Ok, yes, I’ve decided to add to the noise. The noise about the now infamous nipple on TIME magazine’s cover which I swore I would not write a post on, but then decided I had to when I saw Jason Biggs parody on twitter. Here’s why…
My son got hit last week and it may have been the best thing to ever happen to him. Let me explain…
My nine-year-old son has played for four years and today is a good player. When he was younger he was one of the better players (t-ball, coaches pitching) and he IS a pitcher in a division of kids who are largely older than him. He also has a vision issue which has him wearing sports goggles (and which we discovered only two years ago-see picture above). What has held him back this last season is fear. He is afraid of the ball not when he pitches or is playing defense but when he’s hitting. I can relate. Fear holds me back too. It’s the single greatest obstacle I put in my own way. Maybe you can relate. He can get on base, but he’s a walker. And it frustrates him because he knows its not due to him not having the ability. He knows he’s afraid too.
I don’t even know what to say.
I know it sounds odd, I don’t even know the man but it feels like a personal loss. I’m speaking of course of the death of Maurice Sendak.
My connection began many, many years ago. I’m going to guess the year was 1979. My mother introduced me to The Nutshell Gang and Really Rosie and if you do not know what I am talking about I highly suggest to get thee to Amazon and purchase these books (these too) and albums at once. I was a dramatic, ok…theatrical kid basically from the time I was in utero and would make up the story lines of my life all the time. So did Rosie.
When I was a kid, I dreamed of being on Broadway. This was back when a musical theater dream wasn’t cool. Back before Glee or Smash or American Idol or X-Factor or any of those talent-elevating shows that allowed theater and performance geeks to step out of their shells and assume their rightful place among other kids with special talents and interests and find each other.
The warmer weather is trying to get and keep the attention of Mother Nature and, in similar fashion, Little League season has started where junior players seek to get and maintain the approval of their coaches, team mates and parents on fields everywhere. Any seasoned parent on the sidelines knows this time of year also marks the beginning of the end of your weekend freedom. Now some parents embrace this–either because they love baseball, or they coach, or they have a compulsive need to win…whatever floats your boat, I say. Other parents (like me) simply smile and accept this because they love their children and would give up anything for their happiness even if it means shivering through a 5pm April game or sweating their butt off during a 2pm August playoff (some kids can play through a summer league).
I took both my kids (11.5 and 9) to see Bully and I am so glad I did. For those who don’t know, Bully is a documentary that follows five kids and their families who are being effected by bullying in different ways–some more grave than others, all heartbreaking. I took a little flack for it from some friends as it was before the NR rating had changed to the PG-13, but here’s my POV: if I let my kids watch the news (kinda) and read The Hunger Games (yes), then they can see this movie–which, btw, is far more relevant to their lives than the news and more appropriate for them than Hunger Games.
I was away for a few days in paradise with just my daughter, (read more about that here). We had morphed a family vacation into a girls getaway leaving our “boys” at home to bond over video games and baseball. I’ve already written about the adolescent dynamic that mystifies and terrifies and fully was prepared for its head to rear and to even enjoy some of its wrath as I sat down wind on the beach.