Because I’m married to a sports junkie, oftentimes, when I turn on the car radio, I am immersed in conversations about Peyton Manning, where he’ll sign next; or Albert Haynesworth, how he’s colossally let down the Redskins (and Patriots, and Titans. . .). It’s a lot of sports, a lot of the time, but I like it. Thom Loverro, the co-host of the ESPN radio program, The Sports Fix, has this scratchy, high-pitched, irresistible voice—he’s a helium-breathing Teddy Bear—and I can’t get enough of him, even when he’s slamming on my Phillies.
Professional athletes are subjected to obvious, intense scrutiny. To sweepingly generalize, they are bazillionaires so I don’t feel sorry for them. But while I was listening to sports radio the other day, I conjured a hideous day dream: that I, a professional mother-of-two, was the topic of discussion.
It went a little like this:
Tom Loverro: I mean, come on. Really?? You think Katie Lenehan deserves a contract extension??
Kevin Sheehan: I think we need to give her a break here.
Tom Loverro: A break? How much of a disappointment is she? I mean, how far down do you have to go on the list of most wasted potential and talent. How far??
Kevin Sheehan: Ok. Not far, I’ll admit. She’s a bad mom.
Tom Loverro: A BAD mom. She’s the WORST.
The conversation would continue. Loverro would spew statistics—percentage of dinosaur chicken meals over home-cooked meals during the last season; how many art projects attempted vs. completed. Fantasy Football goons would call in to smack-talk and commiserate with Sheehan who picked me for his team and couldn’t trade me.
The thing is I joined the National Mom League in decent shape. I come from a line of good mothers, so the training was there. And when I only had my first child, Caroline, I played hard and tough. Seventeen months later, however, little Lexi came along, and somehow I landed on Injured Reserve for fracturing multiple good intentions.
For instance, when I only had Caroline, we listened to kiddie sing-along songs in the car, like Wheels on the Bus and I’ve Been Working on the Railroad. When I only had Caroline, we ate organic everything.
Lexi sings Toby Keith’s Red Solo Cup at high volume. Her first words were “Chick-Fil-A.”
When I only had Caroline, we attended classes at My Gym, Maryland Hall, and Music Together.
Lexi goes to Target.
When I only had Caroline, our pediatrician told us what he wished for all first-time parents: that we would treat our first child as if she were our third. What he meant by this, of course, was that we should relax, be easy on ourselves and our kid. These days, in the morning, after Caroline has left for kindergarten, I allow Lexi to watch episodes of My Little Pony while I clean the kitchen and down coffee like it is Gatorade. I take our pediatrician’s advice too far: I parent as if I have no children.
I’m kidding, obviously. Apparently that’s what lastborns do. People (probably firstborns) study this stuff. Lastborns share certain characteristics: creativity, humor, persistence, lower self esteem. (No baby pictures of me exist—not a one—but that’s okay because lastborns are optimistic.) Some famous lastborns: Stephen Colbert, Mark Twain, Goldie Hawn.
And yes, firstborns are generally confident and organized. They become presidents and astronauts. Some famous firstborns: Oprah Winfrey, Winston Churchill, Albert Einstein.
My fear is because of my glom-on first-time parenting approach, Caroline’s going to be a lifelong people-pleasing perfectionist . . . unless Lexi rubs off on her a bit. I was all over Caroline when she was a baby. For whatever reason, I have always given Lexi more room. Smarter defense in football terms, right? If I get too close, they’ll blow right by me. I am learning…
As much as Loverro, Sheehan, and I like to highlight my weaknesses, I know I’m doing alright as a parent. My girls are fine. In fact, they’re wonderful. I hope I am blessed enough to see how all of this plays out. What choices will each daughter make: what career, what spouse, what place on the map?
I’ll plan on landing a second career in broadcasting after my playing-with-my-kids days are over. I’ll buy a home in West Palm Beach, one in Telluride, so my grandkids will have cool places to visit on school breaks.
And as for all this birth-order mumbo-jumbo: Peyton Manning’s a middle child.
I understand his little brother’s also had some success on the football field.
“Caroline, do you want strawberry or blueberry yogurt?”
“I would like strawberry yogurt and blueberry yogurt, please.”
My pediatrician suggested that I give my kids choices. Ask them if they want to leave the playground in two minutes or five—they’ll feel empowered, and I can take off whenever I like because they really don’t understand the concept of time. When someone wants to dress herself, give her options I can tolerate, and then let her make the call. She is wearing polka-dot leggings with a striped shirt, but at least she’s not naked and I can get to the gymnastics class once this session without missing the introductory bubble song. I have gotten out of a few jams by giving my girls choices, but sometimes, when I am at the supermarket negotiating for five more minutes of solid behavior, promising fruit snacks, I think with dismay that I am that mom, the one in the supermarket promising fruit snacks. Sure, my parents gave us choices, but the list was limited: You hurl a basketball through a pane of glass as your brother stands on the other side, pressing his face against the window–Belt or bare hand? You curse–Irish Spring or Cashmere Bouquet? Clean your room or get locked up in it for a week and half?
Choices. I once went on a research-vacation-adventure to British Columbia. I was teaching at a school where the administration encouraged us to spend summers broadening ourselves, in or out of our subject matter, so I played scientist, studying the migrating patterns of the grey whales. I was in a gorgeous part of the world and saw numerous whales, but I desperately wanted to see one breaching. One day out of the ten I was there, I was below the deck helping chef-up some chicken quesadillas when “Kate Moss,” one of the thinner whales, jumped high out of the water (this is second-hand storytelling), falling back on a beautiful angle, covering the observers with a wondrous wave. I heard the splash and gasps from below. It was one moment, one decision to sprinkle shredded cheddar on a sizzling tortilla. Talk about road less traveled: I was a three hour boat ride from a one hour puddle jump to Vancouver. I’d been living in a temperate rain forest: wearing knee-high rubber boots, forgoing showers, peeing from a makeshift toilet seat into a deep and narrow hole, sleeping solo in a tent, waking to the sound of sputtering whales idling by the shore. But I’d missed the breach, the big show.
Mary Anne Evans wrote, “The strongest principle of growth lies in human choice.” I read Adam Bede in college, and it just about killed me, but it’s likely I wouldn’t have read a thing by Mary Anne Evans if she hadn’t chosen the pen name George Eliot. She changed her name in order to be taken more seriously as a writer, among other reasons, and she did well by it. We choose, and often we grow. Ask Adam (friend-of-Eve…not Bede)—it is what sets us apart from the rest of Wild Kingdom. We can make bad decisions: James Cameron probably shouldn’t have worn his hair like that at the Oscars. But also we can make what we see to be our best decisions: switching from Sony to Canon, going on an Australian lifestyle retreat, buying a 2007Volkswagen Eos, placing a child in the Education Center in Little Elm Texas; adopting a vegan diet; surrendering to Christ; retiring to Mexico. Some of us are remembered for a particular decision. Chris Webber in the 1993 NCAA match-up against North Carolina, with seconds left on the clock, University of Michigan trailing by 2, called a time-out his team didn’t have. North Carolina hit two free throws. Webber’s team lost the game, and basketball fans remember his mistake—not the 23 points and 11 rebounds he had in that same game—like political junkies remember Harold Dean’s scream in the 2004 Iowa Caucus. Most of us, though, do what we do, making decisions, living the consequences, without the world remembering, and often, without even remembering ourselves. I have no earthly idea what I made for dinner last Tuesday.
I do remember going to the gym last Friday. It was one of the best decisions I could have made because it had been a long week. I swam. I lounged in the steam room, then the hot tub. I was on that Australian retreat, minus the Gold Coast and the cattle stations. It was an hour just for me, and by the end of the hour, I missed the girls and was ready to retrieve them from the childcare room. They were both leaning on primary-colored cushions watching a show when I arrived, and right after I called their names, Caroline came towards me with arms open, a big smile. Lexi stayed put. Perhaps she hadn’t heard me? I called her sweet little nickname in my sweet mommy voice, but again, no response. Not even a head turn. Maybe we should get her hearing checked? Or maybe, just maybe, this bundle of love was completely ignoring her mother?
She was, in fact. It was the Backyardigans or me, and she had made her choice. She would not budge. She, the most obstinate of all creatures, would not allow me to put on her socks or boots without battling back with kicks and shrill, brash, guttural yawls. Her face turned flame-red; her eyes rolled to show only white. I picked her up—me Tarzan, she Jane—and tossed her over my shoulder, bracing Caroline for what was to come: “Get ready to run!” and we took off down the long hallway, past the basketball court, the bench press, the manager’s office, the water fountains, the lockers, and finally the front desk, where Denise, who usually provides a fresh towel and mildly-approving comments about the girls’ cherub faces or their matching Hello Kitty boots, looked at me in complete horror. I was sweating more at that moment than I’d ever sweat on a treadmill. I’d left the Australian retreat for the cattle station where feral pigs were devouring dead cows and man-eating ants were nibbling away at my toes. I put my screaming mass of a child down between soundproof doors and somehow talked her into putting boots on feet. We made our way home.
Lexi had made a decision and stuck to it. She does this often. Caroline calls it “independent” while her dad and I call it something altogether different. I will put Lexi in a pair of pants, and she will take them off just to put them on again. I will take her out of the car when it is pouring rain, in order to hurry the process along, and she will cry and squiggle in protest until I let her stand, and then she will crawl back into the car—those awkward Hello Kitty boots just in the way—so she can turn around and drop, dribble, or tumble out alone. My little Eve, willing and able to take the Fall all on her own.
I saw a documentary called This Emotional Life a few months back, and the segment that stuck with me had to do with making choices as it relates to happiness. There were two groups of people. One group sat in a room, looking at artwork lined on a wall. These people were told that they could each choose one poster and take it home. Members of the second group were also told they could take a poster home, but if they changed their minds, they could exchange one poster for another. The researchers found that the individuals who had only one choice—to take a poster home—were far happier with their decisions as compared to the members of the second group. A no-brainer, really. (Maybe I should be a scientist?) With choosing can come insecurity, worry, and doubt, but if you go to all of that trouble to pick one thing over another, just to turn around and trade it in, then you’re not going anywhere. I sometimes fantasize about shopping at the only supermarket in town, buying the only available brand of toothpaste. Life could be easier. But there are strip malls and walls of toothpaste. Yes, with choosing comes angst, but with a firm decision and a step in the slightest direction, comes potential growth and maybe even happiness—a brand new poster, whiter teeth, fresher breath.
I want my girls to have it all, but when I’m real, and when they are at the age when we can talk about these things, I will tell them to make a decision, as best they can, and stick with it. Lexi, do it with a yawl if you have to. Caroline, do it with manners, I don’t care. But once you make your choice, don’t waste time wondering what other life you might have led. What if you had gone to that school? Taken that job? Boarded that plane? I cannot lead you down a particular road, and as best I can, I will honor your decision-making. But whatever you do—after you have thought it through, after it’s done—I hope you choose happiness. I hope the only looking back brings you what is good about remembering.
I didn’t see the breach, but I tasted fresh salmon caught and cooked on a fire by a native fisherman. Each night a gathering of luminescent little organisms shimmered in the water as I brushed my teeth at its edge, while stars showered behind shadows of trees. Heavy morning fog sometimes broke into bright blue, sometimes not. I didn’t see the breach, but I stood on a sailboat, head-to-toe soaked with rain and sea, squinting to see what I could of the two humpback whales racing beside me. And I spent time in a kayak, waiting quietly for a grey whale to surface, holding my breath, looking around at the smooth water beneath me until—there—an echoing pop! and thundering show of water through a blow hole. Up that whale rose just inches away; I could nearly touch the scars and barnacles with my hand. My very own grey whale, slowly diving, just to resurface again and again and again.