black & white. Unless of course, it’s “Gone With the Wind.”
(This column was originally published on townonline.com March, 2006)
The list of ‘great ones’ who never won an Oscar is both long and surprising. It includes actors Charlie Chaplin, Buster Keaton, Cary Grant, Claude Rains and Peter O’Toole. And actresses Greta Garbo, Gloria Swanson, Lauren Bacall and Judy Garland. Directors who never got an Oscar include Robert Altman (who will receive an honorary Oscar this year), Hitchcock, Fellini, Truffaut, Renoir, Kubrick and Scorsese. The problem was obviously not talent, but timing.
In no year was timing more significant than in 1939, undoubtedly the greatest year in American film history. While it is hard to argue with the decision to name “Gone With The Wind” best picture, in any other year, any one of the other nominated films could have taken home the big prize. The other films up for best picture that year were “The Wizard of Oz,” John Ford’s classic western “Stagecoach,” “Mr. Smith Goes to Washington,” and the haunting “Wuthering Heights.” Several other outstanding films were not even nominated that year—the classic adventure film “Gunga Din,” “Only Angels Have Wings” with Cary Grant and Jean Arthur, “Destry Rides Again” with feisty saloon singer Marlene Dietrich, and “The Hunchback of Notre Dame” with Charles Laughton’s unforgettably heart wrenching portrayal of Quasimodo.
Vivien Leigh’s Scarlett nabbed best actress that year, leaving Bette Davis ironically less than victorious in “Dark Victory,” and Garbo anything but laughing in the romantic comedy, “Ninotchka.” Robert Donat shocked all by winning best actor for “Goodbye Mr. Chips,” beating out three of Hollywood’s most famous and talented leading men in some of the best performances of their careers: Clark Gable as Rhett Butler, Jimmy Stewart as Jefferson Smith and Laurence Olivier as Heathcliff. Talk about a packed field!
Many times the Academy is asked to choose between entirely different films, with sometimes surprising results. There was “How Green Was My Valley” winning over “Citizen Kane” (1941), “Rocky” over “Taxi Driver” (1976), “Annie Hall” over “Star Wars” (1977), “Ordinary People” over “Raging Bull” (1980), “The English Patient” over “Fargo” (1996) and “Shakespeare in Love” over “Saving Private Ryan” (1998). It hardly seems fair, pitting such different but equally exceptional films against each other. It’s a classic case of apples vs. oranges—like asking us to choose between Michelle Kwan and Bonnie Blair.
Sometimes the problem isn’t a packed field, but a disgraceful mistake, like the Academy’s failure to even nominate Chaplain’s greatest film, “City Lights” (1931), the original “King Kong” (1933), the brilliant Cary Grant—Rosalind Russell newspaper flick “His Girl Friday” (1940), or Hitchcock’s “Rear Window” (1954). And perhaps the worst blunder in the history of film, when the entertaining but frivolous “The Greatest Show on Earth,” won best picture over “High Noon” (1952). It was enough to make Gary Cooper leave town for good, even if he did walk away with the best actor award.
This year is an interesting one, with the best picture nominees having more in common than in recent years. Four of the five films up for the top award are either biopics or based on real life events. As has been the case in recent years, I’ve been slow to see new films, having seen only two of those nominated—“Goodnight, and Good Luck” (terrific) and “Crash” (had some good moments, but a bit too neatly tied up). I suppose when choosing between venturing out into the cold and sitting at home curled up on my couch, I’ll choose home, even with the considerably smaller screen. And, being the old movie buff that I am, it’s likely I’ll watch something filmed in black & white. Unless of course, it’s “Gone With the Wind.”
(This column was originally published on townonline.com March, 2006)
Sunday, February 18, 2007
Missing Screwdrivers and Keys and Other Such Things
The screwdriver has gone missing again. This is becoming a regular occurrence at our house. The last time was about a month ago, when my husband and I were taking apart our daughter's bike to ship it to her at college. I'd searched in all the usual places - the plastic tub in the hall closet, the junk drawer next to the fridge, the assorted bins and boxes in the unfinished part of the basement - but came up empty-handed.
"I'll just run out to Home Depot and get another one," I said to my husband, grabbing my car keys.
"Oh, no," he said, in a don't-you-even-think-about-it voice. "We're not buying another screwdriver. We must have at least five of them somewhere in the house."
True, I thought, but somewhere means anywhere, which basically means we might never see any of those screwdrivers ever again.
We eventually found a sort-of screwdriver, a really old one with one tiny Phillips-style bit attached. The nicer, newer one, the one with the assortment of bit sizes and styles is still AWOL, probably hanging out with the sucked-out-of-the-dryer socks in who-knows-where-it-went heaven.
As frustrating as the missing screwdriver episode was, it pales in comparison to my two - yes, two - missing car episodes. The first such incident occurred many years ago, in the dark, creepy Central parking lot at Logan airport. This was in the days before they'd marked the floors near the elevators with cute pictures of Paul Revere and Boston Marathoners to help harried travelers remember which floor they parked on.
This was also in the days before rolling suitcases, so when I returned from my business trip late at night, I lugged my suitcase up and down floors and across aisles searching for my car. Now one might wonder how such a thing could possibly have happened. I'd done the smart thing and jotted down the number and letter identifying the location of my car. The problem was I couldn't find the scrap I'd jotted it on. After a half hour of frantic searching, I eventually found my car, so I guess it wasn't really lost, just momentarily misplaced.
The second lost car episode was at the outdoor parking lot at Green Airport. Learning from my previous experience, I'd cleverly marked the location of my car directly on my parking lot ticket, tucking it safely in my wallet. No paper scraps, no chance of losing it.
When the shuttle bus guy asked for the location of my car, I confidently called out my letter and number. Inexplicably, my car was nowhere to be found. After a half hour of searching (fortunately this time pulling a wheeled suitcase), I began wondering whether my car had been stolen. But then I thought who in their right mind would swipe a dented, scraped, sorry-looking 1996 Nissan Quest van with 145,000 miles on it?
I finally waved down the green pick-up truck guy who helps customers find misplaced cars, and after a few circles around the lot we found it right where it was supposed to be. The shuttle bus driver must have dropped me in a location other than what I'd announced, and being hot, tired and thoroughly confused, I'd circled around and around in vain. It was a true "Twilight Zone" moment.
Thankfully, I haven't had to park in an airport parking lot recently. Those experiences, though, have definitely affected the way I approach parking in general. I now have a fool-proof system guaranteed to cut down on searching time.
At my usual grocery store parking lot, I drive three rows down, make a right, and park in the space to the left of the shopping cart return rack. If my space isn't available, I go for the space on the other side of the rack. In the unlikely event both next-to-the-rack spaces are taken, I park as close to my usual spots as possible. So far, so good.
I don't have any more large missing things to report as of late, just the usual smaller things - scissors, tape, remote, eyeglasses. No cars, though every now and then, the car keys go missing.
(This column was originally published on townonline.com September, 2006)
"I'll just run out to Home Depot and get another one," I said to my husband, grabbing my car keys.
"Oh, no," he said, in a don't-you-even-think-about-it voice. "We're not buying another screwdriver. We must have at least five of them somewhere in the house."
True, I thought, but somewhere means anywhere, which basically means we might never see any of those screwdrivers ever again.
We eventually found a sort-of screwdriver, a really old one with one tiny Phillips-style bit attached. The nicer, newer one, the one with the assortment of bit sizes and styles is still AWOL, probably hanging out with the sucked-out-of-the-dryer socks in who-knows-where-it-went heaven.
As frustrating as the missing screwdriver episode was, it pales in comparison to my two - yes, two - missing car episodes. The first such incident occurred many years ago, in the dark, creepy Central parking lot at Logan airport. This was in the days before they'd marked the floors near the elevators with cute pictures of Paul Revere and Boston Marathoners to help harried travelers remember which floor they parked on.
This was also in the days before rolling suitcases, so when I returned from my business trip late at night, I lugged my suitcase up and down floors and across aisles searching for my car. Now one might wonder how such a thing could possibly have happened. I'd done the smart thing and jotted down the number and letter identifying the location of my car. The problem was I couldn't find the scrap I'd jotted it on. After a half hour of frantic searching, I eventually found my car, so I guess it wasn't really lost, just momentarily misplaced.
The second lost car episode was at the outdoor parking lot at Green Airport. Learning from my previous experience, I'd cleverly marked the location of my car directly on my parking lot ticket, tucking it safely in my wallet. No paper scraps, no chance of losing it.
When the shuttle bus guy asked for the location of my car, I confidently called out my letter and number. Inexplicably, my car was nowhere to be found. After a half hour of searching (fortunately this time pulling a wheeled suitcase), I began wondering whether my car had been stolen. But then I thought who in their right mind would swipe a dented, scraped, sorry-looking 1996 Nissan Quest van with 145,000 miles on it?
I finally waved down the green pick-up truck guy who helps customers find misplaced cars, and after a few circles around the lot we found it right where it was supposed to be. The shuttle bus driver must have dropped me in a location other than what I'd announced, and being hot, tired and thoroughly confused, I'd circled around and around in vain. It was a true "Twilight Zone" moment.
Thankfully, I haven't had to park in an airport parking lot recently. Those experiences, though, have definitely affected the way I approach parking in general. I now have a fool-proof system guaranteed to cut down on searching time.
At my usual grocery store parking lot, I drive three rows down, make a right, and park in the space to the left of the shopping cart return rack. If my space isn't available, I go for the space on the other side of the rack. In the unlikely event both next-to-the-rack spaces are taken, I park as close to my usual spots as possible. So far, so good.
I don't have any more large missing things to report as of late, just the usual smaller things - scissors, tape, remote, eyeglasses. No cars, though every now and then, the car keys go missing.
(This column was originally published on townonline.com September, 2006)
New Driver Dread
Years ago when my daughter was learning to drive, I jotted in my journal to help manage my sometimes overwhelming anxiety. As with many things, humor helped me to keep it all in perspective. My daughter is now a fine driver and I'm sure my son will be the same.
Despite knowing this, I feel the tension building as I see friends on the road with their driving teens and think how I'll soon be going through all this again. So for all the parents out there, here is a primer on what to expect as you enter this new life stage.
Stage 1 - Denial and Intense Fear
Your teen has her learner's permit and you, the reluctant but supportive parent are strapped snuggly into the co-pilot's seat. At first you take pride in your clever strategy of keeping to parking lots and deserted side streets. At some point, though, you know you're going to have to bite the bullet and go where there are, gulp, other cars. The first few times out in traffic are a heart-thumping nightmare. You're convinced you're going to cross over that double yellow line, hitting oncoming cars, or drift too far to the right, leaving a trail of mailbox road-kill behind. The feeling that horrific things may happen is constant, even when your child is doing just fine. So when your kid does have a lapse in judgment, it's beyond terrifying.
Stage 2 - Self-preservation
You compare this experience to other times you've gently guided your child to make good decisions. After all, you want her to learn - to become an independent, well-functioning adult. When you're driving with your teen, though, all rationality flies right out the car window.
You constantly bark instructions, pump the invisible passenger's side brake and scream -"Slow down! Stop!" You meticulously check both ways (multiple times) at intersections before giving the go-ahead to cross. Your kid is also looking both ways, but she knows not to go until you say so. You realize this whole driving thing is severely straining your parent-child relationship. "You don't trust me," your kid says. You've got that right, you think, but instead say something like "it's not that - it's just that you need to get a little more experience."
Stage 3 - Letting Go (a bit)
During this next stage, you begin to let go. You may catch yourself before you yell an instruction, waiting to see if your child is going to do what you were about to say. If things are going well, more often than not you won't have to shout. You may even become complacent, not exactly relaxed, but not continuously terrified either.
Warning: This Is A Very Dangerous Stage. Though your teen is gaining experience and making nice progress, she is still a new driver. Keep alert for lapses in judgment. Just when you think everything is going smoothly, your child may make one of those tire-screeching-cutting-off-an-oncoming-car-type moves that makes your heart race. Don't despair. This is quite normal and all part of the learning process. You may find some defiance from your teen at this point. She is gaining confidence (a good thing) but thinks she is an excellent driver (not a good thing.) She may say things like "I can't stand driving with you" or, and this is really scary, but true, "when I get my license you won't be in the car telling me what to do."
Stage 4 - The Launch
If all goes as planned, your child will pass her driving test and become an official driver. She will have to wait six months before she can drive with friends (a good thing), even though she may say it is not a good thing. At this point, your tension level is back to Stage 1, experienced as overall anxiety any time your child reaches for the car keys. The only thing that helps at this point is time - you just kind of get used to your teen being a driver. Realizing the benefits such as running errands and shuttling younger siblings to sports practices helps soften the blow. You try to remember that you too, were once a new driver and look how competent you are now.
So hopefully this has helped to de-mystify the new driver experience. Like many life events, we all manage to somehow muddle through. They learn, they launch. This whole driving thing helps kids gain a bit more independence on their way to being on their own. We parents are learning too. We are learning, slowly, how to (gently) let go.
(This column was originally published on townonline.com October, 2006)
Despite knowing this, I feel the tension building as I see friends on the road with their driving teens and think how I'll soon be going through all this again. So for all the parents out there, here is a primer on what to expect as you enter this new life stage.
Stage 1 - Denial and Intense Fear
Your teen has her learner's permit and you, the reluctant but supportive parent are strapped snuggly into the co-pilot's seat. At first you take pride in your clever strategy of keeping to parking lots and deserted side streets. At some point, though, you know you're going to have to bite the bullet and go where there are, gulp, other cars. The first few times out in traffic are a heart-thumping nightmare. You're convinced you're going to cross over that double yellow line, hitting oncoming cars, or drift too far to the right, leaving a trail of mailbox road-kill behind. The feeling that horrific things may happen is constant, even when your child is doing just fine. So when your kid does have a lapse in judgment, it's beyond terrifying.
Stage 2 - Self-preservation
You compare this experience to other times you've gently guided your child to make good decisions. After all, you want her to learn - to become an independent, well-functioning adult. When you're driving with your teen, though, all rationality flies right out the car window.
You constantly bark instructions, pump the invisible passenger's side brake and scream -"Slow down! Stop!" You meticulously check both ways (multiple times) at intersections before giving the go-ahead to cross. Your kid is also looking both ways, but she knows not to go until you say so. You realize this whole driving thing is severely straining your parent-child relationship. "You don't trust me," your kid says. You've got that right, you think, but instead say something like "it's not that - it's just that you need to get a little more experience."
Stage 3 - Letting Go (a bit)
During this next stage, you begin to let go. You may catch yourself before you yell an instruction, waiting to see if your child is going to do what you were about to say. If things are going well, more often than not you won't have to shout. You may even become complacent, not exactly relaxed, but not continuously terrified either.
Warning: This Is A Very Dangerous Stage. Though your teen is gaining experience and making nice progress, she is still a new driver. Keep alert for lapses in judgment. Just when you think everything is going smoothly, your child may make one of those tire-screeching-cutting-off-an-oncoming-car-type moves that makes your heart race. Don't despair. This is quite normal and all part of the learning process. You may find some defiance from your teen at this point. She is gaining confidence (a good thing) but thinks she is an excellent driver (not a good thing.) She may say things like "I can't stand driving with you" or, and this is really scary, but true, "when I get my license you won't be in the car telling me what to do."
Stage 4 - The Launch
If all goes as planned, your child will pass her driving test and become an official driver. She will have to wait six months before she can drive with friends (a good thing), even though she may say it is not a good thing. At this point, your tension level is back to Stage 1, experienced as overall anxiety any time your child reaches for the car keys. The only thing that helps at this point is time - you just kind of get used to your teen being a driver. Realizing the benefits such as running errands and shuttling younger siblings to sports practices helps soften the blow. You try to remember that you too, were once a new driver and look how competent you are now.
So hopefully this has helped to de-mystify the new driver experience. Like many life events, we all manage to somehow muddle through. They learn, they launch. This whole driving thing helps kids gain a bit more independence on their way to being on their own. We parents are learning too. We are learning, slowly, how to (gently) let go.
(This column was originally published on townonline.com October, 2006)
Saturday, February 17, 2007
Life's Little Pet Peeves
The other day, my son was having trouble with his Xbox. The screen was freezing and the red lights were blinking and then the darn thing just wouldn’t turn on. I suggested he call the 800-number to see if he could get some help. After being put on hold for several minutes, he was finally transferred to the “customer service representative,” a pre-recorded voice offering tips — all of them useless — to help fix the problem.
After more waiting and music and robotic talking, he was abruptly disconnected. It was my son’s first introduction to a phenomenon I and many people have long dealt with — the infuriating world of non-service customer service.
I realize there are far more serious concerns than small, everyday annoyances like being placed on hold and talking to a fake person when you’re trying to get something fixed. But sometimes, especially on a weak day, these are just the things that put me over the edge.
Other customer service pet peeves include repair people who fail to show up, and stores that promptly distance themselves from any responsibility when the product you’ve purchased encounters a problem. Being bombarded with the hard-sell is also on my pet peeve list — the won’t-take-no-for-an-answer telemarketer, the person who asks if I “want to try a combo” or purchase the special of the week at the grocery check-out counter, the salesperson who asks “can I help you?” when I’ve barely entered the store. Equally irritating is the opposite problem of being completely ignored. For some reason this seems to happen a lot in shoe departments.
As annoying as aggressive telemarketers are, rude cell phone users are even worse. At least with a telemarketer I can simply hang up. Rude cell phone users are everywhere, and often in places where there is no escape, like when I’m trapped with one of them yakking away on a train or in an airport lobby or waiting my turn in line at the grocery store.
There is no bigger pet peeve category, though, than that of discourteous, dangerous drivers. Of particular concern are drivers who don’t use turn signals, tailgate, drive too slow in the fast lane, weave in and out of lanes, speed excessively, shave or put on make-up while driving, enter rotaries without merging, use the breakdown lane as a passing lane or run red lights. Though it is no surprise, I’ve noticed that drivers guilty of these dangerous deeds are often talking on their cell phones.
Other pet peeves include people who refer to themselves in the third person and those who ask and then answer their own questions. Professional athletes do this a lot. Also politicians like when they say “Are we in a difficult position in Iraq? Absolutely.” For some reason, people who refer to themselves in the third person tend to be those who ask and answer their own questions.
I also have a thing against bragging bumper stickers, like those that proclaim, “My child is student of the month, class president, on the honor roll and listed in ‘who’s who’ in America.” The best response to this kind of pronouncement was the bumper sticker that read, “My Golden Retriever is smarter than your honor student.”
Speaking of dogs, I have to add to the list of annoyances people who don’t clean up after their pets. Rudeness in general is a huge pet peeve of mine — people who honk for no reason, toss trash on the highway, cut in line, let their children run wild in restaurants, talk in movie theatres. I also have trouble with people who don’t return phone calls, interrupt, or go on and on about themselves.
Now I realize I’m far from perfect. I’m sure there are plenty of things I do that get under the skin of those around me. I know this is true because I’ve even managed to annoy myself at times. And as much as I try my best to be patient, courteous and considerate, I know I am not always successful.
Have I ever been guilty of one of my own pet peeves I profess to abhor? Absolutely.
(This column was originally published on townonline.com February, 2007)
After more waiting and music and robotic talking, he was abruptly disconnected. It was my son’s first introduction to a phenomenon I and many people have long dealt with — the infuriating world of non-service customer service.
I realize there are far more serious concerns than small, everyday annoyances like being placed on hold and talking to a fake person when you’re trying to get something fixed. But sometimes, especially on a weak day, these are just the things that put me over the edge.
Other customer service pet peeves include repair people who fail to show up, and stores that promptly distance themselves from any responsibility when the product you’ve purchased encounters a problem. Being bombarded with the hard-sell is also on my pet peeve list — the won’t-take-no-for-an-answer telemarketer, the person who asks if I “want to try a combo” or purchase the special of the week at the grocery check-out counter, the salesperson who asks “can I help you?” when I’ve barely entered the store. Equally irritating is the opposite problem of being completely ignored. For some reason this seems to happen a lot in shoe departments.
As annoying as aggressive telemarketers are, rude cell phone users are even worse. At least with a telemarketer I can simply hang up. Rude cell phone users are everywhere, and often in places where there is no escape, like when I’m trapped with one of them yakking away on a train or in an airport lobby or waiting my turn in line at the grocery store.
There is no bigger pet peeve category, though, than that of discourteous, dangerous drivers. Of particular concern are drivers who don’t use turn signals, tailgate, drive too slow in the fast lane, weave in and out of lanes, speed excessively, shave or put on make-up while driving, enter rotaries without merging, use the breakdown lane as a passing lane or run red lights. Though it is no surprise, I’ve noticed that drivers guilty of these dangerous deeds are often talking on their cell phones.
Other pet peeves include people who refer to themselves in the third person and those who ask and then answer their own questions. Professional athletes do this a lot. Also politicians like when they say “Are we in a difficult position in Iraq? Absolutely.” For some reason, people who refer to themselves in the third person tend to be those who ask and answer their own questions.
I also have a thing against bragging bumper stickers, like those that proclaim, “My child is student of the month, class president, on the honor roll and listed in ‘who’s who’ in America.” The best response to this kind of pronouncement was the bumper sticker that read, “My Golden Retriever is smarter than your honor student.”
Speaking of dogs, I have to add to the list of annoyances people who don’t clean up after their pets. Rudeness in general is a huge pet peeve of mine — people who honk for no reason, toss trash on the highway, cut in line, let their children run wild in restaurants, talk in movie theatres. I also have trouble with people who don’t return phone calls, interrupt, or go on and on about themselves.
Now I realize I’m far from perfect. I’m sure there are plenty of things I do that get under the skin of those around me. I know this is true because I’ve even managed to annoy myself at times. And as much as I try my best to be patient, courteous and considerate, I know I am not always successful.
Have I ever been guilty of one of my own pet peeves I profess to abhor? Absolutely.
(This column was originally published on townonline.com February, 2007)
Thursday, February 15, 2007
Getting a Kick Out of Soccer
A few weeks ago my running partner and I were jogging past Lake Massapoag, chatting away about the usual events of the week - kids, work, husbands - when suddenly a car pulled over to the side.
"We play soccer at ForeKicks in Norfolk, 9:30 every Friday," a friend said, leaning over so we could hear her through the rolled-down window. "A bunch of women, play as you go - 10 bucks. It's really fun, informal. You should come." And then she drove off.
As I readied myself to resume our discussion about our boys' high school homework, my friend had a different thought. "It might be kind of fun," she said, in between strides. Now I could think of many words to describe what playing indoor soccer would be for me at this point in my life, and I have to tell you, fun wasn't one of them.
Sure enough, a few days later, there was an e-mail in my in-box. "Are you up for our run next Friday at 8:00? And then we can check out the indoor soccer game at 9:30. What do you say?"
Some background is in order here. Though my running partner had also never played soccer, she is an athlete who played Division I volleyball in college.
Other than my pathetic stint as a fourth string bench-warmer on my eighth grade basketball team, I've never, ever played a team sport. The reason I like to run is that it requires zero athleticism. I was determined to not get talked into this soccer thing. But then I got thinking.
I did make a New Year's pledge to try new things, so the following week, after our run around the lake, we headed over to ForeKicks, meeting another friend (also a former college volleyball player), who my running partner had talked into coming. While our other friend had come equipped with shin guards, we had to borrow them. Mine were a miniscule pair - no doubt left behind by some fourth-grader - that barely covered my legs.
Walking onto the indoor court, I eyed the regular players, checking for evidence of fitness and skill. Someone quickly explained the rules of the game -"We play three 20 minute periods, and rotate positions every five minutes. We don't keep score. That's about it." Responding to my confused, worried look, a player offered words of reassurance. "You'll be fine."
It took less than a minute for me to have renewed respect for my son and his friends who play this game so well. Who knew how hard it could be to dribble, kick, work the boards, and win the ball? As clumsy as I felt at defense, it was even more horrifying when I moved up to offense. The other women were amazing, dribbling, defending and passing like pros. But they were also incredibly nice-setting us newcomers up for goals, offering words of encouragement. Just when I felt like I was getting it, though, I'd do something really stupid, like totally miss the ball, leaving my leg suspended in mid-air. I just may be one of the few people to ever "swing and miss" playing soccer.
When it was my turn at goalie, I was almost paralyzed by the thought of getting smacked in the face with the ball. But then something happened. I jumped high, stretching my arms to make a save, and a few minutes later had another one, rolling on the ground, securing the ball between my knees. As I stood up, and was greeted with cheers and high-fives, I started to think that maybe this position was made for me. And then the ball - kicked by one of my friends, no less - rolled right in the goal behind me.
As we moved into period two and then three, I started to feel a little less stressed. My friends fared better than I did, scoring goals, making great plays on defense. I was, though, quite proud of my one stellar moment - a perfect left-footed pass in front of the goal, kicked in by my running partner.
Later that day, I began to feel the effects of the morning, every inch of my body throbbing in pain. When my son got home from school, I told him about my adventure. I was sure he'd be mortified at the thought of his mother running around an indoor soccer field. His reaction, though, took me by complete surprise. He smiled widely and patted me on the back. "I know," he said. "I heard. I can't believe you played indoor soccer. That is so great."
I went on to tell him about it - my stumbles, my missing the ball, my aches, my pains. He then proceeded to give me advice, demonstrating the correct way to dribble and which part of the foot to place on the ball when kicking.
Though I've not ruled out another go at it, truth be told, I'm not anxious to return to the soccer field anytime soon. Like everything, I suppose, the more you practice, the better you get, the more fun it is. If there is a next time, I'll do some things differently. For starters, I'll bring my own shin guards, and maybe wear something other than running shoes. And I'll definitely follow the advice I ignored the first time and take those three Advil when I get home.
"We play soccer at ForeKicks in Norfolk, 9:30 every Friday," a friend said, leaning over so we could hear her through the rolled-down window. "A bunch of women, play as you go - 10 bucks. It's really fun, informal. You should come." And then she drove off.
As I readied myself to resume our discussion about our boys' high school homework, my friend had a different thought. "It might be kind of fun," she said, in between strides. Now I could think of many words to describe what playing indoor soccer would be for me at this point in my life, and I have to tell you, fun wasn't one of them.
Sure enough, a few days later, there was an e-mail in my in-box. "Are you up for our run next Friday at 8:00? And then we can check out the indoor soccer game at 9:30. What do you say?"
Some background is in order here. Though my running partner had also never played soccer, she is an athlete who played Division I volleyball in college.
Other than my pathetic stint as a fourth string bench-warmer on my eighth grade basketball team, I've never, ever played a team sport. The reason I like to run is that it requires zero athleticism. I was determined to not get talked into this soccer thing. But then I got thinking.
I did make a New Year's pledge to try new things, so the following week, after our run around the lake, we headed over to ForeKicks, meeting another friend (also a former college volleyball player), who my running partner had talked into coming. While our other friend had come equipped with shin guards, we had to borrow them. Mine were a miniscule pair - no doubt left behind by some fourth-grader - that barely covered my legs.
Walking onto the indoor court, I eyed the regular players, checking for evidence of fitness and skill. Someone quickly explained the rules of the game -"We play three 20 minute periods, and rotate positions every five minutes. We don't keep score. That's about it." Responding to my confused, worried look, a player offered words of reassurance. "You'll be fine."
It took less than a minute for me to have renewed respect for my son and his friends who play this game so well. Who knew how hard it could be to dribble, kick, work the boards, and win the ball? As clumsy as I felt at defense, it was even more horrifying when I moved up to offense. The other women were amazing, dribbling, defending and passing like pros. But they were also incredibly nice-setting us newcomers up for goals, offering words of encouragement. Just when I felt like I was getting it, though, I'd do something really stupid, like totally miss the ball, leaving my leg suspended in mid-air. I just may be one of the few people to ever "swing and miss" playing soccer.
When it was my turn at goalie, I was almost paralyzed by the thought of getting smacked in the face with the ball. But then something happened. I jumped high, stretching my arms to make a save, and a few minutes later had another one, rolling on the ground, securing the ball between my knees. As I stood up, and was greeted with cheers and high-fives, I started to think that maybe this position was made for me. And then the ball - kicked by one of my friends, no less - rolled right in the goal behind me.
As we moved into period two and then three, I started to feel a little less stressed. My friends fared better than I did, scoring goals, making great plays on defense. I was, though, quite proud of my one stellar moment - a perfect left-footed pass in front of the goal, kicked in by my running partner.
Later that day, I began to feel the effects of the morning, every inch of my body throbbing in pain. When my son got home from school, I told him about my adventure. I was sure he'd be mortified at the thought of his mother running around an indoor soccer field. His reaction, though, took me by complete surprise. He smiled widely and patted me on the back. "I know," he said. "I heard. I can't believe you played indoor soccer. That is so great."
I went on to tell him about it - my stumbles, my missing the ball, my aches, my pains. He then proceeded to give me advice, demonstrating the correct way to dribble and which part of the foot to place on the ball when kicking.
Though I've not ruled out another go at it, truth be told, I'm not anxious to return to the soccer field anytime soon. Like everything, I suppose, the more you practice, the better you get, the more fun it is. If there is a next time, I'll do some things differently. For starters, I'll bring my own shin guards, and maybe wear something other than running shoes. And I'll definitely follow the advice I ignored the first time and take those three Advil when I get home.
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