A Cleveland, Ohio suburb has cancelled its annual Recreation League All-Star Game for 9 to 12 year olds. In a letter to coaches, the league announced that the decades old tradition would end because certain kids were being singled out as better players than others.
- WTAM Newsradio 1100
Man, some blogs just write themselves don’t they? I mean, seriously?
Do the children that are stunned and crushed by some peers “being singled out as being better players than others” feel the same way when “some kids are singled out as having better grades than others?” Perhaps we should do away with the honor roll and report cards too?
Look, I am generally all about fairness and preventing hurt feelings at all costs. As a once shy, unathletic, two-left footed child myself, I understand all too well how the have-nots (or “catch-nots”) can be made to feel the chilly frost of separation from the herd. Of having it be known that you aren’t “all that” in the chosen arena. I am the girl chosen last. Yeah, that kid. Nice to meet you.
Even I, however, see the merit in competition. In team spirit. In lauding the chosen few for their extra-special accomplishments, hard work, or yes, God given talents.
Why? Because real life works like that too.
Like all aging hipsters certain that “kids these days” are “going to hell in a handbasket” I fear that we are raising a nation of wimps. Entitled wimps at that.
So used will they be to kudos and certificates and a ticker-tape parade just for showing up that they will, I fear, be unable to function in any real, competitive workplace. “Just do your best” can be both a balm for the less gifted or a catch-phrase for the uncommitted. “But it’s not fair!” the battle-cry of the entitlement mentality.
Turning sports into just another “you show up, you get a sticker!” (and hell, probably a snack) endeavor is not the way to save children from hurt.
When I sucked at sports (and oh I really, really did). I learned that sports were not for me. Not in the “I’m going to be a contender!” sense anyway. Those All-Star games of old certainly culled the likes of me from the stand-out-sports-star herd and I, for one, am better for it. Realizing I was never going to make a living, or much more than a fool out of myself, in the athletic arena allowed me to hone my skills in other, more appropriate, ways.
Today my sign reads “will write for food” and I don’t think the sports world has missed me much. Imagine if I’d spent my formative years being assured I was “just as good” as anyone else, despite all evidence to the contrary?
In truth, all this “you are all stars!” mentality probably only postpones reality for a decade or two until the overly coddled generation discovers that in the “real world’ just showing up is not enough. You have to perform - nay OUTperform others - too.
In life, like in baseball, sometimes you’re the Louisville slugger, and sometimes you’re the ball.
Rarely, in either, however, do you win it all just for showing up.
“Something’s gotta give,” my exasperated husband sighs as we both gaze desparingly upon our monthly bank statement. “What? What can we give?” We look over every detailed transaction. Gasoline…300 dollars per month. Groceries…1800 dollars per month. Doctor visits and prescriptions…125 dollars per month. The list of costs associated with raising our large family, in this modern day, is seemingly endless and far too overpriced. My new struggle with trying to balance frugality, while shopping for our health, has proven to be an enormously frustrating task. The conundrum of trying to fill my children’s tummies with organic goodness and simultaneuosly avoiding a negative checking account balance is a foe that I am acquainted with, against my will. I keep hoping that my foe will grow tired of the resistance to his efforts to ruin my shaky but stubborn balance and leave me alone, but he is more persistant than I had estimated him to be.
My maternal mission to live on one income has required me to completely forget about designer jeans and MAC counter make up. I’m forced into concerning myself with only the basics, now. I don’t even dare pick up a copy of Vogue, for fear that the reminiscent yearning for the latest fashions might birth feelings of inadequacy. Who the hell needs the stress of feeling fashionably inadequate when trying to put adequate food on the table? Not me. I’m learning to be content with my Target brand jeans and generic make up. There is no room for fashion snobbery in my life anymore. I french kissed it goodbye (hey…we had a torrid love affair for a long time) and will never look back. I simply cannot allow myself the luxury of that kind of fornication with seven kids to put through college, and apparently, even struggle to feed for the next umpteen years.
We have also recently come face to face with the financial demands of raising imperfect children. As imperfect as I know we are, as parents, there are more than just two imperfect humans who live under our crimson tiled roof. One son has an ADHD disorder that we strive to try and naturally cure. This translates into forking out a lot of money on extra vitamins, health supplements, organic foods, holistic health practictioners and literature on behavioral modification approaches. Trust me, medication is the cheaper “solution,” eventhough (for us) it is not the best route to take. We have kids who need medical procedures to put tubes in ears, remove adenoids and correct a serious tongue tie problem. We have hyperactive kids who need weekly athletic involvement in order to stave off wall climbing, which costs money. We have kids who grow at incredible rates. Rates that necessitate a larger sized shoe, only six weeks after purchasing the last new pair. I’m sorry to say, that God actively ignored my prayers for perfect children. This is not what I signed up for. Somehow, I ended up in the group of people that got assigned to be a parent of imperfect humans. Did anyone else, reading this, get put into the same group? Just curious!
So there we were, sitting at the organic apple sauce encrusted kitchen table, pondering ways to increase our cash flow or decrease our expenditures. We sat, two exhausted lumps of flesh and a piece of paper that seemed to scream from the top of its lungs, “What the hell were you two thinking, having all these kids?!” We did the only thing we knew to do… shake our heads and laugh. “Hey,” my husband tried to make light of our stressful moment,” if my parents did it, we can do it.” And he’s absolutely right. If his parents raised thirteen kids up to be happy, healthy adults, then surely we can raise half that amount. We will just cinch up our Target brand belts, make a few adjustments to our habits and keep on truckin’. I got up from the table and poured each of us a glass of wine, as part of our nightly pre bedtime ritual, when my husband had an idea. ”Maybe we should stop having our nightly glass of wine. It will save a few bucks each week.” I looked over at the man who had just suggested cutting out the one thing that we get to share every night, besides a bed and cooties, as if to say, “Are you effing serious?” He chuckled at my expression of pure disgust and retracted the ridiculous statement by picking up his glass and toasting, “Here’s to our financial struggles, our child induced stress and the wine we get to share together for the rest of our lives. May the first two never interfere with the last!” As long as we can afford our weekly bottle of wine, I consider our lack of wealth a very minor side effect of being blessed with so many imperfect, yet wonderful, children. I’ll let you know if my sentiments change should we ever have to suppress our affinity for wine, due to lack of finances.
Pre-baby I knew how to chill, hard. I never worried about what was going on that weekend, or when I would have time to finish a novel, I just did it. If I felt like going out to eat, I did. If I wanted to skip work and head to the beach for a morning of iced coffee in the sand and swimming, I ran with it…but now I’ve got a just-about eleven month old…
And I’ve become a planner.
I used to chill hard, and now I plan er, harder. I mean it. I must drive my babysiter nuts because I plan out our week Sunday night. Example:
“So Monday I’m going to work from 10am until lunchtime or so, and than we can go grab lunch at the diner, and I want to bring Paige to the park so lets do that, followed by some work before dinner, okay? Tuesday lets plant flowers in the morning, and I’ll work for 3 hrs 45 minutes and we’ll make chicken salad with curry and apples for lunch and than Paige will nap and I’ll work and than we can go for a walk in the forest but than we’ll take a swim OR sit in the grass and talk..”
I actually plan out conversations.
What’s happening to me? I am a plan freak! The grandma borrowed Paige for the weekend and was deciding whether or not she would take her until Tuesday, she just needed to hear back form her job. Well, I called FIVE TIMES because I felt I couldn’t go on until I knew my plans. Like, if I knew I had an extra 24 hours to myself I’d probably spend more time laying around and reading, or twirling my hair…but if I didn’t I’d crack down and kick some ass cleaning.
I need help. I’m beginging to annoy the SHIT out of well, everyone.
I am grateful that my husband is handy. With the exception of hiring an electrician to put in a new box (now a law in my area), my husband has done everything to our fixer-upper himself (with much appreciated help from my father, FIL, and friends). There isn’t too much that he cannot do, which has saved us a countless amount of money.
Having grown up with a Mr. Fix-It as a father, this was a very attractive quality that my DH possessed. And then I realized the one down side. He’s not being paid to do it. There is no legally binding contract. Our house is at his mercy. At least hockey season is over…
April 2008
Me: Babe, we really need to side the house. The stucco, although very attractive, is stained. Plus we need the extra insulation for our wicked winters.
DH: OK. I’ll call my dad and we’ll start getting everything together.
Me: Should we hire someone?
DH looks at me as though I have simultaneously grown three heads and emasculated him in one feel swoop.
DH: Do you know how much more that would cost? I can do it. Do you know how many houses my dad and I have sided? We can do it.
Me: Sweet!
Now a wiser woman would have known better. She would have immediately started a list of needed supplies and a time line.
May 2008:
Me: Babe, remember last month when I said we really needed to side the house? Well, we really should get started. Your hectic traveling schedule is going to make this difficult enough. Can we go choose the color?
I’m not a bad housekeeper. I keep the important things clean enough so that there isn’t really any visible crud to make us–or pop-in visitors–uncomfortable.
But, you know, the out-of-the-ordinary gets neglected. The things that are aside from the vacuuming, bathroom cleaning, kitchen scouring, living area dusting. So, twice a year, I do a Big Clean. The first one is typically before my son’s birthday in November–that way the house is clean for holiday guests and we’ve shifted crap around (and out) to make room for new crap that will be brought in for his birthday, Christmas and my daughter’s birthday (in January). The second Big Clean usually happens in the middle of summer right before someone visits from out of town. We clean not only for the guests. It’s not just so they don’t think we live in squalor. It’s to keep up with it all periodically so we don’t slip into squalor little bit by little bit. It’s to stay on top of the clutter and grime so we don’t get buried underneath it.
I was at the checkout lane magazine rack, too cheap to buy, yet eager to learn how Angelina Jolie is going to balance celebrity, saving the world, motherhood and photo ops.
I was about to flip open an issue to catch up on our generation’s answer to Mother Teresa, when I noticed the cover of a competing publication — “balancing career, family and you.”
New theme. Then, in a true “mob mentality,” a third cover called to me, singing the siren song of promise to “balance work and home life.” That’s when it hit me: Balance is the new “in” thing. Like ”basic black.” Balance, my friends, goes with everything!
Want it all. All appearances to the contrary, I want to live a balanced life. I do. I want to make the world a better place for animals, children, and people who are woefully unable to merge into traffic properly.
The other day I was talking with a neighbor about her daughter’s upcoming wedding. She seemed a little disinterested in the whole affair, not at all excited or hopeful. I myself love weddings, and had a beautiful one almost two years ago. My mother, aunts, and friends were all giddy about the planning and execution. I offered a few probing questions and learned that her daughter is 20, her fiancé 21, and both are still in college. According to her mother, those factors total up to a big disaster.
When I married at 24 I thought of myself as a young bride. I had finished my undergraduate studies and was about to embark on grad school. I had never lived outside of my parents house, was still working as an intern, and was about to have a husband, new home, and dog. I suddenly felt like an eight year old playing “house.”
Two years later (on July1) and I’m still happily married. Our house is slowly being renovated, grad school is done, my hubby and I still like each other, and I’m totally understanding that whole “money doesn’t grow on trees” phrase. But everyday brings something new — new challenges, worries, plans and surprises.
Then I started thinking about my neighbor’s daughter and fiancé. I do believe in love at first sight (upon meeting my now husband I proclaimed to my best friend that I was going to marry him), but is 20 old enough to enter into marriage? There is a surplus of stories of couples who met and married young, and 20 years later are going strong. But is that a realistic reality today? Are kids being blinded by media images and fairy tales? Are kids growing up too fast? Is divorce as an easy way out common thought before settling down? Is this young couple doomed to fail? I certainly hope not.
I think that a successful marriage is one in which both people grow together. While it might not always be at the same pace or in the same direction, both must be committed to helping each other and making a conscious effort to share the other’s like/dislikes. There is just so much growing, so many experiences to have at the age of 20 and 21. For many people that is the time of late nights, dating, and little responsibility.
My best friend, who is celebrating her first wedding anniversary next month, said something to me the other day that kind of caught me off guard. “Marriage is hard. It’s hard EVERYDAY.” Mind you she had a couple drinks and is just coming off of the first very trying year, but if it’s that difficult for her at 26, how will this 20 year old fair?
So let the discussion begin — is 20 too young to get married? Is there some minimum age requirement that should be reached before getting hitched? Or are some just destined for happily ever after (with dedication, compromise, and good old fashion love)?
Despite of the disaster of the last vacation, my husband and I just booked a trip for all of us to go away again the first week in August. (Dramatic pause)
Wait for it….Wait for it….
ON A PLANE.
I think the beers I drank while watching the Cubs game last Saturday are still floating around in my cerebral cortex somewhere. Because? A plane? Will probably equivocate to Dante’s version of hell, except instead of wasps there’ll be toddler temper tantrums, thrown Cheerios and formula sprayed all over the poor saps in front of us.
Mind you, we knew all of this fully when we hit that Book Flight button. But, we figured we deserved a vacation, it wouldn’t be that bad, maybe he would behave…blah, blah, blah. I believe I’ve just set the premise for every comedic movie involving what was sure to be a “fun-filled family vacation” that goes horribly awry.
It’ll be like National Lampoon’s Satanic Toddler Vacation.
Oh, did I also mention we have a two-hour layover in Atlanta? I’m sure my eleven month old will TOTALLY understand that connecting flights were much cheaper than direct flights and thus, we have to endure two boardings, two landings and two sets of people who will hate us from the moment they lay eyes on us.
And I’m sure he’ll be just FINE with the fact that the flight crew generally doesn’t like it when crawling babies block the aisles, stopping only to turn red-faced and grunt out a good, smelly poop, so he’ll have to stay on my lap.
He’ll definitely understand when I remind him that it’s not polite to rip out the hair of the person next to you, no matter how much her hair resembles something a bird would live in.
I mean, right?
(Oh, and to anyone who is traveling from Chicago to Savannah in early August, may God have mercy on your soul.)
Reproduction
of material from any of The Imperfect Parent's pages without written
permission is strictly prohibited. The Imperfect Parent and Tiny
Tantrums are trademarks of Prudentia Communications Group. Views
and opinions expressed are those of the author, and do not necessarily
reflect the opinions of The Imperfect Parent. The Imperfect Parent
is designed for entertainment
purposes only and is not meant to be a substitute for medical, health,
legal, or financial advice from a professional.
Posted
June 30, 2008 at
5:30 pm by
Kymberly 
Comments (3)
Posted
June 30, 2008 at
1:56 pm by
Posted
June 29, 2008 at
9:46 pm by
Posted
June 29, 2008 at
1:00 am by
Posted
June 28, 2008 at
3:08 pm by
Posted
June 27, 2008 at
1:36 pm by
Posted
June 25, 2008 at
7:27 pm by
