I have two boys, both of whom have been involved in competitive sports in one version or another. We've done highly competitive soccer, chill-out soccer, less stressful teeball, a mixed bag of basketball, pretty-laidback golf, and of course the All Encompassing Life of Gymnastics. I've witnessed parents who are chill, and those who scream until they are red in the face because their Little Precious didn't do what he was supposed to do (and this mistake at age 5 will surely mean the college scholarship will not come.) I've seen coaches who get Very Angry, and those who have just a subtle look of disappointment. (And, there are those amazing coaches who maintain a smile no matter what.)

Our family accompanied my son to Gym Camp. It was in a peaceful location and I adored the opportunity to "experience nature" in ways that our backyard doesn't reach. (I thought I saw a moose and freaked out; it was a couple of elk.) Plus, since gymnastics is my crack, I loved being in the gym for the majority of the day, and appreciated being surrounded by young gymnasts (and some pretty impressive clinicians) as I ate my meals in the mess hall. (This was a situation where if someone wore an Olympic jacket, it was because they actually earned it. I tried not to freak out when Famous People sat near me.)

Since I spent so much time in the actual gym, I got to talk to fellow Gym Parents. Thankfully, most were really chill. They are great folks who want their kids to succeed, but they aren't snobby about their highly-talented kids. I was especially impressed with the father of two gymnasts who hail from a very competitive team. This dad was the chaperone for my son's cabin, and complimented me on my son's ability to make friends, his independence, and so on. Meanwhile, I was thinking, "OMG, this is the dad of two incredible gymnasts and he's complimenting me on my son? Nice folks, truly.

There was this one lady who seemed really cool. She and I talked a bit, and she was really friendly. But then suddenly she'd scream across the gym at her son before immediately putting on a smile and resuming our conversation. This little dude was exceptionally good, and yet he wasn't good enough for his mom yet. The dude was hurting. The dude was hungry. The dude wanted a break. BUT NO! "You aren't working hard enough! Do that again! Do it right this time!" She'd turn back to me, "They like to slack off. But that won't work."

But she also had passionate concern for the boys when they really were hurting: when she saw a guy from her gym take a nasty fall, she subtly asked the guy if perhaps he might want to chill out for awhile. I was impressed with how she recognized that a teenager wouldn't want his pride hurt, and so she didn't scream for him, but instead asked another gymnast to fetch him so she could talk to him less conspicuously.

I loved watching the high caliber of gymnastics, and appreciated the different coaching styles of the clinicians. No matter how excellent a coach, having another perspective is so valuable. I just soaked in the environment.

Most of the time I watched the boys, but there were some girls working out as well. I'd watch them from time to time, enjoying their athleticism. And then I noticed one of the girls had an impressive prosthetic arm.

I was stunned. I wouldn't have supposed that gymnastics would be possible for someone with one arm, especially the bars. This young girl had two different prosthesis for gym: one with a hook (for bars) and another with a circular disk on the end (appropriate for floor, vault, and beam.) I was wondering how the bar-arm stayed on when she was swinging. How could it possibly maintain its position on her upper arm against the tremendous force used when working bars? I itched to ask, and yet I'm sure she gets the question all the time, and I sure didn't want to be one of those annoyingly curious people... even though I was annoyingly curious.

I was amazed at how she did cartwheels and back-walkovers (and even a spotted back-handspring!) on the high beam. It is scary enough to do tricks like that with two arms, and yet with both skills she had to completely trust her prosthesis to keep her on the beam. Amazing!

It is cliche, but I found it interesting to think of the way we pressure our kids to do well, and how it is tough to persevere sometimes. And yet, if someone with one-arm can do it, oh yeah, so can you! (But I'm not going to yell that to my son across the gym...)

Right after I turned 15.5, I got my learner's permit. I was later surprised by friends of mine who lived in the City who put off getting their license. I think a few of them still don't know how to drive.

But for those of us in the suburbs, getting our permit --and later our license-- was a huge rite of passage.

My dad taught me how to drive in the parking lot of our church and of our local college. (I later tried to teach a friend how to drive in that same college parking lot, but we were kicked out by security!) But, parking lots are not real life.

My mom recruited her sister to teach me on "real roads" since my aunt had already taught my three older cousins by that point. (Never mind that they had been driving on a farm at a young age and actually snuck out to drive on "real roads" around our town before they were close to legal. Shhhhh.)

I was so very, very excited when my aunt came to pick me up for our first lesson. (But, I was also terrified.) My mom and her sister were excited for a far different reason: they had learned that the Berlin Wall fell.

"You will remember this day!" My mother exclaimed. "You will always know the day that the Berlin Wall fell. You will know where you were and what you were doing."

Indeed. I was outside our house, walking towards my aunt's car when my mom uttered that statement. Of course, years later I'd have that same detail recollection of other important events (or events that struck me as important.) Naturally, I can reconstruct my activities on 9/11 pretty well, and I know the exact intersection of road I was driving on when I learned of Michael Jackson's death.

So, as we began our driving lesson, we chatted about the Berlin Wall. But then my aunt wanted me to do something unexpected. Instead of taking a leisurely loop around town, she wanted me to immediately go to Taco Bell.

Are you kidding me?

She explained that teenagers are always hungry, and always get fast food, and so what better way to teach me how to drive than learning to balance food and drink while driving? Plus, this particular drive-through Taco Bell had a sharp turn right before the window: good accuracy practice, and if I took out a bush, so what?

Brilliant idea, actually. And yeah, I know how to drive with food on my lap quite proficiently.

I don't remember anything else about the lesson other than the Berlin Wall fell, and I went to Taco Bell.

When I was a freshman in high-school, we were required to take a drafting class.

Back when I was young, it annoyed me when adults would provide their, "Back in the day..." stories. But now I have my own. Sure, there's "before internet" and "we had cords on our phones." But physical technical drawing is something that I really miss.

I loved the puzzle of how to create figures with very little reference. I don't remember exactly how it worked (since it has been 25 years since then!) but I recall we were allowed to use a ruler for marking a starting point, but then subsequent measurements had to be based on the previous, with no extraneous marks. We used the straight-edge and other tools to make sure our lines were straight --thank goodness this wasn't completely freehand-- but I believe we were limited in our tools, to create more of a challenge.

Each figure was more difficult than the previous. We worked at our own pace, and simply dropped our completed figures in a slot, then moved on to the next. I don't recall any instructional time. Rather, the class period was a time for us to work independently. I enjoyed the quiet focus required to do each piece, even if I do remember the frustration at having to start over after a mistake.

These days, I imagine the majority of plans are created virtually. No doubt there are plenty of computer programs ready to precisely measure (and automatically scale) whereas at age 15 I had to manually solve the puzzle. (And of course, there are now those nifty 3D printers which takes the whole realm of design into territory I can't fully grasp.)

In fact, it was at age 15 that my dad brought home CAD for use on our home computer. I tried creating my own font with it, but I never did get the hang of what seemed pretty complex at the time.

Sure, I do various things on the computer these days that I wouldn't be able to do manually (I'm not a great free-hand artist, but have other talents) but I really do miss the satisfyingly tactile experience of drawing with graphite on delicate paper.

[image via]

Age 14 was a big one for growing up. I went to Australia (where I met Bart Conner; the first of several Olympic gymnasts I'd eventually see in person.) I went to Mexico (where I remember being very inspired on a humanitarian level, only to have superficial conversations brought into the mix.) I became friends with a great guy who I never dated, but it was a good "practice" to communicate with a boy in a more relaxed manner than in those squeaky-panicked moments of a middle school dance. (Unfortunately, my mom determined that this particular boy was way too smart for me, so encouraged me to improve my vocabulary so I'd appear more intelligent. This was the first lesson of how I must change myself to be attractive; something I'm now trying to unlearn.)

Instead of going to the local high school, I started going to a private school nearly an hour away by public transportation. Now that my oldest is approaching 13, I see what a big deal it was for my parents to just let me go off on my own at 14. And yet, during those moments of my son's maturity, I see exactly how it is possible.

14 was when I felt guilty when I went to Disneyland, because I realized how many kids didn't have that opportunity. But 14 was also when I saw some very privileged people --more so than me-- and it sparked a great fear that I would never measure up. No longer was I in the cocoon of childhood, and yet I was nowhere near being an adult, either.

When I was in college I took a social skills class on the side. I think it was titled something about "effective relationships," and of course I took it because I was hoping to snag a guy. Proving that I had a lot to learn about men, it didn't occur to me that most guys wouldn't dare even breathe near such a class, so of course my idea fizzled fast.

Aside from my botched plan, the two things I most remember about this extra-curricular endeavor were the squeaky-clean perky exchange student and mood matching.

The exchange student looked like she was a cartoon version of a pig. I know this is horribly cruel to say, but she was uber-adorable in her fluffy polka-dotted dress with matching polka-dot bow. She had bouncy curls and a very round face with an upturned nose. She was just so cute and so round and just didn't look like a college student at all. She looked like an artist's creative rendition of a little girl... pig.

(And yeah, I know the irony of equating anyone's appearance with a pig given that I was called "pig nose" and "Pig Dahlen" and the like as a kid. One afternoon a whole group of people taped their noses up and claimed to be imitating me.)

Or maybe she was dressed for a square dance? If Toddlers & Tiaras had been on TV at that time, I would have guessed she used that show as style inspiration.

Continue reading "Mood Matching" »

The other day, my son asked me if I was a good artist when I was young.

I hesitated, and explained that I was very creative when I was younger, but that trying to copy real life was tricky for me. I told him that I really enjoyed a class in college where we were allowed to explore different ways of interpreting the same object. It wasn't just about making things look "right."

"Well, I'm an excellent artist," my always-confident son responded. He then told me there were several kids in his class that weren't very good.

I sighed, and told him that everyone is an artist in their own way. Maybe those kids had trouble putting what was in their head onto the paper, or maybe they just saw the world differently.

Continue reading "[13] You are Doing it Wrong" »

... with his cowboy uniform.

Six years ago, (so hard to believe it really has been that long) I entered the office of what would soon be our local school. I wanted to register my older son for the first grade and get him on any wait-lists immediately so that he could attend the school closest to our new home. The school secretary told us we had to register through the district, and then bring the paperwork to her.

Just a few days later, I returned with my completed paperwork. There was a different gal behind the counter. She said she was a teacher at the school, but also the daughter of the school secretary. She was just watching the office while her mom ran an errand. She wasn't sure what the next step would be for me, but promised her mom would get back to me. Three years later, that gal became my youngest son's 1st grade teacher.

Thankfully, we were granted admission to our preferred school. (Our next-door neighbor who moved in just a tad after us had to attend a school across town.) We are very, very lucky.

In the last six years, the school secretary has of course been a big part of my boys' lives. From vomiting to forgotten violins, she's been the point person. She's tracked down my son after school to let him know I had a flat tire, and she's comforted him when he's had a bee sting.

This year, she is retiring. She has less than four weeks left of running the school.

--

This week began "Apple Valley Days," a western-era simulation program for third-graders. My son is happy to dress in sharp boots, cowboy hat, plaid shirt, and kerchief. He brings a basket to school instead of a backpack, and plays the part of "George," a 17-year old eldest sibling to six brothers and sisters.

Yesterday at the pool, he stubbed his toe, ripping off a callus. That was bloody. He wanted to wear flip-flops to school, but I told him there was no way the school would allow that. It was against the dress code as being unsafe. I knew he couldn't wear his cowboy boots, either, because they would constrict the toe too much. We settled on his older brother's slip-on shoes. I figured it would give the toe a bit more breathing room than his usual shoes, but still be "appropriate" for school.

Just a couple hours after school began, the phone rang. The school secretary told me my son's toe was very swollen, and might I bring him some open-toed shoes?

I laughed, and told her we had selected his older brother's shoes in an attempt to help the toe, but figured flip-flops would be against the rules.

Her response was: "Well, the toe needs to breathe. So go ahead and bring him flip-flops. As for it being against the rules: What are they going to do?... Fire me?"

Well played. (And... I'm going to miss her!)

Several years ago, I was really into running. I enjoyed the camaraderie of the now-defunct "shredheads" (I still tag my workouts "#shredheads" on Twitter) and enjoyed the feeling of accomplishment I had at the end of my various races for "Project 2010k". That is, until I realized I was still a slow "newbie."

I think it hit me during "The Relay." Yes, it was an amazing experience, one that I'll probably never get again. Yes, it was "empowering" in many ways. Except, it kinda wasn't because I became very self-conscious about my size and lack of speed. Yes, the people were super-encouraging. My teammates were wonderful, even though I was slowing them down. But there were some other racers who were a bit more condescending. And it crushed me.

At nearly every race, some well-meaning person would ask me if it was my first race. Or if I was running for charity. (A concept in itself that is problematic: is the only motivation for running as a "slow person" if you are doing it for charity? I know I don't look like a "real runner" but...) They would tell me to "keep it up!" even though I probably ran more races than many of them that particular year.

After "The Relay" I really felt bad. I didn't like being the slowest or the largest. Even an injured teammate ran faster than me!

A couple weekends ago at Mom 2.0, I had a similar experience. Yes, it was an amazing conference. Yes, I enjoyed thinking about different aspects of my relationship to social media and blogging. Yes, I adored seeing friends I hadn't seen in awhile.

But I felt ugly and unaccomplished.

Continue reading "I'm Going to be Honest" »

I've never been to Norway. But, I love Scandinavian things. Bring on the lefse!

My name means "valley dweller" apparently, although I don't speak Norwegian. I tried to learn around age 12, using some cassette tapes I purchased out of a mail-order catalog, but aside from some simple vocabulary, I don't know much.

(My grandpa had a placard by his front door that read: "You can tell a Norwegian, but you can't tell him much." Heh.)

I suppose I became really interested in my heritage around middle school because of the traditional "trying to find yourself" contemplation that comes with puberty. I wanted to have something "special" about me, something that would make me "cool" like the kids on campus who had people to eat lunch with. The irony, of course, is that most of those kids were totally blonde, Scandinavian-types, so my particular background blend wasn't all that singular.

But, if I could actually speak Norwegian, I figured that would be cool. Too bad I'm not good at picking up languages. (Still, I recently got a Swedish app and am trying to learn a little despite my advanced age.) But I purchased a Norwegian flag keychain and a little flag to put on my desk.

And I bought myself an "Uff Da!" sweatshirt and wore it to school. It wasn't all that fashionable, but I thought it would perhaps be different in a good way. Still, nobody really noticed - which I guess is good, since I could have been teased for not wearing the very specific "uniform" of a blue and white Benetton shirt with pegged pants. On the other hand, lots of people noticed when a seagull shit on my head.

I guess seagull crap is one way to get lighter hair.

I had a dermatology appointment today. I was pretty nervous, because last time I got a mole checked out, I checked out. I was also a bit concerned, because when I received my referral to the department, I was told the consult would be $75 with additional charges for other services. I was already skeptical that a painful cyst would count as "cosmetic" rather than "medical," but surely an abnormal mole was more on the "medical side." RIGHT?

The message to get moles checked out is huge. Skin cancer if caught early can be treated. It is a no-brainer that HMOs would want to stop something before it escalates into something very serious (and potentially very costly.) RIGHT?

Just last week (or was it this week?) was "Melanoma Monday." As summer approaches, there are more and more campaigns reminding us to wear sunscreen and get abnormal moles checked. I have fair skin, so often wear sun-protective clothing. (My favs for "cute" UPF 50+ clothing are Coolibar and Mott 50, and then I have some generic T-s from SPFstore.com. For the boys and for my swimming needs, it is UV Skinz for the win.)

I'm fairly diligent about having abnormal moles checked, although since I'm a heavily-freckled person, I'm not 100% sure that I'm tracking everything well. Although the dermatologists themselves say a "mole check" every 6 months or so is advisable, the waiting list for dermatology at my HMO makes this difficult, and the expectation that preventative care is "cosmetic" and must therefore be billed at a higher rate, is ridiculous.

And so, I check my moles myself, and only speak up when I'm concerned about a particular one. (But what am I missing: on my back, or other place I cannot see?)

Today, I explained that the mole on my elbow bleeds frequently (that's one of those "triggers" I often see published about when a mole might be a concern.)

Continue reading "May is Skin Cancer Awareness Month, except at my HMO" »