How Safe Is Your Heart From Attack? (Part III)

The food came and I dug into my cheesy, yummy nachos.

Chris ignored his cedar plank salmon steak and immediately went for the stuff arranged around the edges of his plate.

“What are you doing?” I asked, between gooey mouthfuls.

“Eating the vegetables before they get cold,” he said, scooping up piles of green and red stuff and putting them into his mouth.

My own mouth fell open. “Are you kidding me?! I always thought that stuff was just for decoration!”

True story.

That was a scene from one of my first dates with Chris, and a perfect example of how different we were as far as food choices went. It amazed me that anyone would willingly eat their veggies without a threat from mom about no dessert, or privileges being revoked.

Fast forward a quarter of a century. As I previously posted, the situation with our friend Noah inspired Chris and me to begin following the heart-smart South Beach Diet (SBD). It’s basically a low glycemic-index diet, which is a fancy way of saying “low sugar.”

The diet is organized into three phases. PHASE 1 lasts two weeks and has the greatest number of restrictions because it’s in that phase that your body learns to eliminate sugar cravings. PHASE 2 allows you to slowly add fruits and whole grains back into your diet (while still losing weight if you need to lose it). And PHASE 3 is never ending. But the author claims by that final phase it will be no big deal, and you’ll have simply adapted to the new way of eating.

As a self-confessed Sugar Monster, I was doubtful that this diet would really alter my life-long love affair with sugar. I mean, I love pastries, cakes, cookies, chocolate, you name it. I literally had a sweet treat every single day!

In PHASE 1, my biggest hurdle to overcome was my treasured morning Caramel Macchiato (twenty-two grams of sugar). I’m talking SUH-WEEEET, people!

In my attempts to create a replacement, I came up with some pretty horrid combinations of cocoa powder, fat-free cream, stevia, low-fat milk, unsweetened vanilla soy milk, powdered creamer, vanilla extract, almond extract, raspberry extract, …Aaarrrghh!

Nothing made me happy until I discovered this cool website: simplystevia.com. They sell all kinds of flavored stevia in liquid form. I finally engineered an adequate alternative combining flavored coffee beans, sugar-free vanilla caramel Coffee-Mate® and multiple drops of vanilla and toffee stevia. Yum!

Well, Chris and I have now completed 90 days of the SBD and the results are in. I have to say, I’m impressed!

First of all, Chris dropped about 25 pounds. And for me, it’s the weirdest thing! I look at sweet treats I normally crave, like the box of Belgian chocolates hubby bought for me on a recent trip to Europe, and…I …don’t…care. It’s so hard to even write that! I look at all that stuff and feel like I should want it, desire it, crave it. But those old lovin’ feelings just aren’t there. It’s not even particularly painful to pass the stuff up when I’m confronted with it.

Now, this doesn’t mean I’ll never eat those goodies again. Because, I mean, c’mon. God made desserts for a reason, right? And Dr. Agatston even acknowledges it’s fine to cheat on occasion. But for now, I’ll stay the path.

Other changes I’ve noticed are that I have more energy, and honestly, I feel like my brain function has even improved--less of that brain fog feeling. Chris just had a regular doc appointment, and although his cholesterol, blood sugar and blood pressure have always been in the normal range (just like Noah’s were!), his numbers are even better now. This is so encouraging since we’re both at risk for heart disease due to heredity factors. By being proactive this way, we’re hopefully altering our heart-health futures in a positive way.

I realized how much this diet had changed me when we went out to dinner the other night and our food arrived.

As we both dug into our side orders of fresh veggies, I said, “Who would’ve ever believed I’d be ordering steamed broccoli. On purpose!”

Chris just grinned at me and kept eating his own veggies before they got cold.

Would you try a diet if it promised to eliminate your cravings for sweets?

Image by: Mostafa Zamani

How Safe Is Your Heart From Attack? (Part II)

After the shock of what happened with our friend Noah, Chris and I took hard looks at our own genetic predispositions for heart disease. As I mentioned, both my parents have had bypass surgery, as well as Chris’s father. So we resolved to immediately begin eating in a more heart-healthy way.

Noah’s doctor recommended he read the The South BeachDiet by Arthur Agatston, M.D. I bought a copy and devoured it in only a couple of days (an amazing feat as I’m about the slowest reader on the planet). I found the information it contained really interesting!

I’d heard of the South Beach Diet (SBD) before, but since I’ve never been into what I perceived as “fad diets,” I hadn’t paid much attention to it. I figured it was some sort of body building trend for looking good on the beach. It seems I’m not the only one who had misconceptions about it. Many have mistakenly thought it was a low-carb, or low-fat, or even high-fat/high-protein diet.

None of these are accurate.

The diet’s creator, Dr. Agatston, is a cardiologist. He developed the diet back in 1995 specifically to help his cardiology patients improve their heart health. He lives in Southern Florida’s Miami Beach area (thus the diet’s name). After following his diet, his patients not only experienced, significant improvement in their blood chemistry and heart health, but they achieved phenomenal weight loss benefits as well. As a result, word quickly spread and the diet gained national attention.  

But bottom line, his diet started out all about the heart.

The SBD recalibrates the way your body responds to food, sugar in particular. You do this by going through the diet’s three phases, avoiding foods with a high glycemic index (high sugar!), and by:

1. Eating lean sources of protein (chicken, lean beef, fish, etc.)

2. Relying on “good” carbohydrates (vegetables, fruits and whole grains) and “good” fats (olive oil, canola oil and peanut oil)

3. Avoiding bad carbs and bad fats found in most processed foods like white bread and white rice, as well as pasta and potatoes.

Chris and I both wanted the heart health benefit, and he hoped to lose some weight, so we started the plan. For Chris, this diet wasn’t that much of a hardship. He’s a natural veggie lover. For me, on the other hand…well, I’m a sugar monster. I love dessert, donuts, pastries, chocolate. Oh mama, love me some chocolate! Ahem. Sorry, I digress. I figured if this diet actually removed my cravings for my beloved foods, well, that would be all right. I was doubtful, but decided to give it a try. I’ll post our progress periodically on the blog here.

In the meantime, through my SBD reading I discovered some unexpected foodie facts. I thought I’d share five of them with you today.

Five Heart Health Facts You Probably Never Heard Before

1. Starches such as white bread and white potatoes increase blood sugar levels faster than table sugar does. In fact eating a slice of white bread is worse for you than eating ice cream!

2. Immediately after eating a meal high in saturated fat, your arteries become predisposed to constriction and clotting. In essence, if the circumstances are right (or more accurately, wrong!) eating a high-saturated fat meal can actually trigger a heart attack.

3. Instant oatmeal is not a good choice! It’s too processed and thus has less fiber and more bad carbs. If you love oatmeal (Chris does, although I could never understand this), choose the slow-cooking kind and steel cut is the best.

4. Beer is not a good choice either! It’s made from maltose (maltodextrins), this sugar form increases blood sugar faster than any other type.

5. Most people who suffer heart attacks have average cholesterol levels! (It’s your ratio of LDL to HDL that plays a much more significant role.)

Have you ever tried the South Beach Diet? When thinking about your own health, how important do you think it is to pay attention to heredity?

Image by: Mostafa Zamani

Chocolate is GOOD for you!

Lately, I’ve been working on some health, fitness and nutrition pieces for a client, and what with it being Valentine’s Day and all, I thought I would share some recent discoveries I’ve stumbled upon. Chocolate-related discoveries. I present to you, seven, count ‘em, SEVEN health benefits you get from eating chocolate. (They’re from legit sources and everything!)

• Chocolate is heart healthy! Studies show cocoa may reduce risk of heart disease.

• Some research has linked chocolate consumption to reduced instances of diabetes, stroke and heart attack.

• It helps lower blood pressure and improves vascular function.

• Chocolate has been linked with improved cholesterol levels.

• Chocolate boosts your mood! Chocolate makes us feel good.(Like we needed research to support this one! Clearly if it reverses the effects of Dementors, it's got to be powerful stuff.)

• Chocolate makes you smarter. Seriously! A study published in the Journal of Nutrition says so. See, chocolate has flavonoids. And flavonoids have been linked to increased brain functioning.

• And this one is a real winner. Researchers from the University of California, San Diego, reported in the Archives of InternalMedicine, that people who eat chocolate regularly tend to be thinner than those who never or very rarely consume chocolate. Is this cool or what?!

You’re welcome. Happy Valentine’s Day.

Now go eat some chocolate!

Disclaimer #1: The majority of the good stuff is most prevalent in dark chocolate (65 percent cocoa content and higher), than either milk or white. But hey, it’s chocolate, right?

Disclaimer #2: Chocoholics should still try to control themselves. Doctors remind us that it's important to keep a balanced diet and that all this cool research doesn't necessarily mean people should start downing daily bars of chocolate. Yaddah, yaddah, yaddah.

Disclaimer #3: I’m not a nutrition expert! I merely play one on this blog, particularly when it comes to the subject of chocolate.

Indulge at your own risk.

Image by 1la

The Real Way to Handle Stress

I poked at the baked chicken and broccoli on my dinner plate and sighed. “I’m not really hungry.”

“Why not?” Josh forked in another mouthful, chewing industriously.

“Uh…I think I ate too much earlier,” I mumbled.

He arched a brow. “Moooom? Were you stress eating again?”

I arched a brow right back at him and getting up from the dinner table, walked over to his homework spot to point out the towering pile of Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup wrappers.

“Yeah, well…” At least he had the grace to look sheepish.

My son and I were both under a lot of pressure last week. He had high school finals to contend with, and I had a writing project with a tight deadline. Unfortunately, even after years of careful parenting, I’ve managed to pass my terrible stress-eating habit onto my boy. We both chowed down on junk food with abandon.

The thing is, I know it’s not healthy. I think every stress eater knows it’s not healthy. So why do we do it? Why does our body crave stuff that’s not good for us whenever we’re under pressure?

I “Googled” the topic and discovered one reason may be because under stress, our body produces extra cortisol, a.k.a. “the stress hormone.” And cortisol causes cravings for sweet and salty food, a.k.a. “junk food.” In the olden days, cortisol served a purpose, helping people bulk up on food to sustain them through times of scarcity. However, here in the suburban Midwest, where food is rarely scarce, we simply bulk up. Period.

Another reason we may stress eat is simply nervous energy. Some people bite their nails or grind their teeth. And some people eschew the unopened bag of baked tortilla chips and instead munch on Cheetos, or endless strands of Twizzlers, or uh…stuff like that, maybe.

Then I Googled, “healthy ways to deal with stress,” and found a bunch of common sense advice from experts. After contemplating it all, I thought, Really? And came up with my own, more practical advice (at least I think it’s more practical):

EXPERT TIP #1: EXERCISE.

My advice: FUGGEDABOUT IT.
I actually enjoy exercising, but now isn’t the time! (Okay, maybe squeeze in a few daily stretches to stay loose.)

EXPERT TIP #2: AVOID CAFFEINE AND SUGAR; EAT HEALTHY, BALANCED MEALS.

My advice: NOT. HAPPENING!
My daughter’s away at college and my boy is 17 years old. They both know a healthy diet includes fresh fruits and vegetables, lean meats, and high-grain breads. I’ve done my job. So if I choose to eat three Snickers Bars for dinner one night, what’s the big deal? The key is, don’t force yourself to eat the healthy food on top of it. And voilá! Weight gain successfully avoided! But DO load up on vitamins! This helps counteract the effect of all the unhealthy eating. And as far as caffeine, I say drink up! This counteracts the sugar crash you’re sure to experience from ingesting all the junk food and keeps you going well into the wee hours.

EXPERT TIP #3: RELAX: GET PLENTY OF SLEEP, TAKE LONG BATHS WITH SCENTED CANDLES, GET A MASSAGE, CALL A FRIEND, OR CURL UP WITH A GOOD BOOK.

My advice: SERIOUSLY. NOT HAPPENING!
C’mon! One of the big reasons we’re stressed is because we don’t have enough time to do what needs to be done. So how are we supposed to fit in all this great stress-relieving stuff?! You can do all those things when the crisis is over. Think of them as rewards for a stressful situation well handled.

Disclaimer: I am NOT a medical expert, I’m only playing one on this blog. This advice is purely for entertainment purposes and any similarity to real advice is a bizarre coincidence.

So how do you handle stress? Any healthy tips?

Spring Break Adventure - The Final Chapter

(If you missed the start of this adventure, click HERE for Part I and HERE for Part II.)

We eventually reached a point where we could no longer continue sideways along the ravine.

“The original trail must be up there,” Chris said. I followed the line of his finger pointing back up the 75° slope we were standing on, and promptly sat down, folding my arms.

“What are you doing?” he said.

“I’m not going.” I said flatly. “I’m staying here.

He smiled tolerantly at me. “Holly, you can’t say here.”

“Just go get the minivan then come back to get me.”

“We’re not leaving you.”

I exploded. “What part of ‘I don’t want to do what we did yesterday’ did you NOT understand! I am NOT hiking up another stupid ravine! I’m not!!”

Then Chris just gave me “the look.”

And I knew I had no choice. I knew the big, clunky mom-mobile minivan wouldn’t make it five feet into this stupid forest. I stomped to my feet, muttering under my breath the entire time and began scaling the cliff with the boys. And oh mama, it was so much worse than the hike of the previous day! We slipped on mud and wet clumps of leaves. Vines we grasped to haul ourselves up came out of the ground in our hands, and the saplings we clutched in desperation, bent dangerously with our weight. Several times I thought we’d reached the top, only to discover we had further to go. Once again I was trapped in sweat-soaked gear.

Finally, Josh called down from above, “I see a house!”

A what?

Daron gallantly offered me his assistance as I struggled up the final bit, “Here, Mrs. Bowne, just take my hand.”

“BACK OFF!” I growled, most ungraciously, clawing at dirt and tree roots to heave myself up the remainder of the sharp incline.

“Oookkkaaay,” he cautiously withdrew his helping hand.

Sure enough, at the top we found ourselves in some random person’s backyard.

Chris lifted his Indiana Jones hat, and scratched his head. “Hmmm. I had no idea we’d come this far.”

“Uh, exactly how far are we from the car?” I asked.

“About a mile and a half.”

Ready to collapse, I muttered even louder as we cut through the yard and began trekking the mile and a half (which for some absurd reason started out uphill) along the road. Now, one thing I’d noticed when we’d been driving around earlier was that everybody in this particular area of West Virginia had at least two dogs. Unleashed dogs. Ferociously barking dogs. Dogs who did not like strangers walking past their yards. One dog charged towards us, barking and following us up the road. Chris was shouting (bramble-hacking knife still out), while I repeated a “Go home!” mantra in as soothing a tone as I could muster.

Are we having fun yet?

Eventually, we made it back to the car. Alive. And cleaned up as much as we could before driving four rainy hours back home. It was during the drive, that I finally calmed down and had a moment of enlightenment.

I thought I loved hiking. And I do. It’s just that I love “regular” hiking. “Inside the box” hiking as opposed to “boy” hiking. I like to know I’m on a legitimate trail. One that somebody has walked before me. One that has a definite starting and ending point. Life itself is enough of a “boy” hike for me: Beating my way through an unknown wilderness with no knowledge of what lies ahead, or how steep the next ravine will be. That’s life. I don’t need to deal with this stuff on my vacations, too.

So I’ve informed the men of my family that next time they won’t have to deal with my whining-grumbling-grouchy-panicked self. Next time, I’ll take a good book and if it’s not raining or hailing, I’ll just spread a blanket beside the rushing river, lie down and read. Maybe even take a little nap, while the boys hack their way through the wilderness to their hearts’ content. Yessiree. No more boy hikes for me!

Epilogue: A few days later…
“Hey Josh, you don’t think I scared Daron, do you?”
“Probably. You were pretty scary, mom.”
“Do you think he could tell I was annoyed during the hikes?”
“Uh, yeah, mom. We could ALL tell.”
“Really? And I thought I hid my emotions so well.”
*Dramatic sigh accompanied by HUGE eye roll*


Photographs © Holly & Chris Bowne

Spring Break Adventure - Part I

All right, that’s it! I’ve had it. No more “boy” hiking trips for me!

For Spring Break this year, we opted for a three-day hiking adventure among the foothills of the Appalachians in Pennsylvania and West Virginia. We allowed our son Joshua to invite a friend, to make the trip a little more enjoyable since we didn’t have his college freshman sister with us this time. *Sniff, sniff*

Now before I share the details of our adventure, I want to emphasize the fact that I love hiking. I grew up hiking and I even enjoy a little “rough” hiking. But what I discovered on this particular vacation, is that I do NOT enjoy “boy” hiking.

Let me s’plain.

Before we left, I was a bit concerned that the promised sunny forecast had turned dismal, with threats of rain, thunder and snowstorms.

“It’ll be fine,” my hubby Chris said.

I resigned myself to hiking in yucky weather and packed accordingly. Our first day, we arrived at OhioPyle State Park in Pennsylvania. It promised beautiful waterfalls and the rugged terrain the boys were hoping for. The day had started out raining, but miraculously stopped soon after we began our hike. The wet weather created a glowing mist along the trail, giving the landscape this cool, ethereal quality.

Pretty, right? So far, so good.

Occasionally the boys and Chris would veer from the trail, exploring little patches of wilderness. I remained ON the trail and took pics.

Again, so far so good. I could see them while they explored and I got to stay on the trail. The first trouble arose around 6:00 p.m. Josh and his buddy Daron were hiking faster than Chris and me, probably because we stopped to take pics like these:

We knew it would be getting dark soon and I could no longer see the boys’ bright-colored coats amongst the bare, brown tree trunks. So we began calling for them. And calling. No answer.

The sky grew dark and angry looking. We called louder. Still no answer.

Then it started thundering.

Have I mentioned in the past that I tend to panic easily? I think it’s safe to say that in a crisis situation, or anything that resembles a crisis situation, I’m not the person you want to be standing next to.

I started to FREAK OUT! I knew the temperature was supposed to drop dramatically overnight, and snow was predicted. Why hadn’t we brought our cell phones?! Why oh why hadn’t we let Joshua finish his Boy Scout training?! If he’d become an Eagle Scout, he’d have known what to do while trapped in a freezing cold forest. I immediately envisioned the boys lost in the woods and freezing to death overnight. I sobbed and screamed their names louder in the rising wind.

Chris grabbed my hand in an effort to calm me. “The only thing I can think is they may have taken that off-shoot from the main path back there,” Chris said, indicating the way from which we’d come. “Let’s go back and check.”

“But what if they didn’t? What if they kept going?” I cried.

Chris took a stick and wrote Joshua’s initials in the dirt with an arrow pointing in the direction we went to find them.

“He’ll never see that!” I wailed as he pulled me along beside him.

We came to the off-shoot and Chris told me to stay put while he jogged up to see if he could spot them.

I was truly hysterical now.

Hours passed (okay, it was probably more like 15 minutes) when I heard Joshua’s voice calling me. I looked up the main trail and saw the boys headed in my direction. I ran and fell onto my son, bawling like a crazy woman, and babbling incoherently about how terrified I’d been for their lives. He patted my back, while poor Daron gaped at me with wide, bewildered eyes. And Chris, hearing my screams and sobs, of course, came jogging back.

Apparently the boys had simply gotten further ahead of us than they’d realized. Both boys being possessed of good common sense, had heard the thunder and simply turned around to come back. Just as they should have. Why had we doubted them?

Needless to say, I was completely wiped out as we drove to the hotel. I only hoped the rest of our trip would be better. I should have known…

STAY TUNED FOR PART II OF OUR SPRING BREAK ADVENTURE.


Photographs © Holly & Chris Bowne

The Octogenarian

Okay, my blog, my rules! It was my dad's 80th birthday last week! I cannot believe he is 80! So in honor of this major event, I'd like to share some cool stuff about my dad.

He is a genuinely sweet man with an amazing heart. He loves my mom and even though my brothers, sister and I would really prefer it if they'd stop all that yucky smooching in front of us, they never have.

He's a wonderful listener. He has this way of completely focusing his attention on you when you're talking. He makes you feel like whatever you're sharing is the most interesting thing he's heard in a long time.

He never swears. I don't believe I've ever heard a curse word come out of his mouth. I remember once when I was a kid, I entered a room where he was doing some hammering. I had just started whining, "Daaaaaaad," (you know, that really grating way kids do?) when the hammer whacked his thumb instead of the intended nail. I froze. But all that came out of his mouth was, "Dad Gum It!" (His favorite exclamation of frustration.) Then he turned to me and said in a completely normal tone of voice, "What did you need, Holly?"

I know, right! Pretty amazing!

He's an artist. He recently began painting watercolors, and already a talented woodworker, he took up chip carving several years ago. None of that laser-generated stuff. He does all his work by hand. Check it out:

Actually, here is a link to his website if you're interested: Wood 'an ' Crafts

One more bit of bragging and I'll let you escape. (I'm like those moms who insist on showing you their unbelievably-talented-amazing baby pictures, aren't I?)

My dad is a fencer! He fenced at Wayne State University and was a three-year fencing letterman there. He was ranked second in the Midwest in 1955 for epee. He was the NCAA individual foil champion two years straight in 1957 and 1958. He was nominated to the United States Olympic Foil Squad. And he was inducted into the Wayne State University Athletic Hall of Fame in 1980.

Here's some recent video taken of my dad who now teaches at a local fencing club where he lives. (He's the guy in the blue sweats):

Did I mention he is 80?!!!

Happy Birthday, Dad!!! XO

(And don't worry Mom, I'll do a special post about you on your 80th birthday! ;o)

Writers Behaving Badly

I don't want to judge. But I'm going to.

Here it is: I am extremely annoyed with freelance writers who will do anything for a buck.

All right, at the moment I'm mostly ticked off at myself for falling for a scam facilitated by the skills of a freelance writer. But the scam got me thinking about some of the immoral freelance writing jobs I've encountered since deciding to earn my living this way.

First of all, THE SCAM:
It was around 10:30 p.m. a couple of weeks ago. I was on my laptop while hubs was watching T.V.

"Oh, hey," he said, looking over at me. "If you're online, can you order me that Super Amazing Diet Product (SADP) I was telling you about?"

"What was it again?" I asked absently.

He described the news article he'd read online about SADP. "The reporter included her journal entries for four weeks. She was really impressed by how effective it was at helping her lose weight and feel healthy."

I did a search for the article. Sure enough, a nice, little news story written by a "Channel 6 News" reporter, her picture was by the piece and everything.

"Free trial! Sure, I'll order it—there's nothing to lose… Nothing to lose, nothing to lose... (Can you hear the echo in here?)

So a few clicks and credit card numbers later and his free trial was on its way. In retrospect, I can't believe we fell for it. We are plenty old enough to know if something sounds too good to be true, it is. I'd like to blame my gullibility on the late hour. Blame it on my hubby. But alas, I can't. The next day, I mentioned it to my mother, my personal wise woman of all things nutrition related.

"Oh Holly, that's just a big scam," she said. "I tried the real stuff from the health food store and it didn't do anything. I think that article is a scam, too."

Uh-oh.

In the light of day, I found the article again. Unbelievable! I spotted something critical I'd missed the night before. In small print at the top of the page was the word "Advertorial." Barely noticeable with all the "Channel 6 News" logos and network television symbols decorating the page. (As was SADP's intent.)

NOTE: For my non-writer readers, an advertorial is essentially an advertisement in an article format. Advertorials are a common form of advertising and not intrinsically bad, but I feel this one was shady as it simulated an actual news story written by a reporter.

I buzzed back to SADP's website and read the fine print of the Terms and Conditions. The program is set up to begin charging unsuspecting free-trial users $80 a month, plus shipping and handling if they don't cancel within a specified time period (conveniently, often before they've even received the trial product.) The website had an "easy button" for cancelling online. Great, I clicked it. "For an additional $20 in stuff, you can cancel right away," it said. No. Flippin'. Way. I called customer service instead. The automated system disconnected me. Three times. In short, every way the company "offered" to let me cancel, didn't work. Even their contact address was an unclickable link!

I finally sent off a blistering e-mail announcing our official cancellation of their slimeball product and letting them know I'm monitoring daily and if they try to stick one measly penny on my credit card, I'm disputing it.

MY THOUGHTS

After spending two hours messing around with this ridiculousness, I fumed, thinking about the writer who'd been hired to compose that lying-pile-of-horse-hockey article.

How could he or she sleep at night?

I locate writing jobs, including legitimate advertorial projects, through a variety of reputable sources. Yet I've still come across some pretty pathetic stuff. One company I encountered hired writers to write high school and college students' term papers! I was horrified. I know seasoned professional writers are aware of this. But if you're a newbie, I'm telling you now, don't do it. It's not worth it. It's better to hold out for the legitimate jobs. They really are out there. And at least you'll be able to sleep at night.



Image by: _gee_

Who Says I Can't? (Rerun)

Allrighty, here is my final "looking back" post. I felt it was appropriate since my son sprained his ankle in his soccer game on Saturday. I'm sure he was most grateful that I happened to be away for the weekend. Enjoy!

(Originally posted: 6-16-09)

I saw this really funny Mother’s Day card back in May. It had a picture of a 1950’s June Cleaver style mom, complete with pearl necklace—her arm around a pouting, incredibly sad-looking little boy. And the caption read something like: “You stay right here sweetie, while mommy goes and gives that mean old bully a smackdown.”

That totally cracked me up! Because, it’s so true. Any mom will tell you, mess with our kids and you’ll bring out our inner lioness.

And it’s not just confined to dealing with bullies. It makes no difference if they’re toddlers, or teens (who are bigger than we are), the instinct to protect our cubs arises in any situation where we feel our child is in peril.

The other day my 14-year-old son, Joshua’s, soccer team was playing in the pouring rain. While we parents stood on the sidelines, sinking into the mud, I suddenly noticed Joshua double over, then raise his hand in a request to come off the field.

He NEVER does that.

He sat down on the bench, remaining doubled over, his arms wrapped tightly around his ribs.

“Why is Joshua doing that? Did anybody see what happened?” I asked anxiously.

I received several negative murmurs in response.

“Is it his ribs? Did someone hit him in the ribs?”

“Dunno.”

“Didn’t see.”

I waited several long minutes, my eyes glued to Joshua’s still doubled-over form.

“I’m going over there,” I announced, and began marching around the field’s perimeter.

“You can’t do that.”

I was halted by another team member’s father.

“Why not.”

“You have to wait and see if the coach waves you over.”

“Why?”

“That’s just how it works.”

“But the coach isn’t even looking at him! He’s watching the game!”

The man shrugged sympathetically.

“Well that’s just stupid!” I fumed, sloshing back through the mud. “What if something is really wrong? What if one of his ribs is broken?” What if he needs emergency medical attention?

(Have I mentioned before that I tend to have a somewhat, er high-strung personality type? Anyway…)

I stood there waiting a few more minutes. Joshua remained doubled over.

“This is ridiculous,” I finally said. “That’s it. I’m going over there.”

“Don’t do it.” Another dad stood in my path.

“Why can’t I go over there?” I was whining now.

He proceeded to share a story with me, about how when he was 15, and playing baseball, a boy on his team got hit by the ball. The boy’s teammates helped him off the field and onto a bench in the dugout. The boy’s mother raced over and said (in front of everyone) “Are you okay, sweet pea! Let mama check out that bump?” Naturally, the kid was mortified. Probably scarred for life.

“But I would never call Joshua, ‘sweet pea’!” I huffed.

The dad just shook his head at me.

I stood there several MORE minutes, sighing dramatically every few seconds.

“Would you like ME to go over and check on him?” he finally offered, taking pity on me. (Or possibly hoping to escape my dramatic sighing.)

I turned hopeful eyes toward him. “Would you?!”

The nice man trudged around to the other side of the field. I saw him speak briefly to Joshua—STILL doubled over—then he trudged back.

“Well? Should I call an ambulance?”

“It’s just a stomach ache,” he grinned.

“Oh. Uh—thanks.” I mumbled sheepishly.

For the remainder of the game, though, I wondered why it was okay for ANOTHER player’s dad to walk over there, but not the player’s mom. Weird ‘sweet pea’ mom story aside, who made up this unwritten rule that if a kid gets hurt on the field, it’s NOT okay for the mom to check on her very own child?

I posed that very question to my son later, as we drove home from the game.

My boy stopped toweling dry his hair, turned his beautiful dark eyes in my direction, and answered me. “Kids did, mom. Kids made up that rule.”

“Oh.”

Gym Class Evolution (Rerun)

As I mentioned last week, I'm using January to take a look back and share some of my favorite posts from previous years. Of course my son just informed me that I'm "cheating." Hmph! Anyway, this entry was originally posted back on 10-23-08. Enjoy!)

When I was a kid, picking sports teams in gym class consisted of the really athletic kids being automatically selected as captains by the gym teacher. They’d move up to the front of the room and divide the wheat from the chaff as the rest of us sat on the scuffed-up gymnasium floor.


Anybody from that era remember the small, scrawny kid sitting off to the side? Always the last one chosen, usually by default because nobody else was left. Yeah. That was me.

I hated most sports and I was terrified of the ball. Every ball. The only sport I was decent at was dodgeball due to my horrific fear of being hit by a ball thrown by one of those missile-launching boys. I ducked, hopped, dove and rolled out of the way. Of course, I couldn’t throw the dumb thing, but I could get out of the way real quick when I had to.

Throughout my youth, I completely lacked confidence in my athletic abilities. It wasn’t until I reached 44 years of age and took an eight-week soccer class with some other soccer moms that I scored the first goal of my life.

My 14-year-old son happens to be one of those “athletic” kids. He enjoys participating in a variety of sports, soccer being his favorite. He was recently describing his gym class to me. And I was amazed at how much it has changed since I was a kid.

His gym teacher started a new unit on soccer. He asked for a show of hands to find out who already knew how to play the game. He then pulled my son, and a few of the other soccer-knowledgeable students aside. He explained they would be the coaches for this unit. Their jobs were to instruct and encourage. The coaches were each assigned a group of randomly selected students, and for the first day they worked with their group, teaching them the basic skills necessary to play soccer.

The next day, the coaches met and divided the students amongst themselves. The coaches with the most experience selected more of the struggling players to be on their teams. It was the coaches’ job to create balanced teams, so that no team was stacked in terms of talent. The players for each team were announced in no particular order. Then the games began.

My son explained that if at any time one team started getting too far ahead in scoring, as coaches they would switch players around to create more evenly matched play--the ultimate goal being to have great games. He animatedly described how he worked with his team and how impressed he had been in their first game as they passed the ball, worked together, and successfully scored. Some of the children who normally shied away from athletics, enjoyed being part of a team and were thrilled to score some goals.

How cool is that?

In effect, that gym teacher took the kids like me, and boosted their confidence a hundredfold. Maybe the kid like me is now thinking, “Wow, that was fun!” Or maybe it simply planted a seed and they’ll consider pursuing a different sport down the road somewhere. Who knows what good will ultimately come from this. Instead of learning to play favorites, loading a team up with their buddies and the athletically gifted, these students learned compassion, good leadership skills, and that the goal of a good coach is to teach and support, building up the abilities of their players.

At the very least, it’s nice to know there are some middle schoolers out there who won’t have to wait until they are 44 years old to score their first goal.

Image by: Goldberg

Excuses, Excuses

My son is considering taking lifeguard lessons to boost his summer job marketability. He's not on the swim team, but he's a confident swimmer. I find this amusing considering his rocky initiation into the underwater world.

I am a terrible swimmer. When I took swimming lessons the custom was: If you didn't jump in by yourself, they threw you in. Sink or swim, baby.

I sank.

To this day the smell of chlorine makes me nauseous.

Not wanting my children to be equally as traumatized, I sought out kind, nurturing swim instructors who would introduce my children to the skill of swimming in a gentle, loving manner. Mrs. H. taught private swim lessons in her own pool each summer. I signed up my daughter Ashleigh first. Within six lessons she went from barely getting her hair wet to executing a lovely front crawl. Mrs. H. was perfect! She was nurturing and kind, yet firm—in a loving way—when she needed to be.

Anxious for my son to benefit from this woman's incredible teaching skills, I signed Joshua up the next summer. Secure in her embrace, he did gentle dunkings beneath the surface of the water, just as his sister had done, and held onto Mrs. H.'s arms as he happily practiced kicking his little legs. But when the day finally came for him to jump into the pool on his own…

NO WAY.

His little arms clung to the side of the pool in a death grip. No amount of kindness, gentleness, cajoling or bribery would pry that kid loose. Then loving, gentle, nurturing Mrs. H. uttered the words that sent me spiraling back in time and I experienced my own personal version of Posttraumatic Stress Disorder.

"Sweetheart, if you don't jump in on your own, I'm going to have to throw you in."

What?! Was she serious? My gut clenched.

Josh just shook his little head and held on even tighter.

I sat, frozen, as Mrs. H. climbed from the pool. I wanted to stop her. To say something! But my mouth and throat went dry as paper towel.

"I don’t want to jump in. NO! Noooooo!" my little guy cried.

"Yes, sweetheart."

I could feel my own heart race as she detached his skinny arms and lifted him from the pool.

"Hold your breath, honey."

"Noooooo—"

Glug.

I leaped to my feet, complete panic galvanizing me into action. Although I lacked swimming skills, I prepared to dive in and save my baby when his dark head suddenly bobbed to the surface and he dog-paddled the few feet back to the edge.

Mrs. H. looked down at him.

Josh wiped his nose and looked up at her, grinning. "Can we do that again?"

I sank back down, slack jawed, he LIKED it?! Was he nuts?

Mrs. H. dropped him in several more times that day and he LOVED it. The nut!

Remembering this story got me thinking metaphorically again. What happened with Josh is what happens to a lot of us when it comes to our private goals and dreams--like my desire to write novels (published novels!). Maybe you have the same desire to write, or you'd like to go back to school or make a career change. We happily kick around in that dream stage. But when the moment comes to actually dive in, we balk. Sure, we've got loads of great excuses. Life is too busy. Now is not a good time. We don't have the money right now. But what it really boils down to is fear. Fear of failure? Fear of success?

So we procrastinate.

I was blessed with the equivalent of a psychological toss into the pool from a writing class I took. Now I've got a finished first draft of my novel to show for it and I'm swimming my way through revisions. What about you? Do you have a secret dream you've kept tucked away, hidden from everyone's view—including your own? What's stopping you from jumping in?
Image by: Grace Family

What I Learned From the Girl in Last Place

My daughter ran for her high school cross-country team for three years. Up until that point my only experience with sports involved watching my kids play traditional "team" sports like soccer, baseball, basketball, etc. I'd sit on the sidelines cheering obnoxiously for my child's team and shouting much-appreciated suggestions to the referees.

It wasn’t until I attended my daughter's first cross-country meet, however, that I witnessed true team spirit and discovered an interesting metaphor between a cross-country runner and my writing life. And it was all because of the girl in last place.

In case you're unfamiliar with cross-country races, they’re 5K races that are run…well, across country. Through woods, over fields, up hills, down hills, in the pouring rain, under the beating sun, occasionally even through snowstorms. These runners are relentless. They are powerful. They are awe-inspiring.

During that first race, runners flew by the waiting crowds at different points along the route. I was surprised then delighted by the reactions of the spectators. EVERY parent of EVERY team cheered for EVERY runner. It was such a refreshing change from the usual "Hurrah my team," "Boo your team" and stay on your side of the 50-yd. line please.

Eventually, spectators converged along either side of the finish line. Amid cheers, the top runners sprinted past, followed by clusters of mid-level runners and finally the slower runners straggled in. Several minutes passed and figuring the race was over, I went to find my daughter. Then I heard someone say, "I see her. Here she comes." Curious, I squeezed back into the crowd and squinted up the trail. Sure enough, one lone runner topped the hill in the distance. Coming in dead last, she continued her run at a slow, rhythmic pace.

She entered that final stretch and the crowd--which hadn't moved--went wild. Whistles, cheers and thunderous applause followed in her wake. I felt ridiculous tears well up in my eyes. I didn't even know this girl. But the sense of accomplishment that shone from her face as she crossed that finish line was like the glow of a candle flame filling a once darkened room.

Later, I asked my daughter about the girl and learned that she was a much-loved team member who almost always came in last place. This girl's single-minded goal was to finish every race and achieve her personal best, no matter what anybody else did.

I tried to imagine what that must be like. To stand ready at the starting line of a race and know you will not win. That you will most likely lose, and lose big. Yet to show up race after race and run anyway. And finish. Despite what the scorebook says, the girl in last place is the true winner. And I use her philosophy as inspiration in my writing life.

I'm just finishing up the first draft of my first attempt at writing a novel on my own. And I now realize that writing my novel is much like running a cross-country race. (For one thing, it's much harder than it looked from the sidelines!) And I used to think that crossing the finish line meant getting it published. (Still something I plan to do!) But I take joy in the simple process of creating. And I take great pride in finishing this first draft. Many of my writer friends may have started running the race after me and yet are far ahead of me on the trail, but I hold the image of that girl in my mind. No matter what anybody else is doing, I will continue to run my own race, continue striving for my personal best. I will finish. And when I do, I win.




Image by: Dru Bloomfield

Big Babies

I've read several articles recently discussing how today's kids are coddled too much. In some ways, I suppose I agree.

Look at the game of dodgeball, for instance. This elementary gym class staple was nixed when my own kids were younger. Apparently somebody determined it was too dangerous or something.

Photo © 20th Century Fox 2004

I must respectfully disagree. Personally, there was nothing like the fear of getting hit by one of those missile-launching boys on the other team to inspire me to hone my dodging skills and build a little character.

Contests and competitions for kids are another case in point. "Let's not say there's a winner or loser, shall we? Let's just give EVERYONE a trophy for participating." Sorry kids, but in real life there will always be winners and losers. It's best to learn how to accept that and bounce back from it in a healthy way.

(Oh all right, coddling parental confession time here: The only way I motivated my now soccer-obsessed son to even try the sport was because he knew he would get a participation trophy in the end. Heh, heh.)

But there truly are situations where parental coddling isn't helping our children "grow up," such as allowing the child to dictate the rules concerning Internet access and computer use. I once attended an Internet safety talk and listened as one mother asked what she should do since her child refused to give his password to her. I'm serious! And I've personally witnessed several instances where parents are afraid to see their precious babies fail at something, even allowing a child to skip school on a test day in order to give him or her more time to prepare.

So while it's pretty obvious some of the coddling is not beneficial and definitely under parental control, in other ways, perceived coddling of kids today is also a result of the changed world we live in.

When my hubs and I were kids a few, er…decades ago, we could do things like hop over to a nearby park for a pickup game of baseball, or bike miles on deserted back roads to visit a friend's house to play. Today, it's not safe to allow our children to exercise these freedoms. Now everything is pre-arranged into official play dates and time-intensive organized sports teams.

My siblings and I grew up doing weekly chores which included feeding and caring for our dog (including potty runs); setting the table; doing the dishes; cleaning the bathrooms and toilets; dusting; vacuuming, etc. Hubs and I set up this nice comprehensive chore chart which is posted on our refrigerator with a dry-erase marker so jobs can be easily checked off as they're completed. Trouble is, days go by with nobody having the time to fit them in! Sports, after-school clubs and ridiculous homework loads (especially in the advanced classes) take up so much more time today than they did when I was a kid.

It's clear, we're not helping our kids become responsible, confident, contributing members of society by overindulging them and allowing them to slack on chores. But what's the answer? Should we reinstitute the game of dodgeball and go back to giving trophies to winners only? I'd like to hear your thoughts.

Do you coddle your children? What steps do you take to avoid overindulging your own kids?

Let's Get Physical

When I posted the YouTube video of Miss Kitty a few days ago, it got me thinking about exercise and overall fitness in general. I've been feeling rather frustrated lately. This is due to the fact that I haven't been able to exercise. I mean really exercise, full out, for over three years.

Whenever I share this frustration with my friends, some of them look at me blankly. And others roll their eyes, "Uh, Holly, I'm perfectly happy not exercising. And to have a built-in excuse? Just lovely, thank you very much." But I've exercised in some form or another for as long as I can remember. And beyond the accepted physical benefits, I find that mentally/emotionally, I actually need it.

I've gone through loads of exercise "phases" over the years. As a kid, I studied dance, fencing and judo. During the college years, I tried jogging, jumping rope and weight training. I've taken Jazzercise, kickboxing and step aerobics classes. Worked my way through exercise videos ranging from the ridiculous 20 Minute Workout of the 80's…

to Billy Blanks Tae Bo videos of the 90's.

We even have a home gym complete with weight machine, free weights, elliptical, treadmill, and stationary bike. Yup, as far as exercising options, I'm good to go. Or rather, I was. I'm pretty sure I jinxed myself by thinking something I shouldn't have.

One morning while working out, I clearly remember thinking that if anything ever happened to me physically, I'd always find some way to work out. Yeah, well, little did I know I would soon be eating my words.

It all started over three years ago, when I noticed a pain in my foot. Didn't think anything of it. It grew worse, making it feel as if I was stepping on a boulder when I stood up first thing in the morning. Turned out I had something called plantar fasciitis. I'd never heard of it, but basically it's when the tissue supporting the arch of your foot is being ripped away. I went through two podiatrists, plus about a million dollars in arch supports and different "supportive" shoes. Worst of all, I couldn't do my beloved aerobics, or running anymore.

I resigned myself to the stationary bike. It was boring, but at least I could get my heart rate up. And, I sighed, at least I could still do my weight work.

Uh, yeah. Eating my words again.

Before my foot had healed, I was shoveling landscaping rocks in our backyard one lovely spring day, and I felt a twinge in my shoulder. Ignored it. (Yeah, I know. You'd think I would have learned! But no, I kept going.) And the next thing I knew, I couldn't lift my arm over my head. Turned out I had biceps tendonitis. I went through months and months of physical therapy. And I could no longer do my usual upper body weight routine.

"Well, fine!" I thought. "At least I can still use the stationary bike."

Uh-huh. You guessed it. Eating my words again.

Several months after the shoveling incident, doing nothing more special than sitting at my son's basketball game, I stood up and felt a stabbing pain shoot through my kneecap. I limped around for a week until hubs insisted I see his orthopedic. Turns out I have stupid plica syndrome and stupid chondromalacia patella! More physical therapy. And now I can't even ride the bloomin' stationary bike!

Final diagnosis: no stationary bike, no elliptical, no treadmill. (No aerobics at all really.) And no lower body weight work. Grrr! When I whined to my mom about all this, she said something like, "Well, you are getting to that age… and let her sentence trail off meaningfully.

What the heck? No way!

Forty-seven is NOT old! It's NOT, it's NOT, it's NOT! (See, there's proof! I can throw a 3-year-old tantrum with the best of 'em.) Plus, I'm forcing myself to look at the bright side. At least my bicep muscle doesn't hurt as much anymore. So I've been able to start my upper body weight workout again.

Uh…can you forget I just said that? I have a feeling I shouldn't have said that out loud.

Treadmill image by Sasha W

Miss Kitty

Okay, I've never met this woman. Her name is Miss Kitty and she's a friend, of a friend, of my uncle's. But I'm officially declaring this woman my inspiration. I hope my legs look this good when I'm 94!

Gratitude Challenge - Day 7 Photograph

As part of the Gratitude Challenge, I was technically supposed to post this picture to my social network on Day 7, (I'm way past that!) but the important thing is that I've gotten it out here now, right? I took this photograph during our amazing family vacation to Hawaii three years ago. It inspires gratitude in me on several levels.

For starters, all my life I've wanted to see Hawaii. I secretly think I was supposed to have been raised there. My mom claims my father passed on a job opportunity when my siblings and I were really little, and instead of the Hawaii job, he selected the Midwest. But that's okay, because I wouldn't know all the incredible people I know right now if he hadn't done that. (Guess that makes for gratitude point number two!)

Another reason this picture inspires gratitude in me, is because I'm NOT a professional photographer by any stretch of the imagination. But I carted my tripod and camera over treacherous terrain, set it up and messed around with the shutter speeds until I achieved this awesome effect of the waterfall.

I'm grateful that when we took the trip, our kids were old enough to always remember it. I'm grateful that we took the time to travel on Maui's stunning Road to Hana, and used the detailed guidebook of island secrets our friends suggested. I'm grateful we were all healthy and fit enough to traverse the top-secret hazardous trail of slippery rocks, which ultimately led to the discovery of this incredibly beautiful hidden waterfall.

When I look at this photograph, it brings back all the memories of that remarkable trip…

• Standing on black volcanic rock and witnessing the formation of the earth as glowing hot lava seared its path through the rain forest, dropping with a steaming hiss into the Pacific Ocean.

• Hiking over that same black volcanic rock in total darkness, with only the stars (& our GPS unit) to guide us back.

• Daily rainbows.

• Exotic flowers and plants.

• Fresh pineapple and delicious Hawaiian cuisine.

• And the most beautiful views we've ever seen.
We had some of our most memorable family vacation moments on this trip. Some great, and in all honesty, some not so great—but we can laugh about those moments now. And finally, I'm grateful for this picture because it also represents a hope that one day, we'll get to go back there and experience it all once again.

Now, on another note…

I'd like to give a great big thank you to Amy of Moving On From the Drama for blessing me with the Lemonade Stand Award for my gratitude attitude!

The rules for this award are:

*Put the Lemonade logo on your blog or within your post.
*Nominate at least 10 blogs with great attitude or gratitude.
*Link the nominees within your post.
*Let the nominees know they have received this award by commenting on their blog.
*Share the love and link to the person from whom you received this award.

Here are the ten blogs I'm nominating for their own Gratitude Attitudes:

3 Little Ones
A Walk in My Shoes
All in an Iowa Mom's Day
At Home with Heather
Baby Steps
Diary of a New Mom
Everyday Mama Drama
Holli's Ramblings
Megan Rebekah Blogs…and Writes
On My Way to Barnes and Noble

And another thank you goes out to The Girl Next Door Grows Up for presenting me with the One Lovely Blog Award. She has a "lovely" sense of humor and you should check out her blog for a good chuckle when you have a chance.

This lovely award is to be given to up to 15 blogs you have newly discovered and, of course, think are just lovely. I'm encouraging aspiring writers to visit the following writing-related blogs. I get "lovely" encouragement and inspiration from them all:

Alice's CWIM Blog
Writer Mama
Mridu Khullar
Daily Blog Tips
Nathan Bransford Literary Agent
Newbie Blog
The Wealthy Freelancer
The Well-fed Writer
There Are No Rules

I Survived Tryouts

For the past several days, I’ve experienced some strange symptoms. Heart thumping erratically. Shallow breathing. Feeling anxious. Yesterday, the symptoms grew more severe as the morning progressed. I couldn’t concentrate on my writing. My stomach was upset, my knees were weak, and if somebody looked closely, they could probably tell that my hands were shaking.

My symptoms peaked, then almost instantly dissipated at 10:36 a.m., as I watched my son and his buddy walking slowly from the high school soccer practice fields. I squinted my eyes, trying to make out the features of his face. He was talking to his friend in his usual animated way, and smiling. I immediately felt the knot in my stomach begin to loosen. As he approached my waiting van, he caught my eye and his grin grew wider. He swung open the door and said, “I made the team!”

FINALLY! I could breathe again.

My son is about to enter his freshman year of high school, and we just experienced high school soccer tryouts. I say “we” even though I’m certain my son had no idea that every single day of those tryouts I was out there on the field with him. I’m always on the field with him.

I’m sure many parents can relate to what I’m saying here, right? We’re on the field, or the court, or the stage with them—our kids.

My daughter has run with the high school cross country team for the past three years. When she (& the other runners) would pass me by at meets, I would clap loudly and shout encouraging words. As I watched their faces reflecting the extreme difficulty of the course, I’d literally have to suppress a ridiculous, almost overwhelming, urge to cry over how hard they were struggling, pushing themselves to run faster. Run harder.

I suspect (hope?!) I’m not alone in this strange phenomenon of “empathy parenting.” It’s not that we’re living vicariously through our children. It’s just that we…care so much. I know that whatever happens, whether they make the team or not, whether they come in first place or last, whether they screw up their lines or not, it’s what’s meant to be. They will have positive and negative experiences throughout their lives. And when bad stuff happens, they’ll eventually get over it. Learn from it. Move on. But when I’m in the moment… Heck, what can I say?

As much as my logical mind knows it’s ridiculous to become so caught up in their stuff, I can’t seem to stop it. All I know is, when they’re out there, I’m out there. But I guess if a parent can’t be their child’s biggest cheerleader, who can, right?

Who Says I Can't?

I saw this really funny Mother’s Day card back in May. It had a picture of a 1950’s June Cleaver style mom, complete with pearl necklace—her arm around a pouting, incredibly sad-looking little boy. And the caption read something like: “You stay right here sweetie, while mommy goes and gives that mean old bully a smackdown.”

That totally cracked me up! Because, it’s so true. Any mom will tell you, mess with our kids and you’ll bring out our inner lioness.

And it’s not just confined to dealing with bullies. It makes no difference if they’re toddlers, or teens (who are bigger than we are), the instinct to protect our cubs arises in any situation where we feel our child is in peril.

The other day my 14-year-old son, Joshua’s, soccer team was playing in the pouring rain. While we parents stood on the sidelines, sinking into the mud, I suddenly noticed Joshua double over, then raise his hand in a request to come off the field.

He NEVER does that.

He sat down on the bench, remaining doubled over, his arms wrapped tightly around his ribs.

“Why is Joshua doing that? Did anybody see what happened?” I asked anxiously.

I received several negative murmurs in response.

“Is it his ribs? Did someone hit him in the ribs?”

“Dunno.”

“Didn’t see.”

I waited several long minutes, my eyes glued to Joshua’s still doubled-over form.

“I’m going over there,” I announced, and began marching around the field’s perimeter.

“You can’t do that.”

I was halted by another team member’s father.

“Why not.”

“You have to wait and see if the coach waves you over.”

“Why?”

“That’s just how it works.”

“But the coach isn’t even looking at him! He’s watching the game!”

The man shrugged sympathetically.

“Well that’s just stupid!” I fumed, sloshing back through the mud. “What if something is really wrong? What if one of his ribs is broken?” What if he needs emergency medical attention? (Have I mentioned before that I tend to have a somewhat, er high-strung personality type? Anyway…)

I stood there waiting a few more minutes. Joshua remained doubled over.

“This is ridiculous,” I finally said. “That’s it. I’m going over there.”

“Don’t do it.” Another dad stood in my path.

“Why can’t I go over there?” I was whining now.

He proceeded to share a story with me, about how when he was 15, and playing baseball, a boy on his team got hit by the ball. The boy’s teammates helped him off the field and onto a bench in the dugout. The boy’s mother raced over and said (in front of everyone) “Are you okay, sweet pea! Let mama check out that bump?” Naturally, the kid was mortified. Probably scarred for life.

“But I would never call Joshua, ‘sweet pea’!” I huffed.

The dad just shook his head at me.

I stood there several more minutes, sighing dramatically every few seconds.

“Would you like me to go over and check on him?” he finally offered, taking pity on me. (Or possibly hoping to escape my dramatic sighing.)

I turned hopeful eyes toward him. “Would you?!”

The nice man trudged around to the other side of the field. I saw him speak briefly to Joshua—still doubled over—then he trudged back.

“Well? Should I call an ambulance?”

“It’s just a stomach ache,” he grinned.

“Oh. Uh—thanks.” I mumbled sheepishly.

For the remainder of the game, though, I wondered why it was okay for another player’s dad to walk over there, but not the player’s mom. Weird ‘sweet pea’ mom story aside, who made up this unwritten rule that if a kid gets hurt on the field, it’s not okay for the mom to check on her very own child?

I posed that very question to my son later, as we drove home from the game.

My boy stopped toweling dry his hair, turned his beautiful dark eyes in my direction, and answered me. “Kids did, mom. Kids made up that rule.”

“Oh.”