Routine

The same tinny music repeats itself for the hundredth time over a mostly clear loudspeaker system resonating throughout the busy gym. Occasionally the twang of a springboard or the rattling of the bars interrupts the monotonous sound, mixing with the chatter of the parents on the bleachers alternately checking their phones and watching the kids. Down on the floor thirty tiny gymnasts take turns performing a variety of flips, leaps, turns, and dance moves on the four apparatuses while dedicated coaches shoo them from one place to another. The well oiled machine of the meet moves along for the better part of four hours and repeats itself six or seven times throughout the weekend as the teams come and go.

For each little girl, this weekend represents a culmination of years of work, daily practices, and hours of training. Most have given up other hobbies, missed birthday parties, and often skipped vacations for more hours in the gym. Some attend public school, but many do not, opting instead to homeschool or study at the gyms where they spend their waking hours. Their bodies show the wear and tear of their routines with callouses, tape, and braces on hands, ankles, knees, and more. Worn leather grips contrast with new team warmups as they move from one rotation to the next. Each girl glitters and sparkles in a cloud of rhinestones topped with elaborately styled hair, yet simple unmade faces peek out from between the trappings.

A girl salutes, then steps onto the vault runway at the judge’s signal. She runs hard, but her legs seem to tangle under her as she hits the springboard. The thud of flesh connecting with the vaulting table resonates throughout the room as she crumples to the floor. A gasp collectively escapes from the stands as the little body writhes into the space between the board and the table. One mom jumps to her feet, but remains rooted in place. Slowly, she takes several steps down the bleacher stairs glancing back at the other parents who smile and offer support.

The little girl on the floor tries to sit up, the anguish running down her face. Her jerky movements give away the pain she tries to hide. Her mom approaches the fence, but makes no move to enter, silently watching her daughter fight to move uncooperative limbs.

A large muscular coach approaches the girl on the floor. This bear of a man reaches down and swoops her into his arms, effortlessly lifting her like a baby. She clings to him, burying her face in his chest for a moment before looking around the room. He starts to carry her away, but she tugs at his arm softly. He stops, and turns his body sideways as the tiny girl looks at the judges table next to the vault. She raises both arms above her head and with all the decorum she can muster throws out her chest in a sharp salute.

The tinny music plays on. It never faltered despite the drama playing out only feet away from the square taped on the floor. The bars never stopped bouncing and the judges never looked away from their events. Athletes and coaches each lost in their own competitions completed their duties just like they were taught. The girl’s own teammate stands ready beside the vaulting lane, a look of concern on her face, but her body erect and awaiting the judge’s signal. A second coach fills the man’s now empty spot beside the vault and the competition continues. Her mother returns to her seat.

A parent asks, “Was that her first vault or her second?” and her mom replies, “The first.” They discuss the score deductions for failing to vault at all.

On the floor the girl is back on her feet now, the bruise on her chin’s swelling apparent. She’s standing awkwardly, her swollen knee out to the side as she puts on her grips and reaches into the chalk bucket to begin preparations for her bar routine.

Who is your teacher?

Tonight's rambling parenting musing:

I'm the mom who buys the 'teacher experiences' at the school PTA auction. My oldest got to see a movie with her teacher and is going to the movies with the music teacher. My middle child did a painting class with her teacher and has an outing for snacks with the nurse in January. For my son I bought the 'teacher for the day' and the pj movie party packages with his teacher.

On a sidenote, I don't do fundraisers. No I won't buy raffle tickets, sponsor a lap in the walk/run/hop/etc - a-thon, or bring in coins, and we refuse to sell anything to our friends and family. I will not turn my kids into walking dollar-generators. However, I'm a sucker for the book fair and I'll pay for free stuff that makes my life a lot easier (like a reserved parking spot at the school talent show). So 100% of my financial support to the school is in the form of experiences.

So tonight I was telling the kids that tomorrow my son will be staying after school for his pajama party. He's taking his super cool shark tail and his new fire truck pajamas and will be watching Charlie Brown Christmas with his amazing teacher. They were all excited for him.

Later, my oldest pulled me aside and quietly asked me, "Are you doing anything special with your teacher?" Hmmm? I asked her to clarify and she said, "You know, the ones who teach you to be a Magic judge."

What a thought provoking question. My eight-year-old is such a sweet little lady and I love how she always thinks of others. She saw that I had invested in those experiences because I know that teaching and learning is based on a relationship between people. It's much more than just a transfer of knowledge. The best teachers impart wisdom and character in addition to rules and facts.

I've been privileged to have many great teachers in my life including my parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins in my early life and the many teachers, coaches, professors, and advisors in formal education. As a teacher I had incredible co-workers, principals, and especially students who taught me so much. In each job, role, or position I've held in my life, the guidance of others has offered me perspectives and insights that have shaped the person I am today.

So to my teachers as a Magic judge: thank you. I appreciate the time and effort you have invested in training me. The mentoring and feedback have expanded my skillset tremendously far beyond just the rules of Magic. I've learned so much about leadership, management, motivation, feedback, trust, integrity, and forgiveness. Whether you are a judge, a former judge, an L0, 1, 2 , or 3, a player, a scorekeeper, a friend, or some combination of those things, you have made a difference in my life. You're awesome and amazing and I appreciate you.

Oh, and if anyone wants to see a movie, go to a painting class, do an escape room, share a meal, or have any other sort of cheesy bonding experience . . . I'm in!

To the mom . . .

To the mom who talked to me tonight: THANK YOU.

As I walked into gymnastics, I vaguely recognized you, but I couldn’t place you until I saw your twin sons. Then it hit me - they’re in my son’s class at school. I started to hide, to cover my face, to look away, to leave. You wouldn’t want to talk to me - I’m the mother of that kid.

You greeted me warmly and asked how I was doing. We walked towards the bleachers where we sit to watch our kids. You took the seat right beside me. You asked me how I do it. It was all I could do not to cry and tackle you with a hug right there on the spot. You didn’t mince words or pretend everything was normal. You went right to the heart of what we have in common - little boys who struggle in a big classroom. You said that you admired me and understood that the negativity is rough. We chatted about our interactions with the teacher, our concerns for our sons, and ideas to try. We pointed out our daughters to each other and talked about crazy schedules and being moms of three. We compared jobs and shared laughs. Te mom next to us joined in our talk of sending two snacks to school for hungry little guys. Not once did you belittle me for having a son who has poor impulse control. You understood that he’s the youngest in the class (11.5 months younger than yours in fact). You were honest, even mentioning that your sons talk about mine at home and empathize with his struggles.

We had such a normal parenting conversation - a rarity for me where my son is concerned. That judgment free hour was one of the best I’ve had in a long time. You showed me that there is hope in the world and a light in the future. You made me feel alive and rich in community. For one short hour I was in a judgment free zone where struggles were accepted and shared and support was offered. A true community. Thank you.

When I go out into the world tomorrow and every day, I hope to remember this lesson, and judge less and support more. Thank you for making me a better person.

The Teacher

My heart stopped for a second when I got the phone call. Not again. Not another one. I politely thanked her for calling after assuring her that I'd be present at 11am Monday morning. We almost made it 2 weeks. Two weeks at a school without the call. The call from an administrator saying we needed to have a meeting. These meetings start off with 'we want to help your child' and end with 'so please take him somewhere else.'

My son just turned 4. He's a sweet little snugglebug who loves helping mom cook, playing baseball, and hot wheels cars. He has a big heart, a big appetite, and a big personality. He's self-assured and confident and has a strong sense of how things should be. When life deviates from his plan, his emotions overwhelm him and he needs some extra hugs to cope. He struggles with bladder control and has a milk protein allergy too. I can see why teachers don't want him; he's not the easiest kid to teach. But he's one of the sweetest, most rewarding little humans out there - at least to me!

So I spent the weekend researching more preschools in an ever widening radius, wondering if 4 is too young for counseling, and rereading the school's tuition refund policy. By Monday morning I was sick from the lack of sleep, heartburn, nail biting, and anxiety. I could barely drag myself through a shower and getting the kids to school. I spent the hours between 8 and 11 volunteering at my daughters' school, wondering if I would ever get to do the same with my son. Wondering if there exists a place where he would be wanted, valued, and loved. A place where they would want our family as a part of their community.

I walked in the school a few minutes early, bracing myself to receive the disparaging looks from the receptionists and preparing to hear another list of reasons why I am a failure as a parent. I've always treated my kids like people, not pets or robots. They have thoughts, feelings, needs, and ideas too. Learning to engage in the world and express themselves appropriately is hard. Understanding expectations and rules in new places is hard. Dealing with other people is hard. For my son, he has to do all these things with only a rudimentary understanding of how the world works and very little life experience. He also has to do it separated from his closest supporter - me!

Gently I push open the door with a pasted smile on my face and the tears hidden deep in my eyes. The receptionist is friendly. She must not know. We talk about her cats. The assistant principal appears and greets me with a big smile. Here we go again. Maybe I should have skipped this meeting and just unenrolled him. I follow her down a maze of hallways between walls covered with cute artwork and tiny water fountains. Our neighbor, my son's little buddy, spies me. He runs and gives me a big hug.

We arrive at a door and she pushes it open. I'm greeted by my son's teacher and the school counselor. "We're meeting in here because you haven't seen the classroom yet and I know you wanted to see it." Wow. She remembered that. As I take in the large, bright room filled with toys, books, and tiny furniture she shows me around and explains about sitting on the rug, the calendar, the coat hooks. I try to take it all in without thinking why does this matter; he won't be here long anyway.

We sit down in tiny chairs and our knees come up to our chests. I sit on the side of the table across from the 3 staff members. His teacher looks at the situation, gets up and moves to the chair next to me. The assistant principal steps in and starts the meeting like usual, "Thanks so much for coming. We're here to talk about helping your son be successful. Let's start by having his teacher tell about how he acts in class." I brace myself for the torrent that is about to be unleashed: stories of him hitting, kicking, crying, rolling in the floor, peeing his pants, refusing to follow directions, and generally being a disturbance. Instead his teacher says, "He is a sweet boy."

In that moment, I don't dare to hope, but she started with a positive. She goes on to list his faults, but the list is shorter than usual and is interspersed with positives. Then she asks me to tell the group a little more about him, his educational past, and his home life. What? They want to hear about him? And our life? In a daze I blunder through some basics: he has 2 older sisters, his montessori school shut down, he went to a new school with a brand new teacher, he's never had more than 8 kids in his class, he just turned 4 last week, etc. I leave out the part about getting demoted at gymnastics due to behavior and that another preschool told me not to consider them if he had behavior problems. I focus on his love of trucks, trains, and anything that moves. How he likes to help me and how we give hugs when he needs to calm down.

The counselor jumps in with an idea about how they could use a calming technique at school similar to what we do at home. She offers to create a 'calming kit' for the classroom and do some lessons with him on how to use the strategies. The teacher looks pleased. She says that she can offer him the calm down hugs at school and suggests a spot he could sit when he needs time alone. The administrator offers ideas too. We all start to talk, sharing thoughts on how we can connect home and school behavior conversations. We discuss his folder and the colored stamps, the phone calls, where he sits, holding his hand to help teach him hallway procedures, using the same language he's used to hearing,  . . . the conversation keeps flowing until we have a wealth of ideas and strategies. As the conversation wraps up, she the teacher can't resist telling me one more cute story about him. She's glowing she's so happy with all these ways to help him. The counselor excitedly chats about lessons she can use to help him. The administrator asks more about our family as we walk back to the front door. I leave the school in a whirlwind of giddiness.

When I climb back in my van the tears start to fall. Not the aching tears I've cried all weekend, but tears of relief. After so many similar meetings, conversations with a coach or administrator, or the quick negative remarks in the carline, this meeting was something different. That woman convened an army to help my son. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It's been a few weeks, and we've had our ups and downs, but overall it's getting better. I still can't get over what his teacher did. Rather than getting frustrated, giving up, and sending him on to someone else, she did the opposite. She dug in her heels and committed to making my son successful. Good days and bad, she doesn't give up. And she's teaching my son the same things - how to work through a problem, how to ask for help, how to create a plan in a difficult situation, how to persevere, and most importantly how to care about other people. I could not have asked for a better teacher, role model, and friend for my son.

Urban Air Adventures

For my daredevil daughter's 6th birthday she requested a visit to Urban Air, so we decided to check out the new Adventure Park in Southlake. We're currently going on hour six, so I thought I'd take a moment to type up a fun filled review.

When we arrived the entry area was a zoo with long lines, little signage, and no real sense of what was going on. I spied a self-service kiosk and hoped to expedite things by signing up on it. Bad move - after filling out the refreshingly brief personal information section I was presented with a dizzying array of options and no real explanation of what they meant. I made some choices hoping to get to playing sooner. Foiled again! The machine produced a ticket that I then had to stand in a long line to redeem. When we finally reached the counter, an employee promptly helped the family behind us. Another employee tried to assist the family after them until I suggested that perhaps we might like to be served as well. She did apologize and was very friendly and helpful, providing us socks and wristbands. Thirty-two minutes after arrived we were finally allowed inside. (If you have ever waited 32 minutes with an excited 6 year old . . . . )

Once in we made several discoveries. There are no benches, seats, or chairs anywhere near the entrance. You can walk to the food court in the back, but putting on socks at picnic tables is not the easiest way to do it. There is a surprising shortage of trash cans. We couldn't find anywhere to toss those sock wrappers. The required Urban Air socks are fine for the kiddos, but as an adult I found them to be quite uncomfortable. They are scratchy, don't stretch, and come in a very poor set of sizes. The indignity of these awful things resembles the feeling of wearing a hospital gown - you feel exposed, not quite covered up right, and a little bit dirty all the time. Oh, and they're bright yellow.

Next up: stashing our stuff. There are no lockers. The website says they exist, but a manager says they don't have any that are not broken. She was super sweet and friendly and offered to keep my bag behind the desk since there were no lockers. There is also shoe cubbies if all you are storing is footwear, but in our case the area was overflowing with shoes, socks, jackets, and the like.

Finally, on to the fun! There is sooooo much to do here. The girls headed straight for the ninja warrior course. There is also a variety of trampolines and other amusements. The best part - they are all included! That's right parents, no constant begging for more money! While the exact things you can do are determined by the level of pass you purchased, a very reasonable $25 gets you all day, all the attractions ($10 more for unlimited go karts and virtual reality). Little ones are only $9 and parents are half price so you can play too.  After a while you get used to seeing kids flying overhead and that skyrider thing does look pretty fun. The 'pro room' is perfect for traceours, slam dunks are awesome, and there are at least 6 rock climbing options. The go karts are surprisingly quiet and the place is spotlessly clean.

So lets talk about the poopy part - that's right, the restrooms. There are located behind the food court, so not super convenient, but large, clean, and well-lit. While one stall was out of toilet paper, they seemed to be in otherwise working order. My favorite part was the family/gender neutral restroom available. This is particularly helpful if your son has taken to refusing to use the ladies' room, but you still insist that a 3 year-old cannot use a men's room unaccompanied.  There is also a free, clean, cold water fountain available. (I despise places that remove the water fountain in order to sell more $5 bottles of water.)

When my six-year-old opted to work on her skills in the pro room, the staff member in there supported her and she happily joined in with the teen guys showing off their flips and wall climbs. The employee really made her feel welcome and helped her up onto the wall if she needed a boost. That level of customer service stands out to me because it would be easy to dismiss a little girl rather than treat her like a valued customer.

Later the same manager from earlier passed me and asked how we were doing. I asked her about wristbands that some participants had been wearing and she offered to get us some and help us register them. Then the kids could swipe them at different activities and it would e-mail me a video of what they had just done. Talk about cool! And free! One note here, the bracelet was too big and kept falling off my daughter's tiny wrist.

For lunch we visited the concession stand. While the usual concession favorites were on the menu (hot dog with stale bun, slimy nachos, slurpee), the prices were surprisingly reasonable and the quality was better than I expected. I spent $22 on 2 slices of pizza, 2 hot dogs, fries, sweet potato tots, and 3 drinks. They had my favorite Gatorade, plenty of dairy free options (wings, hot dogs, pretzels), and ranch for dipping at no extra charge. While the line was a bit slow moving, the pager system made getting the food easy and there was plenty of space to sit and eat. The dining area was clean and comfortable. Drink refills are free too.

Once thing that we noticed is that some of the policy enforcement seemed a bit sporadic, but that is to be expected for a new place. Often the ninja warrior course had so many little kids playing in the balls that the 'ninjas' couldn't really race. At one point my daughter was incorrectly told that she was too short for a certain attraction, but after I spoke with the operator he apologized and let her ride.

Later in the day another manager noted me sitting at my laptop and stopped to ask how our day was going. I mentioned a concern and he immediately took ownership of the situation and worked to make it right. He went above and beyond to help and again made a huge positive impression.

Even after a full six hours here, I think I'm gonna pack up the laptop and go get back on the trampoline because, yes, it's that much fun! This place made a great first impression on me and we can't wait to hear about the annual membership that a manager said should be coming soon.

Where are you Christmas?

It's 10:30pm on Christmas Eve. I'm standing in the kitchen staring down a massive pile of dishes. The remains of a delicious Mexican dinner intermingle with the congealing leftover icing from the sugar cookies. Not the cookies my mom used to make, but a dairy-free modified version. I sneeze, for the thousandth time, and wash my hands again. Ugh, this mess, this cold, and I still have to fill the stockings. Some part of me wishes I could just jump into bed and wake up in the morning to the smell of frying bacon and wander into a room full of gifts that someone else wrapped.

Late at night on Christmas Eve my dad used to slip over to my grandparents' house to visit them after midnight service. Sometimes we went to church with them. As I got older I sometimes got to go on the late night excursion. This year I will have to make due with a visit to a headstone tomorrow afternoon. I'll have no gift to deliver, but I know that being in their presence will still be a gift to me.

In the morning my children will bound down the stairs, eyes aglow and eager to open the gifts we have for them. My sweet in-laws have contributed to the pile of goodies and the kids have even brought a few things. We will have fun tearing off wrapping paper and wearing bows on our heads, but this year I will be the one piling the trash into a sack when the melee ends.

It hit me a few days ago while my phone played Christmas songs and I shoved gifts into shiny paper with too much tape. Christmas has changed. I yearned for the warm glow of the past with my old Reba McIntyre Christmas CD and the little tree in my bedroom. The warmth of my parents nearby and a full cohort of grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins, and friends to share the holiday. Somehow being an adult seems to have lessened the glow of the Magic of Christmas.

Tonight we went to my cousin Melissa's house for Christmas Eve Mexican dinner. The differences were striking - as we sat down to dinner, I had to change poopy pants. My grandparents didn't come, my parents are far away, and no one made Mexican casserole. However through the newness, some things remained - my aunt Cathy's pralines, the group picture of the kids (our kids!), and the love of family. We spoke of Christmases past - of Cindy's cookies, Melissa's piano playing, and funny pageants. The year we played Taboo for hours, the running around in the back yard, the gifts we used to exchange - the memories flooded me. Somehow this gathering replenished my soul on a level I never knew I needed.

I realized that Christmas isn't about Magic that finds you, it's about Magic that you make. Tonight as we ate my Aunt Cindy's old weaving loom leaned against the wall next to our table. Seeing that piece of her past tied some thoughts together for me. Weaving the threads of Christmases past with the new strands of Christmas present produces a kind of beauty all its own that blends nostalgia with a strength that will enable Christmases future to continue to be spliced into the tapestry.

So I'll head back to those dishes with my Pentatonix Christmas playlist and look forward to being the one cooking that Christmas breakfast. Merry Christmas to all the Santa Clauses out there who make their own Christmas Magic.

Letting Go

Since the day we are born, our lives are a series of goodbyes. Many of them are triumphant ones such as taking first steps or heading off to college, but for the ones left behind those moments are often bittersweet. Today, with tears running down my face I'm reflecting on some of those moments.

This morning a friend of mine left her sweet baby for her first day of daycare. Just reading her facebook post left tears sliding down my cheeks. It included an adorable sign the daycare made to welcome the little girl and the cute baby happily playing. While I absolutely believe that this child will have a wonderful day with loving caregivers, I still experience the empathetic pain of the separation the mother feels at letting go. That first day where your baby is not with you (or a close family member) holds a special place in every parent's life. It's an important step, for both mother and child, but not an easy one to take.

When dropping my girls off for their first day at a new elementary school last week, I lamented the fact that they each hopped out of the car and headed inside without looking back. As I drove off I realized that the street was lined with cars and crying parents walking their (also crying) children inside. A part of me felt proud that my strong, beautiful, independent young ladies had simply hopped out in the carpool line (and that I had managed to keep driving the car after they exited it). Another part of me felt like it had been torn in half after spending a wonderful summer with them traveling and enjoying life. I'd like to tell you that the rest of the day went smoothly. I'd like to tell you that I didn't pull into a random street and sob . . . but my son in the back seat would likely tell you the truth.

Each season of growing and changing brings new challenges, new firsts, new skills, new successes, and new goodbyes. They need me less and less for small tasks and daily duties. But they need me more and more as a guide, a compass, a source of wisdom, and a friend. I'm sure those days will pass too as they continue to grow up and our relationship will grow too.

I'm preparing to say a final goodbye to my grandmother - a woman who has been a role model to me for my entire life. She's shown me the meaning of love through the life we have shared together. She has always embodied a quiet strength hidden under a funny and cheerful nature. Her work in her church made her the much loved grandmother of her entire congregation. She never missed a school event, birthday, or trip and she cheerfully supported me through so many crazy endeavors. From my earliest memories the warmth of her love has been a part of my life.

While I know that there is a season for everything, I'm struggling. She and I have talked so much about Grandpa in these past few years since he's been gone. She misses him. She's ready to go and be with him. But I just can't imagine life here without her.

Just like a new mother leaving her baby or my little girls climbing out of my car, it's time for me to embark on a new stage of my journey.  A chance for me to learn and grow and find my grandmother's strength inside myself. Even though she won't be here with me for much longer, she will be with me in my heart forever.

Letting go is never easy . . .