To the Soccer Coach of the Opposing Team

Dear Sir,

I don't know you.  I don't know your name or where you live, how many kids you have or what you do for a living.  I don't know what happened at your house this morning before you left for our game.  I don't know what kind of childhood you had, or what your father was like, or what unspeakable pain you may be carrying in your heart.  I don't know what dreams of yours were shattered with one word, or what disappointments you faced, or what bitter failures litter your path.

You don't know me.  You don't know that I am the mother of three boys who love to play soccer.  You don't know that I was tempted to blow off today's game because our weekends have become so laden with activity that all I really wanted to do is stay home with my kids to bake cookies and play Mad Libs, but we came to the game anyway because we are part of a team and that matters.  You don't know that I look at the world with a glass half full; that I believe in the good of humanity almost of the time; that I have been accused of being a Pollyanna but I take that as a compliment.  You don't know that I don't care if we win or lose.  I care that we play well and that we do our best as a team.  You don't know that my youngest son is always the first to run to an injured player - his team or not - to make sure they are ok.  You don't know that this simple action matters more to me than any goal he will ever score.

Perhaps you know that you yelled too much (like, the whole entire game).  Maybe you know that you insulted our team numerous times and encouraged your players to "crush" us while we were "sleeping."  You must have had some sense of remorse when you approached our coaches after the game to apologize for maniacally screaming at one of our players for "tackling" one of yours (even my 8 year old knew this was not true.  "Why did he yell at him, Mom?  ____ just tripped over the ball and fell onto that other guy!  It was an accident!").  I saw that teammate's mom confront you (in the classiest of ways) after the game, and I was so proud of her for standing up for her son with such grace and composure.

You, sir, like so many others in our country this week, are an adult behaving badly.  You have forgotten that by agreeing to coach, you have shouldered the huge task of being a leader, and you have somehow lost your way. Along with leadership comes responsibility.  It takes bravery and character and intuition.  It means focusing on the positive, while working to strengthen the weak spots along the way.  It takes rising above and being better than your regular self.  It takes character, backbone and humility.  Your son, along with all the other little boys on the field, had your (unbelievably loud) voice ringing in their ears for 90 minutes today.  It was not encouraging.  It was not inspirational.  It was, quite frankly, embarrassing and destructive, for children and parents alike.  Next time, please do us all a favor.  Leave your unfulfilled adolescent athletic fantasies next to the remote in the La-Z-Boy and show up to the game with an open mind and a clean slate.

Recognize that you have a rare chance to be a powerful role model for a group of impressionable 8 year olds who look up to you every week for guidance and support.  Being a winner is not always reflected by the numbers on the scoreboard.  Raise the bar.  I dare you.

You can do better.  If you volunteer to be a coach who works with our children, you must do better.  They deserve more.  And so does your son.

Sincerely,
A Soccer Mom on the Sidelines

The Vanity

Today we replaced the old, salmon-colored vanity in our downstairs bathroom.  I'm pretty sure it was the original one placed in the house when it was built in 1948.  I spent much of the afternoon sneaking peeks at our handyman, gleefully giggling as the nasty contraption was carried out the front door, piece by piece.  I encouraged the kids, who were holed up in Ryan's room, to watch the thrilling event as well.  Suffice it to say that they did not find the progress nearly as enchanting as Minecraft.

As I was getting Matthew (7) ready for bed tonight, I told him to go brush his teeth in "our beautiful new sink."  A few moments later, he entered his bedroom with a quivering chin and teary eyes.  "Mom," he quavered, "it just makes me sad to throw away old things."  I was dumbfounded.  This caught me so completely off guard, since he had shown very little interest, or even awareness, of the day's events.  I explained to him that the sink had been here in the house from the start, and had come to the end of its very long and useful life and was ready to be removed.

He didn't buy a word of it.  In fact, it seemed to upset him even further, sobbing:
"It just made me feel like somebody died when they took our old sink away."

Silence.  This was one of those parental moments when the mountain you must climb before anyone will even think about sleeping has just been revealed to you.  Oh boy.

Suffice it to say that I tried.  I tried to talk to him about the necessity of letting things go sometimes; the need to improve and replace and try new things in houses and in life.  I tried to assure him that the sink was not alive and did not have any feelings to hurt as we ripped it out of the wall and dumped it next to the street without a single backward glance.  I tried to explain that we were thankful to the sink for all its dutiful years of service to our family and would never ever forget it, despite the slick sheen of black granite and fresh white paint of its new (and glorious) successor.  The salmon laminate was, well, unforgettable, I said...

Nothing worked.  Nothing helped except holding him in my bed as he cried and eventually asked for his bedtime story.   To him, the bathroom was just fine as it was.  It was more than fine, because it was ours.  And that was enough.

So, I say to the broken pile of salmon countertop and splintered boards resting by our mailbox:

Please know that my youngest son shed tears over your destruction tonight.  You are appreciated, you are missed and you are loved.  You represent security and comfort and familiarity to my child, who, like the rest of us (who just moved back to NY from Chicago), is experiencing huge transitions and shifts and waves of sometimes overwhelming emotion.  Your removal represents something so much larger to him than simply upgrading a household fixture.  Your removal was yet another removal of something he knew, and it was just too much to bear after a long and active day.  Thank you for becoming a physical symbol of the power of change, and for reminding me to be extra aware of the little hearts around me who are carrying so many tender feelings inside them.

That said, as a 44-year-old woman speaking from a purely aesthetic standpoint, I am so freaking glad you are gone.  Godspeed.

The Purple Balloon

It was bedtime.  My husband had been in Asia for two weeks (and counting!) and I needed the day to be done.  My youngest, Matthew, was having a rough night. Something earlier in the evening had upset him, and he was still stewing.  He tends to get stuck in his sadness, rather like a hamster on a wheel, and I was trying my best to give him a way to let go of his sniffling and move on
(read: please dear God, go to sleep already!).

I asked him to pick a "sad" color.  He stubbornly shook his head and refused to play along, but luckily Connor chirped, "Purple is my sad color."
Great - purple it is.  I told Matthew to pretend he was holding a purple balloon, and to imagine blowing all of his sad feelings out of his body and into the balloon. Then, I instructed him to hold his bulging balloon up to the sky and let it go!

We watched it get smaller and smaller.  I even narrated its ascent - "Oh, it almost touched the tree top!  Look, a bird just flew right past it!" - in as cheerful and engaging voice as I could muster up.

"It's getting so tiny you can barely see it -- and into the blue sky it disappears!"

I paused.  "Don't you feel better?"  Matthew burrowed deeper into the blankets and was quiet.

Taking that as a sign of success, I moved on to tucking Connor in.  He was sitting in his bed, eyes shining wet.  "What's wrong?"  I asked, genuinely surprised to now find him upset.

He looked deeply into my eyes and said these exact words:

"Mom, it's important to feel your feelings.  I keep all my feelings, the bad and the good.  I don't like to give any of them away.  It's like saying goodbye to a best friend."

I was so stunned that I had no reply.  His sincere and raw emotion washed over me like a tidal wave.  I flew out of his room and ran downstairs to scribble down his perfect words, knowing I could never replicate his thoughts in such a concise and beautiful way.

One of the greatest gifts that children offer is to help us (force us!) to live in the moment, as they do.  I realized that I was coercing Matthew to let his balloon float away before he was ready.  After all, feeling your feelings is what we are here to do, and it is ultimately the most important thing we need to be doing.  My sad little boy was filling his balloon and getting ready for its release, but it was not happening according to my schedule or needs or expectations.  Connor reminded me of exactly how critical and personal that process is, and that sometimes, you don't need to let go.

Sometimes you need to hold on, and let the feelings let go of you.