On Coaching Girls

The little girl walked to the plate with bat in hand. The Dad, who was also her coach, yelled out Don’t forget to take the bat all the way back, keep your eye on the ball and step into that swing.

The result was a wiff—like the um-teen other times she had been at the plate.

And so the Dad repeated his directions even more loudly in the exact same manner he would have done had it been his son.

 Except that his daughter was not one of his sons. And the little girl, unlike her brothers, did not appreciate directions yelled out to her loudly from the sidelines. So in the middle of the count, she threw down her bat and walked off the field.

A different Dad, a few years later, in an effort to ignite some adrenaline in his daughter’s veins during a key soccer game called out Roxanne!!! Run faster!!What’s going on out there?!!

At which point the daughter stopped dead in her tracks and answered back so that the entire crowd could hear: Dad—how about you try running down the field with a pad stuck up your a**!!!

And at the end of one her more sucessfully played golf seasons, the golf coach, as part of his post season pep-talk, told my daughter You have amazing potential. I really want to see you dedicate yourself this summer to golf and only golf. And to be honest—if I do not see that you have put the maximum effort into your game this summer, I may have to think about your team placement next season.

Which resulted in my daughter storing her clubs, picking up her stick, and training at an intensive field hockey camp in Europe.

His speech was indeed motivational---just not in the direction the coach had intended.

Because when it comes to sports--- girls cannot be coached like boys. Girls require a more subtle hand. There is no nose immune to female spite. Inspiration is not born of intimidation or denunciation. No Viagra is ever needed to erect a middle finger.

And we have all learned that boys are made of snips [eels] and snails and puppy dog tails.

And as they are bottom feeders, they are not all that particular. Their teeny tiny simply evolved brains react to stimuli with no cognition.

But girls are made of sugar and spice and everything nice.

It takes a whole lot of sweat labor, processing, and complex step by step refinement to create granulated sugar and desiccated spice for anyone’s enjoyment.

Sugar and spice just ain’t easy.

And neither is coaching—especially when you are a reactionary eel and know nuthin’ about gettin’ some sugar.

 

Not As It Seems

A little boy who was maybe 4 or 5 years old asked the man at the counter of Dunkin Donuts Do you make pumpkin donuts? The man said Yes we do! The little boy then asked But how do you make it pumpkin? At which point the man at the counter replied We put pumpkin in it—would you like one?

The boy nodded.

But when the man handed the boy a fresh nutmeg colored glazed donut the boy became indignant and  proclaimed That’s not a pumpkin donut! Where are the eyes nose and teeth?

A few days back my youngest daughter said Do you want to go with me to the Magrette exhibition at the MOMA?

I could not say yes fast enough. Viewing fine art is among our favorite activities.

But I was also forced to ask Wait—who’s Magritte again—and do I know him?

Because unlike my daughter I did not study art history in college.

I lack her sophistication.

And she said He is a surrealist but not quite like Dali. His works almost always have men wearing bowler-style hats.

Relieved, I shook my head in recognition.

And there we were---standing in a crowded gallery room admiring one of Magritte’s most famous oils on canvas: a green pipe with the words ceci n’est pas une pipe painted below the image. The English translation from French is This is not a pipe.

Magritte’s point was that if what people saw really was a pipe, then in theory one could fill it with tobacco and smoke it. Thus the answer to the question Is this a pipe? would resoundingly be no—it is not. 

Boiled down to its bones, the surrealistic philosophy is simply: nothing is ever as it seems—it is always more, less or not-at-all. Reality always is distorted.

So the phrase it is what it is in the world of the surrealist is less true than it isn’t what it isn’t.

And when the Dad finally intervened in the dispute between his son and the Dunkin Donuts man, the result was an admonishment. The Dad tapped his son on the shoulder and said Buddy--stop harassing the poor guy. Do you want the donut or not?

In surrender, the boy said yes.

Because even if a pumpkin donut is not a pumpkin donut, it still tastes just as sweet---that is the constant, not the variable. And it is a delectable thought that Magritte and all the other surrealists might put in their pipe and smoke until satiated.

An Aborted Message

He was walking alongside a populated road just outside the city limits of Atlanta. As the cars passed he smiled and waved. This young African American man was well dressed---in a shirt, tie, slacks and leather shoes. And prominently displayed on his chest was a large placard which read Jesus loves you.

Last week as I approached the corner of 22^nd Street and 2^nd Avenue in Manhattan I could not help but notice a woman standing in plain view. Her antiquated nun’s habit eerily reminded me of a burqa. The only visible flesh was her sullen face and her clenched hands. Her voice was silent. She held a large placard just like the young black man’s; but her message was very different. It read Stop Abortion Now.

I admit to having a little g-crush on the new pope. And by g-crush I do not mean a girl-crush but rather a God-crush. I think Pope Francis is pretty remarkable—and unlike his predecessor(s) I suspect he may truly be infallible. I suspect God may be whispering in his ear—his view is that enlightened—it is nearly Zen.

And if his past remarks on homosexuality were not brazen enough, he now has ruffled some other die-hard Catholic feathers. He has taken the stance that the church needs to stand away from small minded rules and not take such a narrow approach to social issues. He speaks of a new balance—not allowing the issues of homosexuality, contraception and abortion to dominate the church and overshadow its purpose. He speaks of mercy and love rather than judgment and punishment.

And I can honestly say that when I saw that smiling young man on the roadside wave at me with his words Jesus loves you, I was elated—elevated--touched. I was reminded of the joy in faith. I was reminded of the core of Christianity. I felt embraced. I wanted to create my own sign and walk with him.

But all I felt when I saw that nun on the corner was anger—rejection—incarceration. I thought Who are you to judge me? Who are you to demand of me things you have no right to ask? I thought Why do you believe that guilt is inspirational and why would I ever follow you?

She clearly did not get the pope’s memo.

Because Pope Francis has the right message. His invitation has no finite reply. He has the pulse and heart of his people: open arms trump folded arms across the chest.

An Independent Excuse

Just to get to get from the parking lot to the door of the sorority house required walking up 3 flights of stairs. Then another 2 flights of steps needed climbing to arrive on the floor designated for the sophomore girls.

Moving my daughter in was positively exhausting.

But we were met during this process with all the other sorority girls and their parents huffing and puffing and sweating their way up the incline with their campus supplies for the upcoming year. We shared grunts and groans with all of the parent helpers--- all of the parent helpers that is but for Amelia’s.

Because both of Amelia’s parents were conspicuously absent.

They, who at minimum had the means to hire a mover, chose to skip out on the move-in process altogether. These parents stood behind the concepts of self-reliance and independence to justify their lack of engagement.

I have seen in my time 5 year olds in charge of their 3 year old siblings at the park. I have seen 5^th graders left on the field with no recourse but to ask the coach with eyes cast downward to drive them home. I have picked up and driven countless adolescents home late at night because their parents were tired and went to sleep.

All those parents used words like self-sufficiency and not-coddling and problem solving as a cover for their negligence. They exploited these ordinarily venerated terms as an excuse for not wanting to be bothered doing their job.

And recently a child of mine inquired Are we (my sisters and I) spoiled? I resoundingly said No. You are only spoiled if you do not appreciate what your parents do for you. You are only spoiled if you do not know how to say thank you--and mean it. You are only spoiled if you expect things offered in charity.

Because I cannot reconcile not doing for your children things that you would eagerly volunteer doing for a stranger. I cannot reconcile egocentricity. My heart has and continues to break for children—of all ages—who feel abandoned and must dress their sorrow as autonomy. I weep that the phrase Mommy help me goes unanswered or cannot even be asked.

Because what we teach our children becomes their parental syllabus. What we experience as children   guides our moral compass. And it is better to cross the line to over-caring than live in the valley of not caring at all.

An Answer for Everything

With an angry tone she said If you can’t do a job right, then don’t do it at all!

That line pretty much summed up my mother’s philosophy in life: nothing is worth doing unless it is done well.

For the last month my blog has remained silent. My tasking exceeded multi and stepped into the realm of exponential. When I awoke in the morning I was faced with a difficult choice: to spend an hour keyboarding my thoughts into Word or to take a shower, brush my teeth and get dressed.

I chose the latter.

Because when you are being pulled in infinite directions the latter is the most pragmatic road—not to mention the most hygienic. An added factor to the conundrum is the difficulty in stringing two coherent sentences together when you are two plates full.

But the time away from the page has given me pause to think. It has given me time to reflect on my goals and the importance of sharing what is stirred up in my brain. I contemplated ceasing my avocation. Because while life has calmed down, my solitary plate is still rather full. And I am resolute in producing a high quality product which involves concentrated effort. I weighed standards versus volume.

The conclusion was that I still enjoyed expelling and sharing my thoughts too much to completely abdicate my self-made throne.  And so the new plan is this: to scale back and produce a weekly instead of a daily blog post with the proviso that as CEO of this non money making operation I may always add bonus blog posts as I see fit. Because as the rapper Bobby Brown sings it’s my prerogative.

And so beginning next Tuesday I will begin a weekly blog. I have chosen Tuesdays because it is the most random day of the week. Entropy is key: random thoughts deserve a random day.

And I will admit that sometimes I did a really poor job with my designated chores as a child just to hear my mother say if you cannot do a job right then don’t do it at all. I hoped she would focus on the don’t do it at all part—I hoped she would permanently release me from my required tasks.

But my mother was smarter than that. Because she added a corollary to her thesis—an inescapable irrevocable clause. Her part B was if at first you don’t succeed try try again.

Proving once again: mothers have an answer for everything.