White Sox and Whistles

Danny is going to kindergarten in September and it already makes me alternatively weepy and terrified. The thought that my drooly baby, my firstborn, is actually going to wear a backpack and use a urinal is beyond comprehension. But, frankly, not even the idea of Danny having to find that school bathroom by himself frightens me as much as this upcoming season of T-ball.

Danny has never been an aggro sports kid. He would rather look for bugs than play catch. He can run faster than the wind but he would prefer to zig-zag than follow the bases. And he might be running from aliens that only he can see. And those aliens might encourage him to abandon the outfield altogether on opening day. It’s hard to say. Which naturally could make a mom a bit nervous when confronted with a team of organized kids, mostly from the very tony town next to ours, who have clearly spent a lot of time practicing with their dads.  And whose mom did not forget their glove on the very first day.

Last Thursday was our first team meeting and the Conways were quite a sight. I had just finished work and, as it was a no client meeting day, I was in old sweats matched inappropriately with a Burberry coat (my attempt to be fancy) and boots (don’t ask). Danny was dressed correctly but refused to make eye contact with any of the four (yes, four) coaches when they introduced themselves.  Annie was alternatively whining because she wanted to play baseball too and pulling my pants down so quickly that underwear was definitely seen. Oh, and baby Jay had a sudden eye infection that had swelled one eye almost completely shut and pussy, leaving him a bitter, down and out Popeye. And I am pretty sure that I had some unidentified baby food—or poop, who knows at this point—in my hair as well.

The other families were calm, poised. Many knew each other. Boys threw long passes to each other. And they caught the ball. In their gloves. Moms wore earnings, of all things. Fathers spoke of practice uniforms, games, sportsmanship, learning the positions. The kids stood and listened attentively, except Danny, who tried to joke into the ear of another player. The field was closed, they said, due to a previous day of rain, so we could all go home. While I sighed with everyone else, my inner me said, “Hooray, saved another day!”

Now, mind you, Danny didn’t sign himself up for T-ball. I did. And Danny has gotten excited about playing, even beyond the fact that he gets a cool White Sox uniform and his own number. He was excited enough that he actually let his Dad coach him last weekend at the park. And he wasn’t half bad. His crowning moment was when he threw the ball up and hit it himself. And you know what, it was a way cooler moment than watching those highly coached boys throw the ball to each other at practice the other day. As Danny told us all the rest of the day, he is really good at baseball.

So why do I still worry about that first practice? Because I guess as much as I try, it is hard not to compare.

We all make choices in our kids’ education and the choice I made with Danny was to do play-based preschool. So, no memorization, no drills, just an emphasis on experiencing life—and of course learning the basics along the way.  Danny has flourished in this environment. He thinks big, plays hard and learns a lot. His most recent accomplishments include developing a super power through which he can see one thing with his eyes and another thing in his brain at the same time. He has also taught himself to whistle. Oh, and he has learned his letters and, on a good day, all of his numbers along the way as well.

But he can’t read. And he can’t catch with his mitt yet. And on the White Sox team, and at school, there are going to be kids that can do both. And that scares me not because I worry about him not being as bright as the other kids but because I worry that he will think he is not as good as them, that he will perceive himself as a loser. Just like I once felt when I was chosen last for gym teams. So, yes, I am projecting. But isn’t that what all of us parents do?

We always want a better life for our kids but in many cases, isn’t the one we already have good enough? We have enough money, enough success, and more than enough love. Who cares if he can’t read until first grade if he is still able to dream beautiful dreams of saving the world from evil doctors or growing the biggest strawberries on the block? If he ended up exactly where I am right now—overworked, overtired but blessed with a husband, kids and extended family and friends that love me—isn’t that more than enough to wish for him?

And, what’s more, as I geared up for practice today (rained out again), I realized that Danny doesn’t ever think of himself as a loser. He hasn’t learned yet that not being the best at everything means that you can’t have fun. Just because I was a dork as a kid, doesn’t mean he will be. And if I pressure him to be something he’s not, then the spark that makes him Danny might go out.  This doesn’t mean we won’t still practice with him. But if we go to the game and Danny is the crappiest player in the whole league, I am still going to stand up and cheer, underwear showing or not. Because, by now, what I should have learned myself in life is that—just as his preschool teacher always says—it is the process, not the product that counts.

Your kid may already know how to read. But my boy sure can whistle.

 

 

Comments

[Ed]

Great story, well written and honest. First, you were never a dork. Second, you are a great dad. Third, sounds like you gave your son all the tools he will need to be happy. Can't ask for more old friend. Be proud; you made it: all the way, in every aspect of life.

[eileen]

thanks, Ed. This is actually dan's wife, Eileen. Dan would indeed agree with you that he was never a dork ;)
thanks,
e

[Nancy Hole]

very,Wonderful,ms. ei....too many wonderfuls to reply to all. i learned about Danny more in this blog than in all his terrific 5 years. I can still remember a million yrs ago when i was in that horrible gym outfit, chubby,and dying to be picked for something. i loved sports, but didn't participate. tell Danny i get the no eye contact now. Tell him once i tried to stop time by thinking very hard but only made myself dizzy....but didn't master his brain thinking and outward thinking at the same time. wow. wonder if sometime he would like to tell stories via recorder. but i think he lives good stories. i love that he loves the outdoors; i tried to fly once about his age, good thing it was only off a few steps and not the roof. tell Danny his great-grandpa James Lester was a great whistler; his great-grandma Mae didn't do too badly and y.t. loved to whistle, too. in grammar school and in the cloak room hanging up my coat, i got in a little trouble because i was absentmindly whistling very loudly. i love your blogs. thank you. Aunt N. xo p.s. Tell Danny yesterday when walking through the apt. complex I saw a duck happily swimming in our creek runoff...I quacked, quacked, but the duck didn't quack back...and i'm quite a good quacker. It's great to be 5; it's great to be any age; it's great to have a great family such as yours.

[Emma McCulloch]

I agree with Ed...brilliantly written and very honest. So sweet. I too was picked last in gym class. Couldn't run and my coordination was horrible! You are always so humorous. But above all, what it has taken me 35 years to learn, is that everyone is different, we should embrace everyone's differences and love them nevertheless! Go Danny!