Captain Obvious

I spend a few hours each Saturday watching Son #2 play baseball which I love. He's a fabulous pitcher and, on most days, a darned good hitter. And he's super cute. (Biased, I know.)

What I also enjoy is listening to the helpful comments from the dads watching from the sidelines.

"Swing if it's a good pitch."

"Try to hit the ball with the bat."

"Run if you make contact."

"Cover your base."

Really Dr. Smartypants?

At this age, most of the statements are positive reinforcement regardless of outcome. Good eye. Nice swing. And the parents basically root for any kid with a great hit or impressive catch regardless of team. One for all and all for one.

From what I've been told, this is preferable to the maniacal zeal that apparently comes as the kids and teams become more competitive. A fellow mom recently told me that, while her older son was playing a team across town, the home team parents were encouraging unethical plays and hurling slurs about the visiting kids being rich and snooty. After the game, which "our" team won, an upset woman stormed up to the coach and screamed, "I hope you all die on the ride home."

Wow. Lighten up, Francis. And, uh, nice role modeling.

With that said, I'll take a goofy remark any day.

"Pitch it over the plate son."

The Christian Brothers

I've been subscribing to the American Catholic "Saint of the Day" e-newsletters. Yesterday's email profiled St. John Baptist de la Salle, the man who founded the Brothers of the Christian School (a.k.a. the Christian Brothers).

When I was a junior in high school, I went on a class trip to Mexico with one of my BFFs, Mary, along with a bunch of nerds from our Spanish class and one gutter-mouthed girl, Laurie, from the other high school in our little town. (Note: She was a blast but we all came home 10 days later dropping the f-bomb like an everyday sentence enhancer -- not so acceptable in polite society such as under my mother's roof.)

Our parents made the mistake of signing permission slips that would allow us to drink. The premise was that we could have a glass of wine with dinner. The reality was that we now had unlimited access to booze. Hey, our parents signed a form! Who could argue with that logic? When we arrived in Mexico City, the first thing we did was buy as much beer, tequila, Kahlua, etc. as we could possibly carry back to our hotel. We had the elevator to ourselves and yet it made one stop en route to our room. The doors opened and there stood our teacher. Wide eyed. Aghast.

She asked us to remain in the hotel if we were planning to drink that much alcohol so we complied. Thankfully, there was an entire school of southern, preppy boys from the Christian Brothers Academy there to keep us company. They were all grounded for getting drunk and throwing beer bottles out their hotel windows. Perfect company!

Interestingly enough, yesterday's description of St. John Baptist de la Salle stated that he established "schools for young delinquents of wealthy families." Apparently, at least in the early 80s, his work continues. He should be proud.

The rest of the trip was just as much fun. Sure we ate at great restaurants, were serenaded by mariachi bands, saw all of the sites, went to the ruins, visited museums and haggled for embroidered shirts at the flea markets but when we arrived home, the only thing we could talk about was how Mary peed all over the floor of the hotel elevator because we were laughing so hard.

We went on a side trip to Taxco where we roamed the cobblestone streets, shopped for great jewelry, danced around the campfire with pinata remnants on our heads and encouraged our teacher to drink worm-soaked tequila with us on the bus. (She did. Straight from the bottle.)

We ended up in Acapulco where we watched the cliff divers (great!), ate dinner at an upscale restaurant on the beach where rats (I kid you not) scurried in the dark around our ankles, and we almost drowned in the rough seas (seriously awful -- one member of our group was hospitalized after almost losing her life and we flew home without her). It was here that our teacher gave up on us entirely and took off with our handsome tour guide, Poncho, for the remainder of the trip.

Lo que paso en Mexico, queda en Mexico.

Learning to Write a Second Grade "Personal Narrative"

The other night, son #1's homework involved writing the answers to the following three questions:

1. What problem or challenge have you faced in life?
2. How did you solve it?
   
3. What did you learn from it? Or what is the moral of the story?
   

He wrote about how he dislikes school and hates doing homework. His solution is to picture the future: he wants to go to Annapolis and become a Navy fighter pilot. (Hence, his addiction to Dogfights on the History channel. And, no, there are no age-related, TV viewing filters in our house with the exception of anything involving sex and nudity.) And his morale: You reap what you sow.

When he finished writing, I asked him if he had ever had any other problems in his life.

He responded by telling me, "Yes, but I don't want to talk about them."

When I prodded a little further, he told me that it was a secret. "Do you know what a secret means? It means that I am not going to tell it to you."

I gently told him that I respect keeping secrets and didn't want to pry but I did want him to know that he doesn't have to bottle things up. It's better to tell someone and get it off his chest.

He told me that he would just as soon forget about it which, as his mom, I'm having a hard time doing. "Was it that thing you wouldn't tell me that happened on the bus with Ethan?"

"No, it happened in the neighborhood and that's all I'm saying."

"Were any adults involved?"

"No, just kids," and he stood and began walking away. He then added, "I've actually had a lot of problems that I don't want to talk about."

I gave him a little hug, told him he can talk to me at any time, and let him leave. Inside, however, I'm still sad. What could have happened? Did he do something wrong or did someone wrong him? Is it a boy thing to not want to talk about it?

What it really amounts to is control: specifically, my lack thereof. I want to protect him from harm (especially while he's still so young) and help him make wise decisions. But he has his path in life and there's nothing I can do but be a good parent, a strong role model, and his biggest supporter in life.

And I need to learn how to give him space.

Role models

I’ve been interviewing a lot of job candidates lately for client-related positions ranging from Executive Administrative Assistants to Controllers and I’ve noticed the following. A lot of the younger candidates for positions—who I typically find to be much more in tune with themselves, level-headed, well spoken, focused and driven then I was at their age—respond to the query, “Describe for me a leader you admire,” with a narrative of their father or mother whereas older individuals cite a current/former manager, military strategist or President (including one nomination for George Bush recently but that’s another rant altogether).

Did parenting change over the past 25+ years or rather, as you age, do different types of leaders emerge in your consciousness to change the frame of reference? Worse yet, perhaps the impact of parenting lessens over time?

Regardless of the cause, after listening to scores of aspiring, freshly minted college graduates give testimony to the strong character development functions their parents provided, the sound role models they were, and the solid foundation of integrity and ethics imparted, I am suddenly keenly aware of my own responsibility as a parent and the enormous impact I can have on the success of my kids both short- and long-term.

I now aspire to be the future response to that same question when my children are on their many job interviews throughout life. And color me a braggart, but I think I can top George Bush . . .