It began with a strike, where even the most ardent baseball fans lamented, "I'll never watch again." Yet, two sluggers gave us a glimmer of hope with a season-long chase that brought baseball back from the grave dug by the hands of its own players. Mark McGwire and Sammy Sosa, it seemed, had saved baseball, convincing even the most hard-line skeptics to come back into the fold. Whispers of steroid abuse surfaced but were quickly hushed by the resurgence and economic gain sure to follow. Fast forward to today and the Mitchell report, where we learned, surprise, surprise, that abuse of illegal performance enhancing drugs is indeed widespread and has been since the epic home run battle of 1998. It seems baseball's virtuous witch hunt has reached its climax, now what?
Since the release of the report, I have been grappling with my own feelings and observations about the findings. I've struggled to decide if I care, if it even matters, and I think I've come to the conclusion that this report has saddened me. The Mitchell report reflects a troubling trend in society which is our ever-decreasing lack of good moral and ethical judgment. I'm sad because baseball, because professional sports, lacks character. Sports are what normally help to mold character, discipline individuals, force us to strive for the best, and long for that sense of immortality that comes with breaking records or heck, even earning a finisher's medal in a marathon. Yet, yesterday we realized that our national past time has come to represent a decline in basic character.
I am sad that players, who have abused illegal performance enhancing drugs, have so little character that they have taken up the mantra, "deny, deny, lie, lie," so long and with so much tenacity that somewhere along the way they have convinced themselves that what they tell is truth. I am sick of athletes telling us that they have no idea what they're injecting into their bodies, their main source of income. "Gee, Bob, I had no idea what was in the needle. You can't be suggesting that it is actually my responsibility to monitor what goes in my own body, can you?" Like that is supposed to make it all better. "Oh, I see. Well, we can't hold that against you, now can we, Mr. Baseball?"
At least Marion Jones, for whatever reason, perhaps a conscience that finally caught up with her, had the gumption to stand before us and say (paraphrased), "I'm guilty, and I'm sorry. I take the blame." (On judgment day, perhaps she can stand before the throne and look her Savior in the eye.) I am appalled that these athletes can not only look sports fans in the eye and lie, but that they can lie to their own children. Everybody is doing it, and somehow that makes it right. Shame on you athletes for sacrificing integrity, morality, and character for material gain, for greed. Of course, that is your own problem, or is it?
Senator Mitchell spent much of his speech expressing concern for the youth in this nation who look up to those players. While I have no idea how widespread teenage steroid abuse is, I am saddened that we, as parents, have come to the point that we allow our children to idolize mere human athletes to the point that those children will consider using illegal drugs to enhance their game so they can be just like their idols. Where are the coaches, trainers, PARENTS? Are we not sitting down with our own children to discuss who their heroes are and why? Are we not willing to say, "Well, you know Junior, most athletes aren't using and there is a big price to pay for those who are. If not now, sometime." Remember Ken Caminiti? Are we not teaching our children the benefits of hardwork for hardwork's sake, not monetary gain? When our children begin to use drugs for sports enhancement, shame on us for pointing our fingers to professional athletes when as parents, coaches, teachers, and trainers, we're the ones who dropped the ball somewhere.
I am also saddened that we have laws in this country that we fail to enforce. I KNOW that baseball did not have a policy in play. Say it with me, shame on you baseball! But, the law of this land does state that steroids are a controlled substance and much like narcotics, etc., can't be sold in the back of a gym. So, where is the law in all of this? Mr. Mitchell clearly pointed out in his press conference that the Justice Department does not prosecute users, they focus their efforts on those who sell. What is the point of having the law on the books, then, Mr. Mitchell? It seems that the lesson in this all is: do it, just don't get caught, and if you do, lie, but then we really can't do anything anyway, so why bother. And, I realize that nothing will be done.
Finally, I am saddened by Commissioner Bud Selig. His lack of concern, his lack of effort to stand up to the union, to the owners, to anyone really is appalling. His apparent apathy and lack of action and leadership have helped to propel this scandal to a level that will forever mar the integrity of baseball. He's quietly turned a blind eye to the problem his entire decade-long tenure. Now, baseball finally has a drug policy, but it took all of this for that to even be considered. Shame on you, shame on you, Mr. Selig, you should resign. Perhaps we can place an asterisk next to your name when we look back on this time in baseball history.
What does all of this mean for baseball, for sports? I don't really know. I'd like to think that as Americans we wake up and demand more from our "heroes." I really hope it wakes us up to examine our own ethics and character and allows us to reexamine the values we pass on to the next generation. I know it does not mean that players who used will be prosecuted now, and I don't think they should. This mess is the making of many, not just the players. From henceforth, though, three strikes and you are forever banned from the game. That's what I'd like to see. It won't happen, though. Now we can sit back and wait for the lawsuits, the name calling, the denials......and maybe one day, one day, we can just play ball and know that it's real.
Thursday, December 13, 2007
Wednesday, December 5, 2007
The Doorknob Incident
Two seconds. That's it. I turned my back for two seconds and mischief ensues.
"Stand right here, Pumpkin. Mommy will be right back; I am going to go get my t-shirt."
I walk the three feet from the hallway to the bedroom, grab my t-shirt, and turn around just in time to hear the door slam. Panicked cries soon follow.
"A, what's wrong?" I run to the bathroom door, turn the knob to find it locked. "A! You've locked the door!"
She wails and beats frantically on the door. I hear my keys jingle. Apparently, she grabbed my keys from the purse and was going to try them out on the door. Doing what all good, calm moms would do, I run downstairs, grab the phone and call my husband.
"Hey," I say urgently.
"Can I call you back?"
"Sure, but A's locked herself in the bathroom, and I don't know what to do."
I hang up the phone and jiggle the doorknob. "Turn the thing in the middle, Punky."
"Mama!"
"Hold on, I'll be right back."
I run downstairs, praying all the way that I remembered to shut the closet door. I can just picture A covered head-to-toe in baby shampoo and lotion. I grab a flat-head screwdriver and run back up the stairs.
"Mommy's back, pumpkin." I say trying to console here, while I begin to disassemble the doorknob. The phone rings.
"Hello?"
"Honey, what are you doing?" T asks.
"I am taking apart the doorknob."
"Hold on," says Mr. Sensible. "Is there a hole in the center of the knob?"
"Yes. I've almost got the screws out, though."
"All you have to do is take a coat hanger, stick it in the hole, and turn. The door will unlock."
"Oh," I say. This from the woman who just the night before fell flat on her rear trying to take off her jeans and socks at the same time. "I've got it. It opened."
Anna runs into my arms and we embrace like long lost pals. "Are you all right?"
She hugs me and hands over my keys. Thankfully, the closet door is still shut, and the only thing covered are A's teary cheeks.
"Hey," I say to T. "Thank you. We're okay." I hang up the phone and start putting the doorknob back together. At least I now know how to unlock a door with no key!
All I can say is God bless my poor husband:)
"Stand right here, Pumpkin. Mommy will be right back; I am going to go get my t-shirt."
I walk the three feet from the hallway to the bedroom, grab my t-shirt, and turn around just in time to hear the door slam. Panicked cries soon follow.
"A, what's wrong?" I run to the bathroom door, turn the knob to find it locked. "A! You've locked the door!"
She wails and beats frantically on the door. I hear my keys jingle. Apparently, she grabbed my keys from the purse and was going to try them out on the door. Doing what all good, calm moms would do, I run downstairs, grab the phone and call my husband.
"Hey," I say urgently.
"Can I call you back?"
"Sure, but A's locked herself in the bathroom, and I don't know what to do."
I hang up the phone and jiggle the doorknob. "Turn the thing in the middle, Punky."
"Mama!"
"Hold on, I'll be right back."
I run downstairs, praying all the way that I remembered to shut the closet door. I can just picture A covered head-to-toe in baby shampoo and lotion. I grab a flat-head screwdriver and run back up the stairs.
"Mommy's back, pumpkin." I say trying to console here, while I begin to disassemble the doorknob. The phone rings.
"Hello?"
"Honey, what are you doing?" T asks.
"I am taking apart the doorknob."
"Hold on," says Mr. Sensible. "Is there a hole in the center of the knob?"
"Yes. I've almost got the screws out, though."
"All you have to do is take a coat hanger, stick it in the hole, and turn. The door will unlock."
"Oh," I say. This from the woman who just the night before fell flat on her rear trying to take off her jeans and socks at the same time. "I've got it. It opened."
Anna runs into my arms and we embrace like long lost pals. "Are you all right?"
She hugs me and hands over my keys. Thankfully, the closet door is still shut, and the only thing covered are A's teary cheeks.
"Hey," I say to T. "Thank you. We're okay." I hang up the phone and start putting the doorknob back together. At least I now know how to unlock a door with no key!
All I can say is God bless my poor husband:)
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
Christmas Shopping Day 1
I decided to take A to the mall and try and do a little Christmas shopping this morning. As well as possible, I tried to maximize the potential for success, meaning I left in plenty of time to shop before naptime. Sure, it's early, but since my sweet girl gives me about one hour per outing, I decided I'd better get a head start.
Since it's Wednesday, the mall was not very crowded. (Part of our plan to avoid the mall on the weekends, so that shortens our shopping season even more.) We were even the only two in line at Chick-fil-A, where we picked up a bite and headed to the carousel to eat. A was in a great mood, so my own spirits were high. I even began to hum Christmas carols. Then we entered our first store, where singing quickly turned into bah humbugs.
Did you know that parents are expected to pay $49.50 for sweaters for children? They must because that is how much they cost, and this particular store has been in business for quite a while. This was apparently no place for toddlers either because my stroller kept getting jammed in between the racks, knocking off hundreds of tightly packed sweaters. Maybe it wasn't hundreds, but you get the idea. I must have been making quite a mess because the sales lady was circling me like a vulture. After about one half-hour of staring at the same wall of sweaters , I decided to leave and head to a department store, where I had a coupon.
A, apparently, got the mixed message that we were leaving to go home because as soon as we entered Belk, she began to whine, loudly. Don't get me wrong, I am not blaming my daughter, who is rapidly approaching age two. I , too, would have no desire to sit strapped in a stroller while my mom stares at the same sweater for over thirty minutes trying to decide if it is the right gift for a three-year-old. I, too, would rather be at home reading or playing. If I would not have been carted out in a white-jacket, I would have probably been whining and kicking right beside her, shouting, "But I don't know what to get anyone.....waaa..."but as an adult, I try to behave like one as much as possible.
About this time, a mother and her two Stepford children walked by. You know the kids: narry a hair out of place, dressed to the nines without so much as a crumb on their pristine white collars, bow centered perfectly in their freshly combed hair, holding their mother's hand, silent and smiling. The mother leans over to A, who is wearing a turqouise t-shirt, stained with the mustard sauce she used for dipping her nuggets, pink pants, and she's barefoot. Her hair is matted a little on one side with oatmeal from breakfast, and her nose, which has been running, has a nice crust forming just at the top of her lip. (In my defense, she was wearing shoes when we left the house, and I wiped her nose right after lunch.)
"You must be getting tired," the mom coos to A. "Ooh, it looks like it is somebody's naptime." (I am quickly losing the desire to behave like an adult.) She continues, "Does your mommy have you out past naptime?" Meanwhile, her children stand motionless and silent, while A begins to kick her feet, shaking the stroller.
"We're just trying to fit in some Christmas shopping before it sneaks up on us." I say through a forced smile. I really want to snap, "I know she is tired, I know, I know, I know, but I have to get started on my shopping, and unfortunately, she has to come along for the ride every now and then."
"Poor girl, you'll get your nap soon. I'm sure your mom is almost done." Does she think she is helping the situation? The lady walks off, and A who was enjoying the attention, begins to whine with even more gusto. I lean over the stroller, "Hey pumpkin, I am sorry mommy's ignoring you. We'll leave soon." Feeling like everyone is staring at the "bad mom," I quickly make my purchase and head to the car, so my pumpkin can go home for her nap. I'm so flustered that I forget about my coupon, which is only good for the one day.
A quiets down and seems to enjoy the stroller ride back to the car. My sweet girl is asleep before we even pull into our driveway. I stop the car and look back at A, who has just turned her head. Her mouth is open wide and her hair is sticking straight out where she's been sleeping on it. I giggle quietly, ease her out of the car, and walk slowly inside to her crib. Two hours of shopping, an exhausted daughter, and I can only mark one name off my list. Oh well, only 26 more to go!
Disclaimer: I do love giving to others, and I love this time of year. Few things give me greater pleasure than giving to those I truly love. I just don't like the act of shopping. The result, not so much the actual mall part. I prefer the baking, decorating, and spending time with family, enjoying each other's company!
Since it's Wednesday, the mall was not very crowded. (Part of our plan to avoid the mall on the weekends, so that shortens our shopping season even more.) We were even the only two in line at Chick-fil-A, where we picked up a bite and headed to the carousel to eat. A was in a great mood, so my own spirits were high. I even began to hum Christmas carols. Then we entered our first store, where singing quickly turned into bah humbugs.
Did you know that parents are expected to pay $49.50 for sweaters for children? They must because that is how much they cost, and this particular store has been in business for quite a while. This was apparently no place for toddlers either because my stroller kept getting jammed in between the racks, knocking off hundreds of tightly packed sweaters. Maybe it wasn't hundreds, but you get the idea. I must have been making quite a mess because the sales lady was circling me like a vulture. After about one half-hour of staring at the same wall of sweaters , I decided to leave and head to a department store, where I had a coupon.
A, apparently, got the mixed message that we were leaving to go home because as soon as we entered Belk, she began to whine, loudly. Don't get me wrong, I am not blaming my daughter, who is rapidly approaching age two. I , too, would have no desire to sit strapped in a stroller while my mom stares at the same sweater for over thirty minutes trying to decide if it is the right gift for a three-year-old. I, too, would rather be at home reading or playing. If I would not have been carted out in a white-jacket, I would have probably been whining and kicking right beside her, shouting, "But I don't know what to get anyone.....waaa..."but as an adult, I try to behave like one as much as possible.
About this time, a mother and her two Stepford children walked by. You know the kids: narry a hair out of place, dressed to the nines without so much as a crumb on their pristine white collars, bow centered perfectly in their freshly combed hair, holding their mother's hand, silent and smiling. The mother leans over to A, who is wearing a turqouise t-shirt, stained with the mustard sauce she used for dipping her nuggets, pink pants, and she's barefoot. Her hair is matted a little on one side with oatmeal from breakfast, and her nose, which has been running, has a nice crust forming just at the top of her lip. (In my defense, she was wearing shoes when we left the house, and I wiped her nose right after lunch.)
"You must be getting tired," the mom coos to A. "Ooh, it looks like it is somebody's naptime." (I am quickly losing the desire to behave like an adult.) She continues, "Does your mommy have you out past naptime?" Meanwhile, her children stand motionless and silent, while A begins to kick her feet, shaking the stroller.
"We're just trying to fit in some Christmas shopping before it sneaks up on us." I say through a forced smile. I really want to snap, "I know she is tired, I know, I know, I know, but I have to get started on my shopping, and unfortunately, she has to come along for the ride every now and then."
"Poor girl, you'll get your nap soon. I'm sure your mom is almost done." Does she think she is helping the situation? The lady walks off, and A who was enjoying the attention, begins to whine with even more gusto. I lean over the stroller, "Hey pumpkin, I am sorry mommy's ignoring you. We'll leave soon." Feeling like everyone is staring at the "bad mom," I quickly make my purchase and head to the car, so my pumpkin can go home for her nap. I'm so flustered that I forget about my coupon, which is only good for the one day.
A quiets down and seems to enjoy the stroller ride back to the car. My sweet girl is asleep before we even pull into our driveway. I stop the car and look back at A, who has just turned her head. Her mouth is open wide and her hair is sticking straight out where she's been sleeping on it. I giggle quietly, ease her out of the car, and walk slowly inside to her crib. Two hours of shopping, an exhausted daughter, and I can only mark one name off my list. Oh well, only 26 more to go!
Disclaimer: I do love giving to others, and I love this time of year. Few things give me greater pleasure than giving to those I truly love. I just don't like the act of shopping. The result, not so much the actual mall part. I prefer the baking, decorating, and spending time with family, enjoying each other's company!
Thursday, November 8, 2007
It's Early, Real Early
Fortunately, college basketball has a playoff. Kentucky, you can breathe a sigh of relief, or can you? While parity is certainly not a novelty in college basketball, I doubt it has reached the level where Gardner-Webb should be stunning the 20th ranked team in the nation. The loss certainly stunned me, a fan who has waited with baited, yet eager breath to see just what the Cats new head coach is capable of. It didn't look like much last night.
A game that normally would be overlooked because we're still in the thick of football season is grabbing the media spotlight, mainly because of a new unknown factor in Rupp, head coach, Billy Gillispie. When Tubby Smith won a national championship after taking the reigns from Rick Pitino, I had high hopes for the future of Kentucky basketball. This from a girl who cried, boo-hooed, actually, when Christian Laetner stripped the game winning shot to take away the title from the Cats during the Duke dynasty. "We've got our man," I thought. That man would coach well but not good enough for Wildcat fans who wanted a return to the Rupp era. He just didn't recruit the type of talent needed to produce Final Four teams, year in and year out. (Yet, in the era of play one year, go pro, who can blame him?)
Bring in Gillispie. A new coach, a new era. I still have high hopes for Kentucky and Gillispie. I am sure last night was just a fluke. Even Izzo lost to a Division II team this week. Ohio State, too, fell to a team that most of us won't remember unless they show up in our brackets. This could say several things. The players didn't show up mentally, or they just weren't ready to play, or because it was exhibition against cupcakes maybe they just didn't care. Whatever it says, I think my husband said it best when he quipped, "It doesn't count anyway does it?" Ahh, the beauty of college basketball, finish the season strong and who knows where you'll go!
A game that normally would be overlooked because we're still in the thick of football season is grabbing the media spotlight, mainly because of a new unknown factor in Rupp, head coach, Billy Gillispie. When Tubby Smith won a national championship after taking the reigns from Rick Pitino, I had high hopes for the future of Kentucky basketball. This from a girl who cried, boo-hooed, actually, when Christian Laetner stripped the game winning shot to take away the title from the Cats during the Duke dynasty. "We've got our man," I thought. That man would coach well but not good enough for Wildcat fans who wanted a return to the Rupp era. He just didn't recruit the type of talent needed to produce Final Four teams, year in and year out. (Yet, in the era of play one year, go pro, who can blame him?)
Bring in Gillispie. A new coach, a new era. I still have high hopes for Kentucky and Gillispie. I am sure last night was just a fluke. Even Izzo lost to a Division II team this week. Ohio State, too, fell to a team that most of us won't remember unless they show up in our brackets. This could say several things. The players didn't show up mentally, or they just weren't ready to play, or because it was exhibition against cupcakes maybe they just didn't care. Whatever it says, I think my husband said it best when he quipped, "It doesn't count anyway does it?" Ahh, the beauty of college basketball, finish the season strong and who knows where you'll go!
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
Pumpkin Patch Blues
I love this time of year. Brisk afternoons, brilliant blue skies....and most importantly, holidays. Just thinking about the impending fun of Halloween, feasts of Thanksgiving, and sweet, sacredness of Christmas makes me giddy. Those quirky rituals that my family insists on celebrating year in and year out are what makes this time of year so memorable and full of anticipation, so who could blame me when in a momentary lapse of sanity, (perhaps it was all of that cool, fresh air) I decide that my little girl, A, at the ripe old age of 20 months is ready to create some holiday memories of her own. First stop: the pumpkin patch. What better place for an afternoon breakdown, I mean, an afternoon of creating new traditions.I check the Internet for the nearest pumpkin patch and discover one that is just thirty miles south of town. Convinced of its sincerity, I print out the directions and slip into my seasonal, but subtle, pumpkin t-shirt. A, too, puts on her pumpkin t-shirt. (Of course, they don't match...that would be too over-the-top.) I grab the directions, and we are on our way.....
Exactly thirty miles into our trip, the time we should be arriving, A begins to whine, so I offer her a pacifier then look to T, "How many miles have we been?"
"I don't know about thirty."
"It is only supposed to be thirty miles from our house."
A, who loves car trips, tosses her pacifier and whines with even more vigor. Taking our snacks for the pumpkin patch, I appease our own little pumpkin. Thirty miles later, now snack less, we finally reach our destination. Signpost number 1 on the highway of realizing that this afternoon will probably not be the picturesque Rockwell painting I am hoping for. Number 2 is soon to follow.
Travis takes A out of the car, and hand-in-hand, we begin the ascent from the parking lot to the actual pumpkin patch. All is well until A decides that she no longer wants to hold our hands, so she flings herself into oncoming traffic and flails about on the ground. Acting as if this is completely normal behavior, I pick her up and carry my screeching child to the entrance.
The scene that unfolds immediately captures A's attention. A quaint hillside has been transformed into a lively carnival. Barns are filled with jack-o-lanterns and scarecrows, watching weary parents chase their children down a steep hill, admonishing them not to enter the hayride without permission. The excitement has apparently rendered the youngsters deaf and they, of course, ignore the warnings.
"Ball!" A screams and points to a wagon full of tiny pumpkins. Sensing an excellent photo-op, I put A down and watch her walk over to the wagon, pick up the miniature gourd and toss it to the ground. "Ball!" she shouts proudly. I rush over to make sure the $3.00 pumpkin is still intact. "Pumpkin, sweetheart," I say. "That is a pumpkin. Hold it and smile for mommy." A turns from me and throws another gourd. "Smile for mommy. Say cheese."
"Cheesh," she says, looking down at the ground.
"Look up baby. Mommy wants to see your face in the picture. Hold the pumpkin and say cheese." I snap frantically,waiting for the smile that I expect one to be wearing at a pumpkin patch. I look around to see about five other sets of parents on their knees, begging, pleading with their toddlers to smile. Did I mention toddlers? Truthfully, we parents are the real Kodak moment. Asking our little ones to cease discovering the world with wonder, hold up a pumpkin, and pose on cue. All we need is the organ grinder.
I throw my hands up in defeat and find T in line for the hayride. A and I join him and soon we are sitting in the back of a wagon on bales of hay slowly plodding through the woods on our way to choose a pumpkin. A's face is actually gleeful as she bumps along, waving to those left behind in line. Finally, the picture I've been trying to get for hours. We pull up to rows of dusty vines filled with rather sad, disfigured pumpkins. A jumps down and runs toward the orange "balls", eventually tripping and flying through the air. I run to dust off her t-shirt and make sure she's all right, and before I can get to her, she is off again. "This," she says confidently, pointing to a pumpkin. T and I look around and agree that it is probably the best one in the bunch. Picking up the pumpkin we head back to the line for the wagon ride back. Things seem to be finally going as planned.
What is it they say? We plan, God laughs?? An elderly volunteer is counting us off, trying to get as many as possible into the wagon. After about a twenty minute wait, in the warm, dusty patch, he sends T, A, and me through the line, but we are abruptly turned back from the full wagon. No big deal, another one will be there soon. Unless in your twenty month old mind, you think that is it, and you will not be repeating the highlight of your day. I slowly head back to the line with A in my arms, when the reality hits her. Her lip begins to quiver and she exhales a wail that would wake the dead. I try to explain that we are next in line, but A is rolling in the dust as large tears drip off the edge of her nose. The man behind me in line laughs. I didn't get a good look at his face for fear that my glare would have turned him to stone. Finally, the wagon returns, and we take our pumpkin to the car and drive home, dusty, hot, thirsty, and tired.
The next evening we decide to start another tradition: carving the pumpkin. Surely A will love this. Running around the yard in a diaper, squishing orange gunk with her toes. We plop the pumpkin down in the front yard and begin to remove the insides and draw the outline for the eyes and mouth. A is fascinated for about thirty seconds then she runs to the side of the house, looks to me, and asks, "Dell?"
"No sweetheart. I don't think Dell would be very interested." Actually, our golden retriever would be more thrilled than A with the pumpkin carving, but I keep that to myself. A runs to the backyard to check on Dell, while T and I carve the pumpkin alone.
At dusk, we decide to light our jack-o-lantern. A and I sit on the front porch steps, watching Travis ignite the small candle. Jack's mug begins to glow, and Anna's own face lights up as well. Still wearing only her diaper and a dirty t-shirt, she leans forward and points to the pumpkin's eyes. "Eye," she says. For a moment, she is mesmerized. The three of us sit together in the twilight watching the glow, and I hug A close. We are making a real memory, not an unnatural, imposed event for the sake of creating a tradition. This is a moment that I will always treasure, sitting on the front porch with the two I love most, watching the youngest filled with wonder. In my desperation to create for A the warm memories that I now treasure, I realize that I was just trying too hard earlier. I tuck the lesson away for later, but Christmas is just around the corner.....and there is this light display that we always liked to visit when I was a child....
Friday, October 26, 2007
Spin Revue
I don't know what it is, but I have a funny relationship with music as it relates to working out. I have discovered that this is especially true in spin. I don't know if you've ever taken a spin class, but it is easily the most difficult workout that I have ever attempted. You basically bike to music at high intensity without any rest period for sixty minutes. I have found that spin class is now ruining songs that I once really liked.
I first discovered this phenomenon in college when I was taking an aerobics class. The instructor always played "I Would Walk Five Hundred Miles." (Not that I had a particular affinity toward this song to begin with) I think that is the name of it. Was it the Pretenders or I can't remember who sings it, but he used that song for the most difficult part of the class, and whenever I would hear it outside of class, I immediately became winded.
In spin, during sprints, the instructors seem to enjoy playing REM's "End of the World." I like this song, something about Tommy Boy, but whenever I hear it, I picture David Spade and Chris Farley singing in the car, and I laugh. I think we can all relate to acting like we actually know the words to that one. Now when I hear it, my legs ache and I want to cry. I also like Nickelback's "Rockstar," but no, that now reminds me of horrible hill climbs. Something as innocent and fun as "It's Raining Men" is now a sprint song, as well. Songs I enjoy are slowly becoming painful reminders of pedaling to exhaustion.
Even the tunes that Anna and I listen to on Radio Disney aren't safe. I'll admit it. I like Corbin Bleu's "Push It to the Limit." You know, he's one of the kids from High School Musical. My spin instructor played that in class on Wednesday. Now instead of wanting to dance when I hear it, I'll have memories of sprints again. Don't get me wrong, I love spin for the challenge that it provides, but I don't want to be reminded of something that almost brings me to tears every time I participate.
Maybe this is why I listen to talk radio when I run. I can remember what segment was playing during certain runs and where I was on the trail during that segment. Seriously, when I was training for a half-marathon this spring, I remember that Andy Phillips was on the Rick and Bubba show and I was just passing Homewood High School in my run. I can also remember that Dunaway and Brown were doing their pick 3 when I was running by Brookwood Mall two weeks ago. It's weird, but, you usually only hear those segments one time.
The only type of music that is safe from being spoiled for me is cool down music. The instructors I have usually play praise and worship music for cooldown, which is perfect. For one, your finished with class, but it also reminds me that God gave me the physical ability and opportunity to participate in class and for that He deserves praise. It always leaves me wanting to do it again. Maybe as I become a better biker, the music will start to serve as a reminder of success. Now if you'll excuse me, I am going to go listen to my High School musical soundtrack.....
I first discovered this phenomenon in college when I was taking an aerobics class. The instructor always played "I Would Walk Five Hundred Miles." (Not that I had a particular affinity toward this song to begin with) I think that is the name of it. Was it the Pretenders or I can't remember who sings it, but he used that song for the most difficult part of the class, and whenever I would hear it outside of class, I immediately became winded.
In spin, during sprints, the instructors seem to enjoy playing REM's "End of the World." I like this song, something about Tommy Boy, but whenever I hear it, I picture David Spade and Chris Farley singing in the car, and I laugh. I think we can all relate to acting like we actually know the words to that one. Now when I hear it, my legs ache and I want to cry. I also like Nickelback's "Rockstar," but no, that now reminds me of horrible hill climbs. Something as innocent and fun as "It's Raining Men" is now a sprint song, as well. Songs I enjoy are slowly becoming painful reminders of pedaling to exhaustion.
Even the tunes that Anna and I listen to on Radio Disney aren't safe. I'll admit it. I like Corbin Bleu's "Push It to the Limit." You know, he's one of the kids from High School Musical. My spin instructor played that in class on Wednesday. Now instead of wanting to dance when I hear it, I'll have memories of sprints again. Don't get me wrong, I love spin for the challenge that it provides, but I don't want to be reminded of something that almost brings me to tears every time I participate.
Maybe this is why I listen to talk radio when I run. I can remember what segment was playing during certain runs and where I was on the trail during that segment. Seriously, when I was training for a half-marathon this spring, I remember that Andy Phillips was on the Rick and Bubba show and I was just passing Homewood High School in my run. I can also remember that Dunaway and Brown were doing their pick 3 when I was running by Brookwood Mall two weeks ago. It's weird, but, you usually only hear those segments one time.
The only type of music that is safe from being spoiled for me is cool down music. The instructors I have usually play praise and worship music for cooldown, which is perfect. For one, your finished with class, but it also reminds me that God gave me the physical ability and opportunity to participate in class and for that He deserves praise. It always leaves me wanting to do it again. Maybe as I become a better biker, the music will start to serve as a reminder of success. Now if you'll excuse me, I am going to go listen to my High School musical soundtrack.....
Sunday, October 7, 2007
Topsy Turvy
The PAC-10's mighty roar sounds more like a meow after Stanford stunned USC Saturday night and UCLA fell victim to an, until then, WINLESS Notre Dame. Victory could not have tasted much sweeter for Les Miles, whose risky calls allowed the Tigers to eek past Florida, but we all know his grin widened when the final of the USC game was announced. LSU is undeniably the number 1 team in the nation, for now. The bigger question is, who deserves the all-important number 2 spot?
It seems that the pollsters in their infinite wisdom have crowned fellow PAC-10 rival Cal #2 in the land. Is that because they beat a mid-pack SEC team? Is it because they beat a "tough" Oregon team? Must we have a PAC-10 team in the number 2 spot because their conference has been heralded as the second toughest in the land? I know I'll be cheering for another "upset" when Cal meets USC on the field. Let's mix things up even more, shall we?
What about Ohio State? Did their 2006 championship game loss to Florida also cause them to lose their status as media darling? South Florida, anyone? They toppled the then highly-ranked West Virginia Mountaineers and an Auburn team, that seems to have finally found its rhythm.
Is there a one loss team that is more deserving of the number two spot than Cal? South Carolina looked impressive against Kentucky. If the SEC is the best conference and South Carolina's loss came to a fellow SEC team then.....? Oklahoma played well against a Texas team that struggled against a Kansas State team that, until Saturday, had been playing good football.
How tough are the Big 12, Big East, Big 10 really? Another question that must be answered before choosing for the coveted number 2. Obviously pollsters still feel that the SEC and PAC-10 are the two toughest conferences, or do they? Why did USC fall all the way to number 10? Weren't they number 2? The second best team in the country? Now they rank below West Virginia, who I don't think deserves to be ranked that highly.
In a year where so many top-ranked teams have been upset, I think all of this question asking begs an even greater question: How do we know who should fill the number 2 spot? Obviously, polls are unreliable. Why is the number 2 team on the totem poll so important? They get to play for the national championship, a championship that truly doesn't amount to much. Why, you ask? Just look at how well those human voters, entering numbers for the computer rankings, have done at picking and choosing thus far. Does anyone remember the Michigan pre-season hype???!! I think if this season has taught us anything thus far, it is that college football desperately needs a playoff. Tangible answers to hypothetical questions played out on the field, not mythical championships leaving legitimate teams on the outside looking in. But more on this later....
It seems that the pollsters in their infinite wisdom have crowned fellow PAC-10 rival Cal #2 in the land. Is that because they beat a mid-pack SEC team? Is it because they beat a "tough" Oregon team? Must we have a PAC-10 team in the number 2 spot because their conference has been heralded as the second toughest in the land? I know I'll be cheering for another "upset" when Cal meets USC on the field. Let's mix things up even more, shall we?
What about Ohio State? Did their 2006 championship game loss to Florida also cause them to lose their status as media darling? South Florida, anyone? They toppled the then highly-ranked West Virginia Mountaineers and an Auburn team, that seems to have finally found its rhythm.
Is there a one loss team that is more deserving of the number two spot than Cal? South Carolina looked impressive against Kentucky. If the SEC is the best conference and South Carolina's loss came to a fellow SEC team then.....? Oklahoma played well against a Texas team that struggled against a Kansas State team that, until Saturday, had been playing good football.
How tough are the Big 12, Big East, Big 10 really? Another question that must be answered before choosing for the coveted number 2. Obviously pollsters still feel that the SEC and PAC-10 are the two toughest conferences, or do they? Why did USC fall all the way to number 10? Weren't they number 2? The second best team in the country? Now they rank below West Virginia, who I don't think deserves to be ranked that highly.
In a year where so many top-ranked teams have been upset, I think all of this question asking begs an even greater question: How do we know who should fill the number 2 spot? Obviously, polls are unreliable. Why is the number 2 team on the totem poll so important? They get to play for the national championship, a championship that truly doesn't amount to much. Why, you ask? Just look at how well those human voters, entering numbers for the computer rankings, have done at picking and choosing thus far. Does anyone remember the Michigan pre-season hype???!! I think if this season has taught us anything thus far, it is that college football desperately needs a playoff. Tangible answers to hypothetical questions played out on the field, not mythical championships leaving legitimate teams on the outside looking in. But more on this later....
Monday, October 1, 2007
"Upset" in the Swamp
Auburn flags have once again returned to car windows everywhere, flapping proudly in the breeze, as in the drivers' minds, thoughts of a season-salvaging comback are percolating. I hope they do not end up with a pot of disappointment, though. (Isn't it funny how quickly boos for Brandon and cries for Tuberville's job can change to congratulatory cheers?)
I was not surprised by Saturday night's victory over Florida. Shocking, I know, especially from someone who has been concerned by a team riddled with inconsistency. Why the lack of astonishment? Because when Florida is ranked, Auburn, it seems, always has their number. I did not doubt that the Tigers could handle Florida, even in "the Swamp." I realize that this is a different team from the one last year, and in 2001, and in 1994. The truth remains that Auburn has won four out of the five last games when Florida is ranked in the top four. Auburn's loss to USF and struggle against Kansas State also don't appear so dismal, considering both of those teams also toppled highly ranked teams this weekend.
That being said, Auburn does look like a team poised for a comeback, but questions still remain. Week-in and week-out, can Tuberville effectively utilize the two quarterback format? Will he have to, or has Brandon Cox again found his rhythm? Will the return of Lester continue to revitalize Auburn's offense? While I agree that Auburn looks to be slowly finding its way, I remain cautiously optimistic. Optimistic enough to return my own Auburn flag proudly to its place in the front yard.
I was not surprised by Saturday night's victory over Florida. Shocking, I know, especially from someone who has been concerned by a team riddled with inconsistency. Why the lack of astonishment? Because when Florida is ranked, Auburn, it seems, always has their number. I did not doubt that the Tigers could handle Florida, even in "the Swamp." I realize that this is a different team from the one last year, and in 2001, and in 1994. The truth remains that Auburn has won four out of the five last games when Florida is ranked in the top four. Auburn's loss to USF and struggle against Kansas State also don't appear so dismal, considering both of those teams also toppled highly ranked teams this weekend.
That being said, Auburn does look like a team poised for a comeback, but questions still remain. Week-in and week-out, can Tuberville effectively utilize the two quarterback format? Will he have to, or has Brandon Cox again found his rhythm? Will the return of Lester continue to revitalize Auburn's offense? While I agree that Auburn looks to be slowly finding its way, I remain cautiously optimistic. Optimistic enough to return my own Auburn flag proudly to its place in the front yard.
Thoughts on Smoke's Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Weekend
From Auburn flags to checkered flags.... I do realize that many of you have abandoned race season entirely for football, but how can you turn away from a sport with so many characters, or should I say caricatures??? Tony Stewart, love him or hate him, and I know most of you do. After all, there is no in-between with Tony. After his short-lived image makeover, Stewart has once again re staked his claim on the position of NASCAR's bad boy. (And while future teammate, Kyle Busch, has tried to steal the moniker for himself, we all know he could never be taken seriously enough by fans or competitors to truly claim the title.)
Since the death of Dale Earnhardt, Sr., Tony has long felt it was up to him to fill the void that Earnhardt left in the sport. You know, showing newbies the ropes, even if it means using a little tough love on the unwitting rookies, letting reporters and competitors know where they stand, and when "wronged" by a fellow driver, always taking matters into his own hands. A polite shove on the track or after the race. For some reason, all of this helpfulness seems to have built up a little animosity. It seems that NASCAR has possibly grown tired of Stewart's loose cannon approach to life.
This weekend turned out to be a rough one for the driver of the number 20, much of it of his own making. While I don't condone coarse language in public or even in the home, Tony was having a private conversation with another driver. NASCAR made the right decision in not fining Tony, but vengeance can be taken other ways. All right, I'm not suggesting that NASCAR restarted the race after a long rain delay because Stewart was in first place (even though NASCAR tends to be controlling, they didn't make it rain, God controls the weather), but how hurriedly would the track have been readied if Gordon or Johnson had been in the lead? All right, maybe I am suggesting that. This is a governing organization that expanded the chase from 10 drivers to 12 to be sure that NASCAR's FAN sweetheart, Earnhardt, Jr., and NASCAR sweetheart Jeff Gordon were part of it.
Stewart was leading when the rain started, and it poured and poured, and then the shadows of evening began to set in. The race was beyond the half-way mark. On a track with no lights, I think the wise decision would have been to call the race and go home, but that would mean Stewart, a Stewart who "embarrassed" NASCAR on national television (more than once), would not only win the race but would be first in points. No conspiracy theories, just questioning their judgment, that's all. After the restart, within minutes, cars were flying all over the track. The oil and rubber were gone, leaving the track slick. NASCAR's decision seemed dangerous and was detrimental to many of the "chasers" they seem so quick to protect. Again, bad judgment on their part.
(Disclaimer, Tony Stewart is my favorite race-car driver. Why? Outside of being a great driver, one of the best, I think beyond the bad boy, Stewart has a big heart. Like most NASCAR drivers, he seems to follow the principle of to whom much is given, much is expected, and dedicates much of his time to charitable work. I think the NASCAR image is as much of an act as anything.)
Since the death of Dale Earnhardt, Sr., Tony has long felt it was up to him to fill the void that Earnhardt left in the sport. You know, showing newbies the ropes, even if it means using a little tough love on the unwitting rookies, letting reporters and competitors know where they stand, and when "wronged" by a fellow driver, always taking matters into his own hands. A polite shove on the track or after the race. For some reason, all of this helpfulness seems to have built up a little animosity. It seems that NASCAR has possibly grown tired of Stewart's loose cannon approach to life.
This weekend turned out to be a rough one for the driver of the number 20, much of it of his own making. While I don't condone coarse language in public or even in the home, Tony was having a private conversation with another driver. NASCAR made the right decision in not fining Tony, but vengeance can be taken other ways. All right, I'm not suggesting that NASCAR restarted the race after a long rain delay because Stewart was in first place (even though NASCAR tends to be controlling, they didn't make it rain, God controls the weather), but how hurriedly would the track have been readied if Gordon or Johnson had been in the lead? All right, maybe I am suggesting that. This is a governing organization that expanded the chase from 10 drivers to 12 to be sure that NASCAR's FAN sweetheart, Earnhardt, Jr., and NASCAR sweetheart Jeff Gordon were part of it.
Stewart was leading when the rain started, and it poured and poured, and then the shadows of evening began to set in. The race was beyond the half-way mark. On a track with no lights, I think the wise decision would have been to call the race and go home, but that would mean Stewart, a Stewart who "embarrassed" NASCAR on national television (more than once), would not only win the race but would be first in points. No conspiracy theories, just questioning their judgment, that's all. After the restart, within minutes, cars were flying all over the track. The oil and rubber were gone, leaving the track slick. NASCAR's decision seemed dangerous and was detrimental to many of the "chasers" they seem so quick to protect. Again, bad judgment on their part.
(Disclaimer, Tony Stewart is my favorite race-car driver. Why? Outside of being a great driver, one of the best, I think beyond the bad boy, Stewart has a big heart. Like most NASCAR drivers, he seems to follow the principle of to whom much is given, much is expected, and dedicates much of his time to charitable work. I think the NASCAR image is as much of an act as anything.)
Friday, September 21, 2007
Toy Story
Just now, as I was attempting to change the battery in my daughter's favorite toy, I realized that Hasbro or Mattel or any of the other hundreds of toy companies should be placed in charge of national security. I also think they should revise the directions for changing the batteries in the singing Elmo book to as follows:
Step 1- Locate screwdriver so tiny that it must only exist in the imaginary world in which my daughter plays.
Step 2- Find batteries so small that if swallowed they would choke only Thumbellina.
Step 3- Try to fit impossibly small screwdriver into impossibly small screw and attempt to carefully twist out the screw without losing it for eternity somewhere on the kitchen floor.
Step 4- Insert new batteries without same dilemma occuring as in step 3.
Step 5- Do all of this with toddler tugging on your leg crying desperately for her favorite book.
Step 6- Relish child's joy. The smile on her adorable face when she discovers that after three weeks her favorite toy is again working because mommy finally remembered to buy AAA batteries makes steps 1-5 worth every minute! What a blessing.
Step 1- Locate screwdriver so tiny that it must only exist in the imaginary world in which my daughter plays.
Step 2- Find batteries so small that if swallowed they would choke only Thumbellina.
Step 3- Try to fit impossibly small screwdriver into impossibly small screw and attempt to carefully twist out the screw without losing it for eternity somewhere on the kitchen floor.
Step 4- Insert new batteries without same dilemma occuring as in step 3.
Step 5- Do all of this with toddler tugging on your leg crying desperately for her favorite book.
Step 6- Relish child's joy. The smile on her adorable face when she discovers that after three weeks her favorite toy is again working because mommy finally remembered to buy AAA batteries makes steps 1-5 worth every minute! What a blessing.
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
Looking for a Hero
You asked the question, and on Saturday, Auburn supplied the answer. Can a true freshman, inexperienced quarterback bring Auburn back from the brink and salvage what has become a disappointing start to the 2007 season? It seems that would be a resounding, NO! Well, there you have it. The next question is, "Now what?"
When Kodi Burns entered the game in the second quarter, his play seemed to ignite a small fire under what looks like a lukewarm Tiger offense. Could it be possible that this young man is the answer? Thirty short minutes and a turnover later, Auburn fans received another cold dose of reality. This team is in trouble. Despite a wealth of talent, it looks like Auburn's offense has a dearth of cohesiveness. Sure, defense can win ballgames, and Auburn's defense is playing strong despite offensive woes. But, without any offensive oomph, Auburn is left with a loss to one of the worst teams in the SEC.
Many fans are wondering why Tuberville didn't allow Cox to take us to the red zone in the last minutes of play and then reinsert Burns to finish the job. While Cox's knowledge of the playbook might be an advantage, his inability to get past the 20 yard line is certainly a disadvantage that Burns might have overcome. I am not a coach nor a sports writer, so I choose not to second guess coaching decisions, but I am afraid that is what will be coming next. Do I hear tom toms in the background beating a familiar tune?
When fans are left shaking their heads and wringing their hands, it is usually the coach who bears the brunt of the frustration. In this case, it is ridiculous to assume that Tuberville has suddenly lost his ability to coach, so slow down Auburn fans. Remember who has won an SEC championship, taken you to an undefeated season, and still has one of the highest overall winning percentages in the NCAA. All teams experience slumps, downturns, moments of adversity. One down season does not a disaster make. I remember a down season, not too long ago, when a struggling Auburn team "shocked the world" and Spurrier with a surprising victory over Florida. Don't underestimate Tommy's ability to turn things around. Before you hop on a plane to Lousiville or Atlanta, let's give it a few more weeks before we start the call for Tuberville's head.
When Kodi Burns entered the game in the second quarter, his play seemed to ignite a small fire under what looks like a lukewarm Tiger offense. Could it be possible that this young man is the answer? Thirty short minutes and a turnover later, Auburn fans received another cold dose of reality. This team is in trouble. Despite a wealth of talent, it looks like Auburn's offense has a dearth of cohesiveness. Sure, defense can win ballgames, and Auburn's defense is playing strong despite offensive woes. But, without any offensive oomph, Auburn is left with a loss to one of the worst teams in the SEC.
Many fans are wondering why Tuberville didn't allow Cox to take us to the red zone in the last minutes of play and then reinsert Burns to finish the job. While Cox's knowledge of the playbook might be an advantage, his inability to get past the 20 yard line is certainly a disadvantage that Burns might have overcome. I am not a coach nor a sports writer, so I choose not to second guess coaching decisions, but I am afraid that is what will be coming next. Do I hear tom toms in the background beating a familiar tune?
When fans are left shaking their heads and wringing their hands, it is usually the coach who bears the brunt of the frustration. In this case, it is ridiculous to assume that Tuberville has suddenly lost his ability to coach, so slow down Auburn fans. Remember who has won an SEC championship, taken you to an undefeated season, and still has one of the highest overall winning percentages in the NCAA. All teams experience slumps, downturns, moments of adversity. One down season does not a disaster make. I remember a down season, not too long ago, when a struggling Auburn team "shocked the world" and Spurrier with a surprising victory over Florida. Don't underestimate Tommy's ability to turn things around. Before you hop on a plane to Lousiville or Atlanta, let's give it a few more weeks before we start the call for Tuberville's head.
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
Offensively Woeful
Last week, while many decided to remain calm, I hit the panic button. Something about Auburn's unimpressive victory over Kansas State left me feeling uneasy and pessimistic. In a brief moment of optimism, though, I looked to my husband on Saturday, as Nova circled Jordan Hare, and said, "You know, I really think that upsets are the sexy pick of the week. I really don't think Auburn has anything to worry about tonight." By the end of the first quarter, I was in the kitchen, frantically searching for Rolaids.
Brandon Cox's careless play, Al Borges's uncreative offense, where do I begin? While I realize that USF beat West Virginia last year, Louisville the year before, those are Big East teams, not an SEC powerhouse. Auburn should have out run, outscored, and outperformed a team that has only been in existence for ten years. That being said, I don't know that USF beat Auburn as much as Auburn beat itself.
Each time Auburn's offense, namely Mario Fanin, began to show signs of life, the next predictable play sequence put the ball back into a struggling quarterback's hands. Watching Fanin, I was almost reminded of another running back whose career was catapulted by a night of similar offensive struggles, but unlike Kenny Irons, Fanin never managed to break out. When Auburn's quarterbacks have struggled, they have always been able to find their running game, but that does not seem to be a possibility this season.
While many are calling for the benching of Brandon Cox, though, I think the problem is greater than the quarterback. I don't believe that Cox is suddenly suffering from a lack of talent or ability; his mistakes seem as much mental as they do an ineptness of execution. Perhaps the loss of Brad Lester has affected the team's psyche more than we as fans, media, etc. realize. If Borges built his offense around the experience and leadership of Cox and Lester then of course, the team would struggle with the loss of one of those key players. Watching Cox fall apart on Saturday was much like witnessing a golfer suddenly losing his swing or a closer suddenly losing his ability to find the strike zone. That loss of mental focus can destroy an athlete.
Maybe my worries are premature and Cox will recapture his focus and Borges will recapture his offense. I hope so. Of course, the real reason Auburn lost this weekend could be as simple as the fact that I forgot to fly my Auburn garden flag. I'll be sure to put it out this Saturday, and we'll see what happens.
Brandon Cox's careless play, Al Borges's uncreative offense, where do I begin? While I realize that USF beat West Virginia last year, Louisville the year before, those are Big East teams, not an SEC powerhouse. Auburn should have out run, outscored, and outperformed a team that has only been in existence for ten years. That being said, I don't know that USF beat Auburn as much as Auburn beat itself.
Each time Auburn's offense, namely Mario Fanin, began to show signs of life, the next predictable play sequence put the ball back into a struggling quarterback's hands. Watching Fanin, I was almost reminded of another running back whose career was catapulted by a night of similar offensive struggles, but unlike Kenny Irons, Fanin never managed to break out. When Auburn's quarterbacks have struggled, they have always been able to find their running game, but that does not seem to be a possibility this season.
While many are calling for the benching of Brandon Cox, though, I think the problem is greater than the quarterback. I don't believe that Cox is suddenly suffering from a lack of talent or ability; his mistakes seem as much mental as they do an ineptness of execution. Perhaps the loss of Brad Lester has affected the team's psyche more than we as fans, media, etc. realize. If Borges built his offense around the experience and leadership of Cox and Lester then of course, the team would struggle with the loss of one of those key players. Watching Cox fall apart on Saturday was much like witnessing a golfer suddenly losing his swing or a closer suddenly losing his ability to find the strike zone. That loss of mental focus can destroy an athlete.
Maybe my worries are premature and Cox will recapture his focus and Borges will recapture his offense. I hope so. Of course, the real reason Auburn lost this weekend could be as simple as the fact that I forgot to fly my Auburn garden flag. I'll be sure to put it out this Saturday, and we'll see what happens.
I Am Mommy; Hear Me Roar
After forty-five minutes of asking, pleading, coaxing, yes, even begging, A to take a nap, I finally give up. So, at four in the afternoon, I am seized by a momentary loss of sensibilities and decide instead to take my hungry, un-napped child to the grocery store. I thought nap time had been a struggle; little did I know, the produce section is where the real battle was to begin, an epic battle of wills.
Of course, on the way into the store, I might have casually mentioned to A that she should not be surprised if we happened to stroll by the cookie counter and find that mommy's free cookie card has decided to jump out of her wallet. In my mind, I am fantasizing about how the cookie will insure her angelic behavior and get us out of the store unscathed. In reality, I walk into the grocery and choose the one buggy with the strap that refuses to buckle.
In the split second it takes A to realize that mommy is struggling with said buckle, she is standing in the front of the cart demanding to get out and walk. "No, A," I coax. "Mommy really needs you to sit nicely in the cart and help her find the pearl onions." (Whatever those are??) She begins to scream like I've just taken away her favorite toy then proceeds to kick her legs so that it is impossible to strap her into the cart. "A," I whisper with urgency. Finally, I manage, without having to earn my engineering degree, to get the buckle fastened, and we are off. Score one point for mommy.
Meanwhile, A is still screaming. People are beginning to stare. I am pushing the cart, smiling, as though nothing is wrong. People are now looking at me like "do you not hear her screaming?" "No," my smile says, and if I do hear her, I refuse to acknowledge it. It is part of the battle plan. Never show fear. I can only imagine how we must appear: smiling mommy, humming, looking at her list, pushing adorable, blonde, screaming banshee. "A," I say, using my trump card, "if you stop screaming, mommy will get you that cookie." I did promise the cookie after all, but how do I explain to the clerk why I am buying a treat for my daughter who is in the throes of misbehavior?
A gets choked from screaming and begins to cough. An elderly lady in the frozen foods aisle glares at me with a look that says, "how could you? That poor girl is choking." Swayed by the pressure, I almost give in and pick her up out of the cart, but if I do then from now on, I must give in to her demands. The precedent will have been set, so I choose to stand strong. Instead I pat her on the back and in the moment of silence, pretend the cart is a car. "Vrooom," I shout, while pushing the cart around the store. Finally, a laugh from the peanut gallery! Point number two for mommy.
A's tear stained grimace is now a giggle as we rush from aisle to aisle finishing up my list (yes, I am still pretending to be a car). Our last stop is the cookie counter, where my once screaming baby is now a beaming angel. I give her the cookie and find a near-empty check-out line.
"She sure was letting you have it," says the clerk as I unload the cart.
"Oh, that wasn't my baby," I say.
"She looks like the little girl that was kicking and screaming when you were putting her in the cart."
"Not my girl," I say, while watching her wave sweetly to the check-out clerk. I let the clerk stare a moment before finally fessing up.
"Look at her, now, though." A is sitting strapped into her buggy, perfectly content.
I walk out of the grocery store, making sure that I have put on my sunglasses and began to dig in my purse for a baseball cap. I steal a bite of cookie from A and give her a high five in celebration of my victory. Next battle, car seat!
Of course, on the way into the store, I might have casually mentioned to A that she should not be surprised if we happened to stroll by the cookie counter and find that mommy's free cookie card has decided to jump out of her wallet. In my mind, I am fantasizing about how the cookie will insure her angelic behavior and get us out of the store unscathed. In reality, I walk into the grocery and choose the one buggy with the strap that refuses to buckle.
In the split second it takes A to realize that mommy is struggling with said buckle, she is standing in the front of the cart demanding to get out and walk. "No, A," I coax. "Mommy really needs you to sit nicely in the cart and help her find the pearl onions." (Whatever those are??) She begins to scream like I've just taken away her favorite toy then proceeds to kick her legs so that it is impossible to strap her into the cart. "A," I whisper with urgency. Finally, I manage, without having to earn my engineering degree, to get the buckle fastened, and we are off. Score one point for mommy.
Meanwhile, A is still screaming. People are beginning to stare. I am pushing the cart, smiling, as though nothing is wrong. People are now looking at me like "do you not hear her screaming?" "No," my smile says, and if I do hear her, I refuse to acknowledge it. It is part of the battle plan. Never show fear. I can only imagine how we must appear: smiling mommy, humming, looking at her list, pushing adorable, blonde, screaming banshee. "A," I say, using my trump card, "if you stop screaming, mommy will get you that cookie." I did promise the cookie after all, but how do I explain to the clerk why I am buying a treat for my daughter who is in the throes of misbehavior?
A gets choked from screaming and begins to cough. An elderly lady in the frozen foods aisle glares at me with a look that says, "how could you? That poor girl is choking." Swayed by the pressure, I almost give in and pick her up out of the cart, but if I do then from now on, I must give in to her demands. The precedent will have been set, so I choose to stand strong. Instead I pat her on the back and in the moment of silence, pretend the cart is a car. "Vrooom," I shout, while pushing the cart around the store. Finally, a laugh from the peanut gallery! Point number two for mommy.
A's tear stained grimace is now a giggle as we rush from aisle to aisle finishing up my list (yes, I am still pretending to be a car). Our last stop is the cookie counter, where my once screaming baby is now a beaming angel. I give her the cookie and find a near-empty check-out line.
"She sure was letting you have it," says the clerk as I unload the cart.
"Oh, that wasn't my baby," I say.
"She looks like the little girl that was kicking and screaming when you were putting her in the cart."
"Not my girl," I say, while watching her wave sweetly to the check-out clerk. I let the clerk stare a moment before finally fessing up.
"Look at her, now, though." A is sitting strapped into her buggy, perfectly content.
I walk out of the grocery store, making sure that I have put on my sunglasses and began to dig in my purse for a baseball cap. I steal a bite of cookie from A and give her a high five in celebration of my victory. Next battle, car seat!
Thursday, September 6, 2007
A Hair Raising Revelation
A and I leave the park early and unexpectedly.
Our afternoon certainly begins like a normal trip to the park. Thirty seconds on the swing. Thirty seconds off the swing. Thirty seconds back on the swing. Off to the slide mom!
I chase behind A to the platforms leading up to the toddler slide and watch her gingerly climb from one level to the next, refusing my hand but stopping every few seconds, looking over her shoulder just to make sure that mom is still within reach. She is an adorable mixture of certainty and insecurity. A finally reaches the top, stands proudly, sits back down then scoots to the edge, just where the platform meets the slide.
“Go on,” I say. “It’s okay.”
A reaches for my hand. “Do you want mommy to hold your hand?” I ask.
“Yesh,” she says. I hold her hand, just barely, as she gleefully allows gravity to pull her forward. Spotting a loose pacifier, albeit attached to the shirt a little boy awkwardly toddling toward the swings, A jumps down in pursuit. She takes the boy’s pacy and shoves it into his mouth. For some reason she can’t stand to see an unattended pacifier. He looks on in shock as A rushes back to the slide.
“She is so cute,” the boy’s mother says. “How old is she?”
“Thank you, she’s eighteen months” I reply, while thinking smugly, I know, she really is the cutest thing ever.
I chat briefly with the mom and look over to find A running up to a little red-headed girl about her age. I chase after her, admonishing her not to grab the little girl’s pacifier, secretly hoping she has found a new friend thus a new mommy friend for me. To my horror “the cutest thing ever” has just grabbed a handful of red hair. My first impulse is to walk in the other direction. “Whose baby is that?” I’d ask the other moms. Instead, I rush to A, shouting, “No,” “Stop,” anything that I think might capture her attention.
I plead with A to let go of the girl’s hair, but some demonic force has overtaken her body. I half expect her head to start spinning. By now the little girl is beginning to wail, which means every other mother in the park is looking in our direction, nodding their heads, with that look that says, “my, my, some women just can’t control their kids.” Others, though not as many, cast reassuring glances of pity, a fellowship of “I’ve been there.”
I look to the mother and say “I am so sorry,” while A’s grip just tightens. The harder we try to pry her fingers, the harder she pulls, and the louder little red yells. Suddenly, I swat my little girl’s hand. I don’t swat flies, much less children, but in my desperation I pop her. A, stunned, releases the hair. Actually, I think the hair just gave up and fell out into A’s hand. I scoop up my daughter, yelling over my shoulder how sorry I am to the girl’s mother. Somehow I don’t think this is the right time to ask if she’d like to get coffee or exchange numbers. I really don’t know what else to do or say, so I scold A loudly enough for all to hear on the way out, hoping my gesture makes me look like I have some capability as a mother.
When I get to the car, I strap A into her seat, apologizing for spatting her and asking her over and over, “What in the world got into you?” She just says, “Boo” and covers her face with both hands.
“This is no time to play,” I snap then I begin to cry. I crank the car and just sit there crying, watching the little red-headed girl do the same. A continues to play peek-a-boo, unaware that she has just mauled another child and made her mommy cry.
Why I am I crying? Perhaps I am crying because I know what that mother will never learn about my daughter, that despite A’s short-lived stint as the hair-pulling monster, she is the most loving child I’ve ever known. A knows exactly the right moment for puckering her lips, murmuring “mmmmm,” and leaning in for a kiss, eliciting a smile from her grumpy mommy. To that mom, though, she will always be the little girl that gave her daughter a permanent bald spot.
Perhaps I am crying because I am feeling guilty that all the parenting books I bought on discipline are being used to stabilize a wobbly table leg. If I had cracked open, just one, I am sure it would have fallen open to the chapter on hair pulling and demon-possession, or maybe the chapter on pride being the downfall of parents.
Or perhaps I am really crying because I learned today in a very public way that my little girl has a mind of her own, and despite my best efforts, I cannot control her. Sure, I can coerce her into following my will, but I want to teach her love and respect. A will periodically make poor decisions in life, and there is nothing I can really do to prevent that. The dog will fall victim to a bad hair cut. She will leave a ring of teeth marks on her cousin’s arms and a dent in the front bumper of her dad’s car. My job as her mother isn’t to control her; it is to shape her and help her grow into a woman of character. Recognizing that I have no idea how to do this makes me feel more vulnerable and inadequate as a mother than ever before.
I dry my tears, say a small prayer for wisdom, remove A from her car seat, and walk cautiously over to the red-haired girl’s mother. Fortunately, she doesn’t turn and run when being approached by the red-eyed, mascara stained loon with the manic daughter. “I am so sorry. I just want you to know that.” She does look a little skittish but manages to nod and smile. I smile and return to the car and call my husband to relay the story. He says he’ll notify the WWF about training camp.
That night, I watch A play in the tub, her toddler tummy bulging, her blue eyes sparkling. She is still everything a mom dreams of, and I know that she isn’t mean-spirited; she just wanted to see what would happen if she pulled the girl’s hair. At least that is what the parenting book I thumbed through during naptime said. I pull her from the tub, wrapping her in a towel. A wraps her arms around my neck and sighs, “Mama.” I hug her tightly and for the second time today, I cry.
Our afternoon certainly begins like a normal trip to the park. Thirty seconds on the swing. Thirty seconds off the swing. Thirty seconds back on the swing. Off to the slide mom!
I chase behind A to the platforms leading up to the toddler slide and watch her gingerly climb from one level to the next, refusing my hand but stopping every few seconds, looking over her shoulder just to make sure that mom is still within reach. She is an adorable mixture of certainty and insecurity. A finally reaches the top, stands proudly, sits back down then scoots to the edge, just where the platform meets the slide.
“Go on,” I say. “It’s okay.”
A reaches for my hand. “Do you want mommy to hold your hand?” I ask.
“Yesh,” she says. I hold her hand, just barely, as she gleefully allows gravity to pull her forward. Spotting a loose pacifier, albeit attached to the shirt a little boy awkwardly toddling toward the swings, A jumps down in pursuit. She takes the boy’s pacy and shoves it into his mouth. For some reason she can’t stand to see an unattended pacifier. He looks on in shock as A rushes back to the slide.
“She is so cute,” the boy’s mother says. “How old is she?”
“Thank you, she’s eighteen months” I reply, while thinking smugly, I know, she really is the cutest thing ever.
I chat briefly with the mom and look over to find A running up to a little red-headed girl about her age. I chase after her, admonishing her not to grab the little girl’s pacifier, secretly hoping she has found a new friend thus a new mommy friend for me. To my horror “the cutest thing ever” has just grabbed a handful of red hair. My first impulse is to walk in the other direction. “Whose baby is that?” I’d ask the other moms. Instead, I rush to A, shouting, “No,” “Stop,” anything that I think might capture her attention.
I plead with A to let go of the girl’s hair, but some demonic force has overtaken her body. I half expect her head to start spinning. By now the little girl is beginning to wail, which means every other mother in the park is looking in our direction, nodding their heads, with that look that says, “my, my, some women just can’t control their kids.” Others, though not as many, cast reassuring glances of pity, a fellowship of “I’ve been there.”
I look to the mother and say “I am so sorry,” while A’s grip just tightens. The harder we try to pry her fingers, the harder she pulls, and the louder little red yells. Suddenly, I swat my little girl’s hand. I don’t swat flies, much less children, but in my desperation I pop her. A, stunned, releases the hair. Actually, I think the hair just gave up and fell out into A’s hand. I scoop up my daughter, yelling over my shoulder how sorry I am to the girl’s mother. Somehow I don’t think this is the right time to ask if she’d like to get coffee or exchange numbers. I really don’t know what else to do or say, so I scold A loudly enough for all to hear on the way out, hoping my gesture makes me look like I have some capability as a mother.
When I get to the car, I strap A into her seat, apologizing for spatting her and asking her over and over, “What in the world got into you?” She just says, “Boo” and covers her face with both hands.
“This is no time to play,” I snap then I begin to cry. I crank the car and just sit there crying, watching the little red-headed girl do the same. A continues to play peek-a-boo, unaware that she has just mauled another child and made her mommy cry.
Why I am I crying? Perhaps I am crying because I know what that mother will never learn about my daughter, that despite A’s short-lived stint as the hair-pulling monster, she is the most loving child I’ve ever known. A knows exactly the right moment for puckering her lips, murmuring “mmmmm,” and leaning in for a kiss, eliciting a smile from her grumpy mommy. To that mom, though, she will always be the little girl that gave her daughter a permanent bald spot.
Perhaps I am crying because I am feeling guilty that all the parenting books I bought on discipline are being used to stabilize a wobbly table leg. If I had cracked open, just one, I am sure it would have fallen open to the chapter on hair pulling and demon-possession, or maybe the chapter on pride being the downfall of parents.
Or perhaps I am really crying because I learned today in a very public way that my little girl has a mind of her own, and despite my best efforts, I cannot control her. Sure, I can coerce her into following my will, but I want to teach her love and respect. A will periodically make poor decisions in life, and there is nothing I can really do to prevent that. The dog will fall victim to a bad hair cut. She will leave a ring of teeth marks on her cousin’s arms and a dent in the front bumper of her dad’s car. My job as her mother isn’t to control her; it is to shape her and help her grow into a woman of character. Recognizing that I have no idea how to do this makes me feel more vulnerable and inadequate as a mother than ever before.
I dry my tears, say a small prayer for wisdom, remove A from her car seat, and walk cautiously over to the red-haired girl’s mother. Fortunately, she doesn’t turn and run when being approached by the red-eyed, mascara stained loon with the manic daughter. “I am so sorry. I just want you to know that.” She does look a little skittish but manages to nod and smile. I smile and return to the car and call my husband to relay the story. He says he’ll notify the WWF about training camp.
That night, I watch A play in the tub, her toddler tummy bulging, her blue eyes sparkling. She is still everything a mom dreams of, and I know that she isn’t mean-spirited; she just wanted to see what would happen if she pulled the girl’s hair. At least that is what the parenting book I thumbed through during naptime said. I pull her from the tub, wrapping her in a towel. A wraps her arms around my neck and sighs, “Mama.” I hug her tightly and for the second time today, I cry.
Sunday, September 2, 2007
You're Kidding: Rant from a Monday Morning Quarterback
Saturday afternoon, I tuned my ears northward to hear the bloodcurdling howls of despair flooding across the wind from Ann Arbor. Four short quarters into football season and already shouts of hope and joy had turned into groans of despair as the number 5 team in the country had been upset, not by a normal Division I-A whipping boy, no this was a I-AA cream puff.
My joy at upset in the Big 10, the toppling of a media darling, was short-lived because shortly after Appalachian State's victory, I tuned my ears southeastward to the Plains, where barely audible was even the faintest sign of a heartbeat. Once again, Auburn sputtered getting out of the starting gate (recall USC and Georiga Tech). Actually the engine choked and died, yet the Tigers managed to find the right gear, quite literally in the nick of time. Despite having Kansas State hand them the football game on a silver platter of penalties, Auburn struggled mightily to find any offense. (It seems frustration brings out the cliches.)
The most important position on the Tiger's football team? Apparently, it, for yet another season, is the field goal kicker. It is hard to outscore your opponent when you are chipping away three points at a time. Unless the field goal pointage is doubled, Auburn's offense could be headed for trouble. Maybe it just took us a while to warm up and the last two minutes of the game are indicative of the coming season....maybe?!
(Quick aside: Please raise your hand if you, who were watching the Auburn/Kansas State game on ESPN, cared very deeply about the no-hitter being thrown by Busmolz, or Buchholz, or what was it again? I really do love baseball, could not be prouder for any young man who pitches a no-hitter on his second time out in the majors. BUT I doubt very seriously those of us who were on the edge of our seats, praying for a fourth quarter comeback were very interested in having our game interrupted to watch, not only the final out of the ORIOLES vs. RED SOX game, but also the ten minute celebration following. Just letting you know ESPN, those of us not in the northeastern corner of the country, which is most of us, think baseball season ended Saturday. Especially since my Braves will apparently be doing a repeat of last year's play-off no-show.)
All right, where was I? Tennessee, oh Tennessee. How could you? How could you? I know you were probably a little frightened by the Berkley hippies hanging from the trees (there really were people hanging from trees, if you missed it), but that pesky PAC-10 beat you, and already the ranting and gloating, has begun. John Kincaid, on his Sunday radio show, kicked it off early when he said, those SEC zealots. Must I even go on or do you know what is coming next? When we said put up or shut up, the PAC-10 put up. Will you take your shut up juice diet or regular?
Kincaid said basically that a conference cannot be judged by one really good football team in that conference. The conferences are made up of individual teams that have no effect on the other teams successes or failures. We, zealots, have this misled notion that because Tennessee, Florida, etc. does well that it reflects nicely on the conference. We did that John? Is it the fans who create a graphic for your broadcast during bowl games that keeps a tally of the conferences'
wins and losses, thus determining the success of that conference and its teams? Is it the fans who sit at the sports desk comparing conferences week in and week out, highlighting the strong teams from that conference as evidence for their point? The road to the BCS is traveled heavily through the conference.
Finally, what do yesterday's ups and downs, surprises and disappointments mean? Frankly, that pre-season polls are pointless. Maybe Michigan is the fifth best team in the country still, and they struggled a bit, but we'll never know. They'll drop out of the conversation. Notre Dame, overrated, as always. Kansas State was probably underrated (not excusing Auburn's miserable play). When it comes down to it, we can't know what teams hit a groove over the summer, what losses of old players will do to the dynamic of a team, or any of those intangibles. Every opening day, good teams stumble and good teams emerge. We just make sure that, this season, USC, Michigan, Texas, and LSU get a head start. It is a pity Michigan can't gain momentum and be the team to beat in the playoffs. But I'll save my playoff rant for another day.
My joy at upset in the Big 10, the toppling of a media darling, was short-lived because shortly after Appalachian State's victory, I tuned my ears southeastward to the Plains, where barely audible was even the faintest sign of a heartbeat. Once again, Auburn sputtered getting out of the starting gate (recall USC and Georiga Tech). Actually the engine choked and died, yet the Tigers managed to find the right gear, quite literally in the nick of time. Despite having Kansas State hand them the football game on a silver platter of penalties, Auburn struggled mightily to find any offense. (It seems frustration brings out the cliches.)
The most important position on the Tiger's football team? Apparently, it, for yet another season, is the field goal kicker. It is hard to outscore your opponent when you are chipping away three points at a time. Unless the field goal pointage is doubled, Auburn's offense could be headed for trouble. Maybe it just took us a while to warm up and the last two minutes of the game are indicative of the coming season....maybe?!
(Quick aside: Please raise your hand if you, who were watching the Auburn/Kansas State game on ESPN, cared very deeply about the no-hitter being thrown by Busmolz, or Buchholz, or what was it again? I really do love baseball, could not be prouder for any young man who pitches a no-hitter on his second time out in the majors. BUT I doubt very seriously those of us who were on the edge of our seats, praying for a fourth quarter comeback were very interested in having our game interrupted to watch, not only the final out of the ORIOLES vs. RED SOX game, but also the ten minute celebration following. Just letting you know ESPN, those of us not in the northeastern corner of the country, which is most of us, think baseball season ended Saturday. Especially since my Braves will apparently be doing a repeat of last year's play-off no-show.)
All right, where was I? Tennessee, oh Tennessee. How could you? How could you? I know you were probably a little frightened by the Berkley hippies hanging from the trees (there really were people hanging from trees, if you missed it), but that pesky PAC-10 beat you, and already the ranting and gloating, has begun. John Kincaid, on his Sunday radio show, kicked it off early when he said, those SEC zealots. Must I even go on or do you know what is coming next? When we said put up or shut up, the PAC-10 put up. Will you take your shut up juice diet or regular?
Kincaid said basically that a conference cannot be judged by one really good football team in that conference. The conferences are made up of individual teams that have no effect on the other teams successes or failures. We, zealots, have this misled notion that because Tennessee, Florida, etc. does well that it reflects nicely on the conference. We did that John? Is it the fans who create a graphic for your broadcast during bowl games that keeps a tally of the conferences'
wins and losses, thus determining the success of that conference and its teams? Is it the fans who sit at the sports desk comparing conferences week in and week out, highlighting the strong teams from that conference as evidence for their point? The road to the BCS is traveled heavily through the conference.
Finally, what do yesterday's ups and downs, surprises and disappointments mean? Frankly, that pre-season polls are pointless. Maybe Michigan is the fifth best team in the country still, and they struggled a bit, but we'll never know. They'll drop out of the conversation. Notre Dame, overrated, as always. Kansas State was probably underrated (not excusing Auburn's miserable play). When it comes down to it, we can't know what teams hit a groove over the summer, what losses of old players will do to the dynamic of a team, or any of those intangibles. Every opening day, good teams stumble and good teams emerge. We just make sure that, this season, USC, Michigan, Texas, and LSU get a head start. It is a pity Michigan can't gain momentum and be the team to beat in the playoffs. But I'll save my playoff rant for another day.
Thursday, August 30, 2007
Time for Football
Each season Hank Williams, Jr. asks that rocking rhetorical question, "Are you ready for some football?" Granted, he is asking NFL fans, tonight millions of college football fans will be singing a united chorus of, "YES!" A brief moment where fans of all teams agree, it's time to play.
In a few short hours, "what if" will become "what might have been." "I'm telling ya" will become "I told you so" or "I didn't see that coming" or even, possibly, "I guess I was wrong." In a mere matter of days, normally reasonable people will suddenly lose their minds and become completely absorbed with numbers, not those in their checking account, but those that make up the BCS. Polls will become the new obsession. Before accepting invitations to weddings, parties, and, yes, even Thanksgiving, wives will ask their husbands, "who's playing this weekend....are they important....did you plan to go...watch...." They'll then shrug their shoulders and exclaim, "it's only football!"
Only football?!!! Anyone who has ever caught the fever knows it's more than just football. It is a camaraderie with those you'll never know. It is about more than the two teams playing on the field; it is being ten again back in your old neighborhood rounding up all of the other kids for a few hours of football before heading into the house to watch the game with your family. It is the first time you walk into Jordan-Hare or Bryant-Denny holding your dad's hand, overwhelmed by the spectacular display of fanfare. It is watching the eagle soar around the stadium as the low rumble of "War Eagle" builds to a frenzied roar. It is the buzz on Sunday morning of the congregation trading friendly barbs before opening their hymnals. It is those traditions and memories that are savored each time you watch your team take the field, thinking, once again, "this could be our year!"
Are you ready for some football? I know I am. War Eagle and good luck!
In a few short hours, "what if" will become "what might have been." "I'm telling ya" will become "I told you so" or "I didn't see that coming" or even, possibly, "I guess I was wrong." In a mere matter of days, normally reasonable people will suddenly lose their minds and become completely absorbed with numbers, not those in their checking account, but those that make up the BCS. Polls will become the new obsession. Before accepting invitations to weddings, parties, and, yes, even Thanksgiving, wives will ask their husbands, "who's playing this weekend....are they important....did you plan to go...watch...." They'll then shrug their shoulders and exclaim, "it's only football!"
Only football?!!! Anyone who has ever caught the fever knows it's more than just football. It is a camaraderie with those you'll never know. It is about more than the two teams playing on the field; it is being ten again back in your old neighborhood rounding up all of the other kids for a few hours of football before heading into the house to watch the game with your family. It is the first time you walk into Jordan-Hare or Bryant-Denny holding your dad's hand, overwhelmed by the spectacular display of fanfare. It is watching the eagle soar around the stadium as the low rumble of "War Eagle" builds to a frenzied roar. It is the buzz on Sunday morning of the congregation trading friendly barbs before opening their hymnals. It is those traditions and memories that are savored each time you watch your team take the field, thinking, once again, "this could be our year!"
Are you ready for some football? I know I am. War Eagle and good luck!
Thursday, August 16, 2007
A Tri-ing Anniversary
"If it were easy, they'd call it FOOTBALL: Try a tri" I laugh as I read the caption on the t-shirt and wonder if it would be all right to purchase it even though I am only participating in 1/3 of a triathlon. I can imagine someone commenting on my cute, sassy shirt and then picture my response: "It is cute, but I've never actually done an entire triathlon, just the running portion. How far?! Oh," I'd say sheepishly, "3.1 miles." I decide not to buy the shirt and go grab my husband, who is currently ogling a $3,500 tri-bike.
It is the day before our anniversary, and to celebrate, we have decided to participate as a relay team in a triathlon. My husband, who is a very good, very competitive athlete, will bike and swim. I am a pretty good (ha ha, I couldn't even write it with a straight face), I can run, love to run, slowly, but with spirit, so I agree to do the 3.1 miles at the end of the race, reminding my husband of my 10 minute-per-mile pace. In other words, dear, don't expect any first place trophies. We pick up our race numbers and head home to put A to bed for our 5 a.m. wake-up call.
The morning of the run, my husband and I hurriedly wish each other a happy anniversary as we make our way to the lake for the start of the race. I have dragged my younger brother, who has been promised that female triathletes are young and cute, from the bed at 5 a.m. on his day off to help me watch A while T swims and bikes. A, donning a t-shirt that reads "my mom and dad tri harder than yours," claps for her daddy as he enters the lake. T emerges from the water about 12 minutes after he starts, and I rush to the transition area to wait for him to finish the biking portion.
My race number is 44, which means that I'll finish the run before the temperature soars from hot to blistering, but it also means that the organizers sandwiched the 30 relay teams in between the collegiate teams and the elite athletes. (The 800 participants, who aren't on teams, are lined-up based on projected swim time.) It is finally my turn to hit the trail, where I quickly discover that I do not belong on the track at this particular time in the race. This fact becomes even more evident as elite racer number 175 sprints by at a 5 minute-per-mile pace, yelling as he passes, "You're doing great; keep it up." I begin to wonder if he thinks that I am perhaps special or a practical joke, like I lost a bet and the penalty was to register as an elite runner. Where are the other slower runners, the Athenas and Clydesdales? (Apparently categories for those of us who like to both compete and eat.) My confidence plummets as runners continue to fly by me. I look down just to make sure that my legs are in fact moving.
I decide to stop my internal whining and begin to use the sprinters as motivation. Each time I am passed, I try to keep up with the runner as long as possible before pulling back a bit. It's just three miles; it's not like it is going to kill me to push myself. I settle into a decent stride and find myself enjoying the race. For a brief moment, I even pause, mentally, looking up to see the sun shining on the lake as it laps gently against the mountains. I've never understood why races are scheduled in such beautiful locations. Sure, it is a good draw, but so few of us participants ever take a moment to notice the surrounding beauty, always focused on breathing and pacing. I quickly thank God for the beauty, my husband, daughter, and the fact that I can finally see the finish line.
With a few hundred yards to go, I pick up my pace to an all-out sprint. My legs are aching, my lungs burning, but I even manage to out-run the guy behind me, granted his race number is 223. I have even run a personal best, 26:29 5-K. Yes, I realize the top female ran hers in 18 minutes, but for me, an 8:30 mile is almost two minutes faster than my usual pace. My husband and I find each other, offer our congratulations, and get kisses from our daughter. I share with my husband the lesson that today's race has offered, a lesson he's already learned, that when you really push, you don't collapse or die. No, you discover how capable you really are and begin to wonder just what you could do if you really trained hard...Beijing, 2008? Now where is that t-shirt vendor??
It is the day before our anniversary, and to celebrate, we have decided to participate as a relay team in a triathlon. My husband, who is a very good, very competitive athlete, will bike and swim. I am a pretty good (ha ha, I couldn't even write it with a straight face), I can run, love to run, slowly, but with spirit, so I agree to do the 3.1 miles at the end of the race, reminding my husband of my 10 minute-per-mile pace. In other words, dear, don't expect any first place trophies. We pick up our race numbers and head home to put A to bed for our 5 a.m. wake-up call.
The morning of the run, my husband and I hurriedly wish each other a happy anniversary as we make our way to the lake for the start of the race. I have dragged my younger brother, who has been promised that female triathletes are young and cute, from the bed at 5 a.m. on his day off to help me watch A while T swims and bikes. A, donning a t-shirt that reads "my mom and dad tri harder than yours," claps for her daddy as he enters the lake. T emerges from the water about 12 minutes after he starts, and I rush to the transition area to wait for him to finish the biking portion.
My race number is 44, which means that I'll finish the run before the temperature soars from hot to blistering, but it also means that the organizers sandwiched the 30 relay teams in between the collegiate teams and the elite athletes. (The 800 participants, who aren't on teams, are lined-up based on projected swim time.) It is finally my turn to hit the trail, where I quickly discover that I do not belong on the track at this particular time in the race. This fact becomes even more evident as elite racer number 175 sprints by at a 5 minute-per-mile pace, yelling as he passes, "You're doing great; keep it up." I begin to wonder if he thinks that I am perhaps special or a practical joke, like I lost a bet and the penalty was to register as an elite runner. Where are the other slower runners, the Athenas and Clydesdales? (Apparently categories for those of us who like to both compete and eat.) My confidence plummets as runners continue to fly by me. I look down just to make sure that my legs are in fact moving.
I decide to stop my internal whining and begin to use the sprinters as motivation. Each time I am passed, I try to keep up with the runner as long as possible before pulling back a bit. It's just three miles; it's not like it is going to kill me to push myself. I settle into a decent stride and find myself enjoying the race. For a brief moment, I even pause, mentally, looking up to see the sun shining on the lake as it laps gently against the mountains. I've never understood why races are scheduled in such beautiful locations. Sure, it is a good draw, but so few of us participants ever take a moment to notice the surrounding beauty, always focused on breathing and pacing. I quickly thank God for the beauty, my husband, daughter, and the fact that I can finally see the finish line.
With a few hundred yards to go, I pick up my pace to an all-out sprint. My legs are aching, my lungs burning, but I even manage to out-run the guy behind me, granted his race number is 223. I have even run a personal best, 26:29 5-K. Yes, I realize the top female ran hers in 18 minutes, but for me, an 8:30 mile is almost two minutes faster than my usual pace. My husband and I find each other, offer our congratulations, and get kisses from our daughter. I share with my husband the lesson that today's race has offered, a lesson he's already learned, that when you really push, you don't collapse or die. No, you discover how capable you really are and begin to wonder just what you could do if you really trained hard...Beijing, 2008? Now where is that t-shirt vendor??
Wednesday, August 8, 2007
Growing Pains
Nothing takes me back to the awkwardness of middle school quite like a morning at the gym. Within seconds of stepping into a room filled with perfect coifs and even more perfect bodies, I am transformed into a clumsy, self-conscious seventh grader. While small, muscled, compact bodies glide gracefully from side-to-side, I flail my way through the work out, three feet of unwieldy legs and arms flying through the air. Catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror, I suddenly see her staring back at me, the red-rimmed glasses, mouth full of shiny metal, the short curly hair (oh, how I must have loved Annie), the long limbs that her parents kept promising her she'd grow into. I see her, never quite comfortable in her own skin, and although my body is trying desperately to keep up with the aerobics instructor, my mind is transported back twenty-years to the high school football field where I first discovered that my athletic prowess was, well, nonexistent.
Captivated by the opening night of football season and my first night as a high school cheerleader, I run with the other girls across the field to welcome the visiting team, also our school's biggest rival. Translation: packed house. With peppy grins tattooed on our faces, we proceed to wow the spectators with that classic, Two Bits. Just before the pyramid finale, we all perform a toe-touch simultaneously before moving into our formation. Pumped full of adrenaline, I jump, really more like soar, high into the air, spreading my legs perfectly parallel to the ground. And that is how they stay, all the way down, until my bottom meets the ground bouncing me a few feet backwards.
Stunned, I sit there, realizing that I have mere seconds to decide what to do. My first option is, of course, to jump up, cry, run, and move to Canada. The second and more reasonable option is to jump up and move into formation acting like nothing ever happened. Of course, it did happen. I fell, not just a stumble and catch yourself, no, it is a full-fledged, tail-bone cracking bust, so I act, but they notice. After the cheer, I giggle madly as we run across the field for introductions. Of course, for me, there is no introduction needed. How I ever made cheerleader, I'll never know, perhaps they needed someone tall to spot the girls on top of the pyramids.
Failing to learn my lesson, I decide to go out for basketball. I am tall, right? Clearly, I can play basketball. Clearly. I am marvelous, scoring point after point at practice. The problem is that I am just a little unsteady on my feet, falling and tripping, not just myself but the other girls, as well. After two weeks of practice, my coach informs me that he has neither ordered me a uniform nor shoes. Clearly, I cannot play basketball, so I move on to my next attempt at athletic greatness: the band.
For years, my parents kept saying that I would eventually become like a gazelle, growing gracefully into her limbs. In reality, I am a newborn calf awkwardly navigating my surroundings, a stubborn calf who longs to be athletic. After countless falls, even my family gives up on that dream and lovingly dubs me Gracie. I'd like to say my clumsiness does not affect me, but it does, and for years I resent my long, discomfited limbs.
I am jolted from my reverie by the voice of our instructor shouting "Sprint!" Much like in high school, I am still three inches taller than everyone else in the room, but at the moment I am running faster than they are. I catch another glimpse of myself in the mirror, it would be impossible not to since we are surrounded by them. This time I see my body and realize, with God's grace, all it has accomplished since college: carrying and giving birth to my beautiful daughter, two half-marathons, spin class three days a week, and at 32, it can still do the splits.
I finally leave class to go get my girl from the nursery. In her excited flurry, she does what her father and I call her happy dance then proceeds to run to the mat to retrieve her shoes and falls flat out on her face. I try not to laugh and see in her cute clumsiness a bit of myself. For a moment, I feel pained for her. What if, like her mom, her inability to walk steadily interferes with her athletic goals? A , all of 17 months, nonchalantly gets up, smiles, and reaches for me, and I stop worrying, because like her mommy, I know that she'll continue to get up and try again.
Captivated by the opening night of football season and my first night as a high school cheerleader, I run with the other girls across the field to welcome the visiting team, also our school's biggest rival. Translation: packed house. With peppy grins tattooed on our faces, we proceed to wow the spectators with that classic, Two Bits. Just before the pyramid finale, we all perform a toe-touch simultaneously before moving into our formation. Pumped full of adrenaline, I jump, really more like soar, high into the air, spreading my legs perfectly parallel to the ground. And that is how they stay, all the way down, until my bottom meets the ground bouncing me a few feet backwards.
Stunned, I sit there, realizing that I have mere seconds to decide what to do. My first option is, of course, to jump up, cry, run, and move to Canada. The second and more reasonable option is to jump up and move into formation acting like nothing ever happened. Of course, it did happen. I fell, not just a stumble and catch yourself, no, it is a full-fledged, tail-bone cracking bust, so I act, but they notice. After the cheer, I giggle madly as we run across the field for introductions. Of course, for me, there is no introduction needed. How I ever made cheerleader, I'll never know, perhaps they needed someone tall to spot the girls on top of the pyramids.
Failing to learn my lesson, I decide to go out for basketball. I am tall, right? Clearly, I can play basketball. Clearly. I am marvelous, scoring point after point at practice. The problem is that I am just a little unsteady on my feet, falling and tripping, not just myself but the other girls, as well. After two weeks of practice, my coach informs me that he has neither ordered me a uniform nor shoes. Clearly, I cannot play basketball, so I move on to my next attempt at athletic greatness: the band.
For years, my parents kept saying that I would eventually become like a gazelle, growing gracefully into her limbs. In reality, I am a newborn calf awkwardly navigating my surroundings, a stubborn calf who longs to be athletic. After countless falls, even my family gives up on that dream and lovingly dubs me Gracie. I'd like to say my clumsiness does not affect me, but it does, and for years I resent my long, discomfited limbs.
I am jolted from my reverie by the voice of our instructor shouting "Sprint!" Much like in high school, I am still three inches taller than everyone else in the room, but at the moment I am running faster than they are. I catch another glimpse of myself in the mirror, it would be impossible not to since we are surrounded by them. This time I see my body and realize, with God's grace, all it has accomplished since college: carrying and giving birth to my beautiful daughter, two half-marathons, spin class three days a week, and at 32, it can still do the splits.
I finally leave class to go get my girl from the nursery. In her excited flurry, she does what her father and I call her happy dance then proceeds to run to the mat to retrieve her shoes and falls flat out on her face. I try not to laugh and see in her cute clumsiness a bit of myself. For a moment, I feel pained for her. What if, like her mom, her inability to walk steadily interferes with her athletic goals? A , all of 17 months, nonchalantly gets up, smiles, and reaches for me, and I stop worrying, because like her mommy, I know that she'll continue to get up and try again.
Saturday, August 4, 2007
And the winner is....
Perhaps you've heard that Barry Bonds is poised to hit home run number 755 any minute now, matching Hank Aaron's record, but did you also know that this particular record is the "most hallowed record in all of sports"? I didn't until I was listening to Fox Gametime Saturday on my way home from running errands. That is when I heard the news, that the home run record had been crowned "most hallowed". Since then, in all of the endless chatter about why Bonds should or shouldn't receive credit for the record, I've heard almost every other expert give it this title, as well. Why is that, and will there be an ESPY?
Perhaps I need more to do, but I've just been pondering why this particular record is the most hallowed. Is there a specific set of criteria that makes one record more hallowed than the next? Is most hallowed also the most important? Does it mean it is the most difficult record to break? Would the home run record be receiving that solemn title if everyone's favorite hero, not baseball's favorite villain, were about to break it?
If it is degree of difficulty, then why is Joe Dimaggio's impressive 56 game hit streak record not a contender for the title? The closest anyone has come to breaking that was Pete Rose's 44 hits in 1978. And come on, Ted Williams's .400 season has never been duplicated. Why is the most hallowed title given to a baseball record? It isn't even the most popular sport and is probably losing popularity as I write this.
Football and NASCAR seem to be the juggernauts of popular sports, so why aren't any of their records up for the challenge. It seems that winning the most races of all time is a pretty big accomplishment, and most rushing yards, sacks in a season, touchdowns scored, all impressive records. Let's not leave out our less popular but equally difficult sports. Will anyone else ever match Lance Armstrong's 7 Tour de France titles? It could be the doping scandal cloud hanging over baseball, I mean cycling, that keeps this record from becoming the most hallowed.
It is just food for thought. We tend to jump on the chance to declare one athlete better than another, one sport more difficult than the next, and now our records compete for most or best. Will the home run record continue to hold this honor the closer Alex Rodriguez gets to breaking whatever Bonds's magic number is when he finally retires? Will it some how lose its hallowed-ness the more often it is broken? Before I'm convinced and award it my most hallowed title, I think I'll just put an asterisk beside this one and see if something more impressive comes along.
Perhaps I need more to do, but I've just been pondering why this particular record is the most hallowed. Is there a specific set of criteria that makes one record more hallowed than the next? Is most hallowed also the most important? Does it mean it is the most difficult record to break? Would the home run record be receiving that solemn title if everyone's favorite hero, not baseball's favorite villain, were about to break it?
If it is degree of difficulty, then why is Joe Dimaggio's impressive 56 game hit streak record not a contender for the title? The closest anyone has come to breaking that was Pete Rose's 44 hits in 1978. And come on, Ted Williams's .400 season has never been duplicated. Why is the most hallowed title given to a baseball record? It isn't even the most popular sport and is probably losing popularity as I write this.
Football and NASCAR seem to be the juggernauts of popular sports, so why aren't any of their records up for the challenge. It seems that winning the most races of all time is a pretty big accomplishment, and most rushing yards, sacks in a season, touchdowns scored, all impressive records. Let's not leave out our less popular but equally difficult sports. Will anyone else ever match Lance Armstrong's 7 Tour de France titles? It could be the doping scandal cloud hanging over baseball, I mean cycling, that keeps this record from becoming the most hallowed.
It is just food for thought. We tend to jump on the chance to declare one athlete better than another, one sport more difficult than the next, and now our records compete for most or best. Will the home run record continue to hold this honor the closer Alex Rodriguez gets to breaking whatever Bonds's magic number is when he finally retires? Will it some how lose its hallowed-ness the more often it is broken? Before I'm convinced and award it my most hallowed title, I think I'll just put an asterisk beside this one and see if something more impressive comes along.
Sunday, July 29, 2007
R-E-S-P-E-C-T
Says the SEC to the Pac-10: We've got spirit yes we do; we've got spirit how bout you?
To which the Pac-10 replies: We've got spirit yes we do; we've got spirit how bout you?
SEC: We've got more; We've got more
(This is where the Pac-10 stops cheering for fear of being seen as overly fanatical.)
Okay, so that wasn't the exact exchange last week between LSU head football coach, Les Miles, whose apparent motto is "Let's Give Em Something to Talk About," and the coaches of the Pac-10. But you get the idea. It seems that Miles has once again stirred the proverbial pot, and this time he's got the west coast talking. What did he say that was so controversial? Basically, Miles thinks the Pac-10 has an easier road to travel to the BSC Championship game than the SEC does. Top to bottom the SEC is a stronger, tougher conference than the Pac-10. GASP. He said what?!! The response to his comments: Let's make fun of the south.
Les Miles originally made his comments on July 2nd. The following day my husband and I were listening to Colin Cowherd's ESPN radio show, where he basically said that Miles and the rest of the south are overly fanatical about football and our passion drives us to be irrational. Because we have nothing to do in the south, we obsess over football. He actually said that (somewhat paraphrased) on the west coast there are oceans and lakes and people take time to enjoy recreational activitives. Ironically, my husband and I were on our way to the ALABAMA Gulf Coast, where we planned to bike, swim, run, and build sandcastles with our daughter. (Apparently, Mr. Cowherd was reading Sports Illustrated during geography class.)
Last week at the Pac-10 equivalent to our media days, Arizona State head coach, Dennis Erickson, called SEC fans fanatics. (I prefer passionate.) In his article in the L.A. Times, Chris Dufresne said that Miles "for no apparent reason" riled up the SEC fans because we apparently can't get over the fact that Auburn was overlooked in 2004 after going undefeated. Mr. Dufresne, I disagree; he has a very good reason. Like Tommy Tuberville in 2004, Les Miles, who was not raised on grits and sweet tea mind you, is learning that it boils down to one thing: LACK OF RESPECT. The SEC gets no respect. The national media, namely that big eastern syndicate in Connecticut, fails to offer the SEC the respect it deserves despite proving time and again its place within the national spotlight.
It is like the pretty girl who sits home on prom night. She is intelligent, fun, beautiful, yet no one invites her to the big dance. No one seems to like her. Why? Are you afraid you'll fall in love then have to admit you were wrong, national media? It is obvious how it pains those on the major networks to admit fault. I remember almost choking on my breakfast when I heard the pundits debating whether the dynastic USC Trojans could actually beat an NFL team. Two days later, Texas took the Trojans to the woodshed, several times. No admittance that they were wrong. Do I even need to bring up Florida vs. Ohio State?
As a southerner, who is passionate about many things, not just football, it is infuriating to watch the media darlings (USC, Notre Dame, Michigan, Ohio State) rise to the top of the polls year in and year out despite being toppled, sometimes by SEC teams. We're good and we have the track record to prove it. We toot our own horn because few else will. Les Miles, to you and Tuberville, and the other coaches who care enough to tout your teams, I say, blow, boys, blow. It is a sweet sound to our southern ears.
FYI:
2006 National Champions
Football: Florida; Men & Women's Swimming and Diving: Auburn
Men's Basketball: Florida; Gymnastics: Georgia
W Basketball: Tennessee; Men's Indoor Track & Field: Arkansas
To which the Pac-10 replies: We've got spirit yes we do; we've got spirit how bout you?
SEC: We've got more; We've got more
(This is where the Pac-10 stops cheering for fear of being seen as overly fanatical.)
Okay, so that wasn't the exact exchange last week between LSU head football coach, Les Miles, whose apparent motto is "Let's Give Em Something to Talk About," and the coaches of the Pac-10. But you get the idea. It seems that Miles has once again stirred the proverbial pot, and this time he's got the west coast talking. What did he say that was so controversial? Basically, Miles thinks the Pac-10 has an easier road to travel to the BSC Championship game than the SEC does. Top to bottom the SEC is a stronger, tougher conference than the Pac-10. GASP. He said what?!! The response to his comments: Let's make fun of the south.
Les Miles originally made his comments on July 2nd. The following day my husband and I were listening to Colin Cowherd's ESPN radio show, where he basically said that Miles and the rest of the south are overly fanatical about football and our passion drives us to be irrational. Because we have nothing to do in the south, we obsess over football. He actually said that (somewhat paraphrased) on the west coast there are oceans and lakes and people take time to enjoy recreational activitives. Ironically, my husband and I were on our way to the ALABAMA Gulf Coast, where we planned to bike, swim, run, and build sandcastles with our daughter. (Apparently, Mr. Cowherd was reading Sports Illustrated during geography class.)
Last week at the Pac-10 equivalent to our media days, Arizona State head coach, Dennis Erickson, called SEC fans fanatics. (I prefer passionate.) In his article in the L.A. Times, Chris Dufresne said that Miles "for no apparent reason" riled up the SEC fans because we apparently can't get over the fact that Auburn was overlooked in 2004 after going undefeated. Mr. Dufresne, I disagree; he has a very good reason. Like Tommy Tuberville in 2004, Les Miles, who was not raised on grits and sweet tea mind you, is learning that it boils down to one thing: LACK OF RESPECT. The SEC gets no respect. The national media, namely that big eastern syndicate in Connecticut, fails to offer the SEC the respect it deserves despite proving time and again its place within the national spotlight.
It is like the pretty girl who sits home on prom night. She is intelligent, fun, beautiful, yet no one invites her to the big dance. No one seems to like her. Why? Are you afraid you'll fall in love then have to admit you were wrong, national media? It is obvious how it pains those on the major networks to admit fault. I remember almost choking on my breakfast when I heard the pundits debating whether the dynastic USC Trojans could actually beat an NFL team. Two days later, Texas took the Trojans to the woodshed, several times. No admittance that they were wrong. Do I even need to bring up Florida vs. Ohio State?
As a southerner, who is passionate about many things, not just football, it is infuriating to watch the media darlings (USC, Notre Dame, Michigan, Ohio State) rise to the top of the polls year in and year out despite being toppled, sometimes by SEC teams. We're good and we have the track record to prove it. We toot our own horn because few else will. Les Miles, to you and Tuberville, and the other coaches who care enough to tout your teams, I say, blow, boys, blow. It is a sweet sound to our southern ears.
FYI:
2006 National Champions
Football: Florida; Men & Women's Swimming and Diving: Auburn
Men's Basketball: Florida; Gymnastics: Georgia
W Basketball: Tennessee; Men's Indoor Track & Field: Arkansas
W Outdoor Track & Field: Auburn
W Bowling: Vanderbilt
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