mr. g

I love this kid. He cracks us up. And I can't really even put into words how even. He's just funny. He has his first loose tooth and that breaks my heart a little bit.

You know when people told me it would go so fast, I believed them. I really did. I just didn't realize that it happens when you're not really looking. That one day your baby who was excited about Lightning McQueen with white wheels one minute is reading Biscuit books and telling you that your dinner is a 50 on a scale of 1-100 because it was "sorta halfway good" the next minute.

I love him with my whole heart. And in the same moment that my heart hurts over that loose tooth, the definitive sign of "growing up", I am so excited to see what he will become. To see his personality grow and blossom. To see where his creativity takes him.

But for right now, I'll savor his early morning hugs and his dinner rating system and that he still says "froat"instead of throat.

Bribery.

Most mornings run relatively smoothly around these parts.
This is not me bragging.
The smooth running is only because I have extremely low expectations for morning procedures. Beds do not get made. The only criteria for clothes is that they weren't worn the day before. Well, except jeans. I demand that jeans get 2, maybe even 3 days wear before they dare hit the laundry hamper. Sooo, basically that means Mason and Grant have to find a new shirt. I've even been known to cave in the clean sock department on particularly, uh, rushed days. And hair is combed. sometimes. sort of. maybe. on good days.
So like I said. Not bragging.

But every once in a while, the boys are a little slow moving.
And their slow moving days most often coincide with days I might maybe have forgotten to make copies for the lesson that day or maybe, just maybe, there's a chance that sometimes I might need to, uh, firm up what it is that I will be teaching that day. It happens people. Don't worry, though. Honestly, usually my best lessons are the ones that don't come from my lesson plan book, but from recognizing the collective blank stare in my classroom and realizing I better try that again! And probably in a whole new way.

Anyway, sometimes I just need to get to school on time early to be sufficiently prepared to teach the sponge like minds that walk into my classroom at 7:40.

And on such days I find it sometimes helps to provide an incentive to…motivate the boys to hurry the heck up.

I find that donuts are very good motivators. For mother and sons, actually.

It's remarkable really.


Imagine, if you will, a child, cozy under his covers. Messy bed head hair, sleep in his eyes, one socked foot sticking out from under the covers.
His mother who, having at least smelled coffee by this point, can remember the love she feels for her children, and, well, life in general. A few minutes prior to the coffee smelling, she wasn't sure she even knew what love was anymore.
"Sugar bear muffin pants," she calls. "It's time to rise and shine! Love muffin schnookem berry, it's time to get dressed for school!" These loving pet names are greeted by a grunt of annoyance. Eyes remain closed. Bodies still cozy under covers. And now the one foot even retreats back into the covers.

"Sugarbear…" She says again.

The child rolls over making the sounds of a bear being disturbed from hibernation.

"Muffinberry…" No movement.

"Hmm… if we leave early today, we can get donuts."

Said child is instantly brought to life. It's like a scene from a Disney movie. You know, drawers start magically opening, clean shirts are instantly slid onto now wide awake children, hair is combed with baffling speed. Within 4.3 minutes, they're both dressed, shoes on, backpacks ready, by the door.


I bribe my kids with donuts. I do. It's the kind of mother I am. I'm writing my mother of the year acceptance speech right now. :)

Stop the bashing.

*** Quick edit by the author! When I posted this, I had NO idea it would get as many page views as it has from so many different places. I was just a little frustrated on a Friday afternoon and decided to write. Please know that I have absolutely nothing against homeschoolers! I was actually home schooled until my sophomore year of high school and loved it. I credit my homeschool years for making me the person I am today. Many of my dearest friends homeschool their children and I love them for it. The article that "broke the camel's back" just happened to be written by a homeschooler whose opinion on homework and teachers bothered me. Just as my words here do not represent every teacher in the world, I know those author's words did not represent all homeschoolers. Whether you're a home schooling mom or a public school teacher, we're all in this fight together. Okay, proceed. :) ***



We need your help.

Who's we? 

Me. Mrs. Smith. Mr. Jones. Miss Kirkland. Teachers around the state. 

Stop bashing us. 

Stop bashing public schools. 

Stop bashing principals. 

Stop bashing. 

Today, I came home from school. 

I'm exhausted when I come home from school. Did you know that? 

Oh, I don't mean exhausted in the sense that I'm physically tired. No, in fact, most days I come home, lace up my running shoes and hit the road to pound out the exhaustion I feel from my job. 

I'm the kind of exhausted that makes you lash out irrationally at your own kids.

I'm a mom, too. Did you know that? 

By the time 4:30 arrives,(That's the real time I leave my classroom, by the way, for those of you who like to be jealous of our "short days"), and I put on the Mom Hat,  I snap. It's like the last shred of sanity onto which I was clinging suddenly pops and a fury of unjustified wrath spews onto my two poor kids. Don't they know i just need one.dang.second of silence?! Why are they talking again?! Can't they make a snack themselves?! 

No. The exhaustion I'm referring to is mental and emotional. Because since 7:40 this morning, I've dealt with 20 different personality types all shoved into one overcrowded classroom. Three different groups in a row. And my task is to teach them all how to write in this absolutely ridiculous language we call English.

But I'm off on a bunny trail. Another effect of the exhaustion. Inability to focus. 

Back to today. 

I get home and while scrolling through my Facebook feed, I see it. The "This is why I homeschool" link. I should have ignored it. I should have kept going. I shouldn't have read it. But I couldn't help myself. 

It was basically an article that slammed teachers for assigning homework of all things.  I won't go into all the details of this particular article because really the jerk person who wrote this article was simply the straw that broke the camel's back. 

Stop blaming teachers. Stop. it. 

Stop beating us down. Please. I beg of you. I can't tell you how much we need your support.

We're dying out here. We're beaten, bruised, and exhausted. I don't care what you think of public schools, I don't care how much you hate standardized testing, and I don't care how great a homeschool parent you are. None of those things makes it okay to knock us, the teachers. We are doing the very best we can. 

I mean, I think I am. I think I am doing the very best I can. That's the problem with teaching. I always wonder. It's not like I have a quota to meet or a deadline I'm dealing with or a client I'm trying to win. 

My measurement of success is the 20 faces that stare back at me class period after class period. How could I ever know if I'm doing this job right? Maybe in 20 years I'll see one of them and maybe they'll say, "Hey, thanks for making me care about my education, Mrs. Wilde." But today? Today, I am truly trying to do the very best I can, but is it ever going to be enough?

They're all different. Did you know that?

 Each one of my students is so different. I'm not talking about their looks or their personalities. I'm talking about them. Their mind. Their very being. They don't even realize how different they are yet. You know, because they're 10 and being different isn't exactly the "it" thing. But I see it. 

"Joe" is smart. Funny. And I love how his hair is messy every single day. He works really hard for me in class. Oh, he does his typical boy things, but he's a good kid. He can't spell to save his life though. I've tried everything I can think of. But his brain isn't wired to spell. It just isn't. Part of me doesn't mind, because, let's face it, in this digital driven world, I'm willing to bet spell check will catch 95% of his mistakes for him. But what if it doesn't? What if if this one weakness keeps him from the success he should have? What on Earth can I do to help him spell? 

"Will" is a genius, man. I'm talking crazy smart. He can build things out of nothing. I love to talk with him. His brain fascinates me. I feel this pressure to make him work harder because I see such a bright future in front of him. I'm scared of making him complacent. How can I make him use his genius instead of allowing it to be his crutch?

"Hannah" is a mess. That girl just wants to play. And I know, I know. She's 10. But the thing is, she wants to be a veterinarian really badly. Girls who spend more time playing in school than learning don't make it to vet school. How can I make her see that her dreams are worth working hard for? And that boys do like smart girls? I know it's not my job to teach her something like that, but I see her possible futures and it worries me. What if I can be the person to teach her something like that? 

"Robert" makes my heart smile. God, I love that kid. I'd take a classroom full of boys like him. And I'll be danged if I ever see his mind in an oilfield or on a construction site. I'm not knocking those professions one bit. There's a lot of people in the oilfield making way more money than I am, and I very much appreciate the experts who pave the roads I drove on, but it's not for Robert. This boy is meant for greatness. He is meant to do something. I don't know what, but I see it in him. He doesn't though. How can I make him realize how amazing he is? 

Oh, I could go on and on. And I won't be all rosy and fake. Some of my students drive me crazy. Oh, yes, they do. But I love them anyway. And I do truly love this profession I've chosen. I love my students. I love to see them beam with pride when I share their writing as an example for the class. I choose to do this year after year.

Here's my point. At the end of my day, I'm exhausted. I already feel like a failure because tactic #295 for teaching the intricate details of how to do something as complex simple as writing an expository composition with organized supporting details failed.  I'm stressed about the compositions that need grading, the ESL training I still have to do, the benchmarks looming ahead, and the special ed paperwork sitting on my desk. 

I'm exhausted. 

And to come home at the end of the day and see yet another slam against the profession I love so dearly…It truly makes me cry. I'm not kidding. It makes my heart hurt. Imagine an artist who spends his life creating a piece of art, and an outsider whose opinion this artist did not seek out, somehow feels he has the right to not only comment on the artist's work, but belittle and demean it. 

We need your help, people. I don't care about your opinion on public schools. I'm not a public school. I'm a real person who chose this job. I and all my fellow teachers need help and support and encouragement. 

Because here's the really scary thing. The thing that should haunt you, keep you awake at night, make you worry about the future. 

Teachers, the good ones, the ones who care? We're going extinct. We're leaving the classrooms in droves. And that should terrify the hell out of you. Because if you think our country has issues now, take us out of the equation. Oh, they'll always find teachers to fill the spots we leave open. But this is a calling. If you're not called to do this, you will not be effective. If a teacher isn't effective, kids don't learn. Or worse. Kids don't care about learning. And if kids don't care about learning? I think that speaks for itself.

If you're thinking, "we'll just find better schools," you're right. YOU will. The people reading this. If you had to, you'd find a way to get your kids a better education. You'd homeschool or go private or something. But I've never been worried about your kids. It's the other kids. The ones with empty bellies and dirty clothes and a sadness in their eyes that will break your heart. Without me and teachers like me, their numbers will only grow. Without a cheerleader in their lives, someone to make them believe that they can and, by God, they will do better, they won't. 

Take us out of the equation. Take public school teachers out of the equation, I dare ya. Just see where America lands. 

We're exhausted, people. Give us a break. A smile. A pat on the back. We're being asked to do more than ever before with less than we've ever had. 

Stop bashing.

Or at the very least, follow a guideline I try very hard to instill in my 4th graders: If you can't say something nice, just please, don't say anything at all. 

Sweet, sweet, beautiful rain.

It poured and poured and rained and rained this week. For three days! It was such a blessing. I kept humming "How Great Thou Art" involuntarily. Rain does that to me. 

Grant had to play in the rain of course. Here he is just soaking it in. 

And here he is being crazy Grant.  

And here i am melting at his sweetness. 

Mushrooms. In July. In Texas. Crazy. 

I'm in love with this picture. 

64 seconds

I've been mentally writing this post for the last 2 months.  During nearly every run this post was internally verbalized bit by bit.
Some days it was a post celebrating victory.
Many times it was a post loaded with excuses.
Sometimes the mental post was a dramatic biography of myself beginning with my years as a clumsy gymnast to the girl who couldn't run a mile in gym class to the now runner who just killed it at her first half marathon.
And, now it's time to actually write this post. And, sadly, it's not exactly the post I hoped I'd be writing.

After I ran the Capitol 10k in Austin on April 7th, I started thinking about running a half marathon. I ran my best time in Austin that day, 55:16, and was feeling pretty good about running. I mentioned it to a few people and they all said I "could totally do it!" often followed by a comment about walking some of it if I had to.

But that wasn't at all what I wanted. If I was going to run a half marathon, I was going to run a half marathon.

So there was Goal Number 1. Run every step of my first half.

So I started running longer and harder. The weather was unbelievably perfect for running. A winter that just wouldn't give way to spring made for some perfect afternoon runs that I was now able to run consistently since my children are older. I was hitting all my training plan times in every run, whether it was tempo, speed work, or just a regular old easy run. So I decided to add another level to my first half marathon goal.

Goal Number 2: Run my first half marathon in under 2:15:00.

On April 27th, in perfect weather, on a perfect, primarily flat, there-and-back course, I ran the BunRun 10k in 52:05. In just three weeks I had knocked 3 minutes off my 10k PR. That day was one amazing day. I felt great about that time. I mean, GREAT. I know I've said this before, but in a world of gray successes and failures, the very black and white success of achieving a race goal is like nothing else. I felt like I could do anything that day. So, I plugged my 10k race time into my training plan app and my new projected half marathon finish time, with six weeks of training, 1:55:00.

Goal Number 3: Run my first half marathon in under 2:00:00

In April I ran just over 100 miles. And loved every mile. Like I said, the weather was perfect. By some miracle, every tempo run and speedwork day coincided with a freakishly cold day. I remember thinking for four weeks in a row, "Man! I'm sure glad I'm getting the most out of this last cold snap!" Only to be greeted by ideal running conditions the following week. April was the perfect running month.

And then came May.
Stupid May.
May was hot.
And I got slow. Real fast.
And Mason's baseball games hogged lots of my evenings. I couldn't run in the mornings because of school. To run six miles and be at work by 7:15 would mean running at 5am. at least. While I'm not afraid of that early of a wake up call, I am scared of running in the dark alone.

So I struggled in May. I started missing my tempo runs by little bits. I had to cut lots of runs short and missed several. And my speedwork days were tragic. But in the month of May I ran 131 miles. 131 hard long hot miles.

In May I also increased my long run distance to 12 miles. And they felt like eternities. I'd feel pretty good through about mile 10. But after mile 10, my legs, heart, lungs, brain, everything really really just hated running. Until I hit 12 miles and that sense of success somehow erases the misery.
And I would wonder why on earth I was such a whiny baby during those last few miles.
Only to be reminded again the next week.

I also had some issues with digestion during long runs. So I had to watch what I ate the day before really carefully. I discovered that chicken, oatmeal, and rice were my best choices. Ugh. But race day was itching closer and closer and I wanted to know exactly what to do during my race weekend.

April had made me feel invincible.
May defeated me.

My last 12 mile run before the race I finished in 1:55:38. But I had taken two short breaks so that wasn't even an accurate time. And when I finished I felt beaten. Done. No possible way i could have run another mile. And definitely no way I could have gone even faster. I'm not a running expert, but I don't think your long "easy" runs aren't supposed to feel that hard. I started to worry about making my goal.

But race weekend arrived, ready or not.

We all loaded up and headed to Fort Worth, plans of the zoo and a water park in the works. But, on Friday morning, Grant woke up with a high fever and a sore throat. A trip to a random doctor found on Yelp resulted in a strep throat diagnosis.

We basically spent the next two days in a hotel room with a poor sick little boy who didn't want to eat or drink anything. And no one was really sleeping all that well in our tiny hotel room.

But race morning arrived, ready or not.

I woke up at 5:15. Checked the weather. Yep, the predicted thunderstorm was most certainly coming straight for us. "Well, at least it won't be hot, " I thought optimistically.
Drink water.
Running shorts, sports bra, tank top, socks, shoes, armband for iphone, visor, ponytail.
Eat my oatmeal.
Drink more water.
By 6:15 I was headed for the race start, conveniently located right by our hotel.
About the time I got downstairs, it was pouring, thunder was rumbling and a crowd of runners were pacing the hotel lobby.
15 minute delay of start time.
Getting more nervous.
30 minute delay.
Too much time to wonder if I could do this.
1 hour delay.
Oh, come on! Let's just get this over with!

7:45 am - the race begins.

My race plan was to run the first 4 miles at a 9 minute-ish pace, the next for at an 8:45ish pace, and then just try to hang onto a 9:30 or less pace for the remaining five.

It was pretty heavy rain for the first 2 miles, and steady sprinkle for miles 3-6. And it had been raining all morning so the path was sometimes an ankle deep puddle. In minutes my shoes were water logged. Now, I don't know if you know this or not, but wet shoes are a bit heavier than dry shoes. Remember that when we come to the "but" section of this long post.

I was trying really hard not to go out too fast the first few miles. I knew the adrenaline would make me want to. I should have been at 18 minutes by mile 2. I was at 17:15. Oops. I slowed down a bit for the next two. I felt great. The course was beautiful, winding through forested areas, wide and flat. The atmosphere on the course was amazing, too. Lots of cheering and encouragement from the primarily military crowd.

The rain was pretty steady for the first six miles. There was one section of the course that was flooded so we had to be redirected up a hill and back down a hill. Not fun.

I felt really good for the first 7 miles or so. I was hitting my paces well, and felt tired but not too much so. The rain had stopped but it was still cool. Around mile 8 my back and lower stomach started to hurt pretty bad. I focused on my arm swing and started saying i-can-do-this in a very steady rhythm with every foot strike. But then I CAN do this started sounding a lot like I CAN'T do this. So I switched to a more neutral 1-2-3-4.

Everything started to go downhill around mile 9. I just felt exhausted. And I still had 4 miles to go! It truly felt impossible at this point. Really.

It was during this mile that I decided running half marathons was stupid and only stupid people do this and why was I out here in this stupid rain in these stupid wet shoes that are causing blisters on my stupid wet feet and this is stupid stupid stupid. I will never finish these next stupid four miles and I am not going to make my stupid goal and I hate stupid running because it's so stupid.

You get the picture.

I passed a water station. I heard a lady remark as I passed her, "man, she is really struggling." I wanted to scream, "Yep! Sure am! Got a problem with it?!" But I didn't.

So, during mile 10 with lead legs and a broken heart, I started saying, "Just 30 minutes, Jenny. Then you can stop moving. 30 minutes. That's nothing. You just have to run your hardest for 30 more minutes. thir-ty-min-utes. thir-ty-min-utes." I felt like I hit a decent pace. The back pain had subsided. I rounded the corner that would take me to the last 2 and half miles.

And met what I would like to call "The Great Wall of Wind".
Have I ever written how much I hate running against wind?
I hate it. Loathe it. It makes me spew words that I shouldn't say.
I hate wind.
And here it was, in all its 20 mph gusting glory, all but pushing me back down the course I had just fought so hard to cover.

I think that's when I knew. It just wasn't going to happen. I was exhausted. I wanted to walk. To stop. To crawl into a bed and never move again. To never run again. ever.

I hit mile 11 over pace. Fortunately, I had turned and was now running with the wind. That helped immensely. I fought to maintain a decent pace glancing at my watch every few minutes praying time had somehow stood still and I was gaining ground while not losing time.

Yeah, I wasn't.

I hit mile 12 at something like 1:52:00. And was going against the wind again.

I'm not going to lie. That hurt. I know, in the grand scheme of life, it's just a silly half marathon. It's not life or death. It's not like I was in the Olympics or something. It was just a small half marathon. But in that moment, it was a pretty big sense of failure. And, if it hadn't been my legs running it, I might read this and think, "Sheesh. Just run your hardest mile-point-one of your life and make the time." But my legs were done. And I did run my hardest mile ever. I ran the last full mile in 9:11. I'm really proud of that.

I rounded the final stretch and gave it everything I had till I crossed that finish line. Knowing I had missed my 2 hour mark, I didn't even look at my watch or stop my runkeeper thing. I knew it was around 2:02.

I crossed the finish line, they handed me my medal and a water bottle and I stopped moving for the first time in 2 hours.

ouch.

And then I smiled. Missed goal or not, I, Jenny Wilde, had finished a half marathon. All 13.1 miles. And I had run it in rain and wind and on a course I'd never seen. 13.1 miles. The longest run of my life in a pretty decent time.

About this time, the boys found me. They said they were inches from me cheering for me as I neared the finish line. I totally did not see them. They said I looked mad. I said I was. They said they were proud of me. I tried to agree.

I didn't make my goal. I did not finish under 2 hours. I finished in 2:01:03. 64 seconds that will bug me for a long while.

And now, the "but" section of the post.

I didn't make my goal, but...
I ran it in the rain. A condition I'm not used to that added quite a bit of weight to my shoes. In a world where a shoe a few ounces lighter than the other guy is its primary selling point, I really do think that hurt me.
The wind didn't help.
Not sleeping because of a sick child didn't help.
I'm going to believe that the rerouted hill I had to run up and down added distance and time. :)
Never running a half before left me unsure of how it would feel, how to pace, how to run.
It was my first half marathon, I ran every step of it, and finished strong.

By the time we were in the car returning to San Angelo, I was searching for another half to run. Partly because I cannot live with that PR time forever, but also because I don't run near as well when I don't have a race to train for. I need a goal.

And that brings me to the main reason I am proud of myself. In the 8 weeks I trained for my half, I didn't miss one workout because I just didn't feel like it. And don't get me wrong. There were lots of times I really didn't feel like running. But I did. I rearranged my day to allow for runs, ran in the dark, ran early, ran in 95 degree heat, ran in 40 mph gusting winds...When I did miss a run for reasons outside of my control, I tried to make it up, or throw in an extra mile here or there. I was determined! If I could make every part of my life as clear cut as a running goal, I'd be set!

I did not finish in under 2 hours, but I finished a half marathon.

And that's pretty amazing.

Sunshine

He's my son. mine. And I'm not talking flesh and blood. I'm talking soul. His brains. His heart. His insecurities. Him. The insides. 

He's my son. Now, don't get me wrong. He's got some of his dad, too. 

But he's mine. 

And never have I seen this so clearly as I have during this baseball season. 

Mason hasn't played ball in three years. He just didn't want to really. But this year, he asked to play and we very excitedly signed him up. We got the bat and gloves and cleats and uniform. We showed up to the first practice. 

And that's when we first saw it. 

That moment when a kid looks at everyone else and realizes he's not the best on the field. Realizes, in fact, he may be just shy of...the worst. Except it wasn't just a kid. It was my son.

Now, he wasn't all pouty and whiney about it. He didn't cry and beg not to play. He didn't even say he felt like he wasn't good...at first. But nothing he did was good enough. 

He could catch 12 balls and miss one. And all he remembered was the missed one. 

He could throw straight every time...except that one toss. That one stray throw caused the inner scowl I know all too well. 

And then there was batting. After one particular batting practice, he climbed into the car and I said, truthfully, "I think you did great!" 

Eyes full of self loathing and failure, he gritted out the words, "Mom. Three coaches. Three different coaches had to talk to me. About my stance and my swing and where to look and when to swing. I'm the worst batter on the team." 

You know, those are the moments of parenthood that hurt. That cut you to the core. I thought motherhood was tough when they skinned a knee or struggled with long division. But seeing my son, my son whose soul is wrapped in mine, whose every expression and mannerism is a mirror of the person I am, stare straight out the the car window and spit out the words, "I'm the worst..." 

It can kill a mother. 

Especially when that mother says that to herself all the time. 

If he had been crying, that would have helped. Maybe even thrown something, punched the dashboard, fallen into my arms and sobbed - I could have said he was just being irrational. He was just tired. But it was the steely, decided words that so clearly and distinctly marched from his lips that shook me. 

Because, you see, those words have clearly and distinctly marched from my lips a hundred times before. I felt it. I could feel his frustration pulsing through his veins. I could hear the thoughts of self doubt darting through his mind. And I could feel his heart crumpling under the weight of the ever more familiar feeling of simply not good enough. But worse than all of that, was that I knew the true thief of his smile. 

Comparison. 

You can't be the worst at something if you're not comparing yourself to others. You're simply bad. But to be the worst, to say you're the worst, is to look at those around you and decide you don't quite measure up. 

Comparison. The thief of joy.

And I know where my son has learned of this thief. 

Me. 

And that's why that conversation on the drive home from batting practice nearly killed me. At age 31, I still allow comparison to steal my joy. I still peer into the better managed classrooms of other teachers and feel like a failure. I still scroll through the blogs of other photographers and think I should just shut down Sprinkle of Grace. I still walk into the pristine homes of my friends and feel like I'll never be as good a homemaker as them. I struggle with comparison on a nearly daily basis. 

And here I was hearing my son say the word "worst" about himself at age 10. 

Obviously, I tried to convey that the coaches only worked with him so much because they saw so much potential, because he was a hard worker, because he was coachable. And obviously, these words fell on deaf ears. 

As the games and practices continued on, batting was his nemesis. He dreaded it. Fielding was fine. He still struggled some, but he understood where the play was, had a good arm on him, and was almost always in the right place at the right time. But batting... man, oh, man. 

The worst of it was last week, during a game, his team was down by 2 or so, 2 outs, and mason was up to bat. And suddenly, he was "sick." He told his coach he felt like throwing up. It was a hot game, he hadn't eaten dinner, and probably was a little icky. But really, I knew. He knew he'd strike out and he'd disappoint the team, again. I forced him to the plate. And by the grace of God, he actually got hit in the cleat by a ball and was able to take a base and even scored.  You know it's bad when you're actually relieved when your son gets hit by the ball.  

It's one thing if your child is bad at something and doesn't care. Mason thinks he's a terrible artist and couldn't care less. And that's fine with me. But when your child desperately wants to be great at something and just hasn't quite gotten there yet, it's just miserably hard. 

He started to dread games. Loved practices! Dreaded games. I'd catch his eye as he was getting his helmet and they said it all. "Not good enough. The worst. The only kid who hasn't had a hit." I watched his confidence crumble. I watched the thief steal his smile every time a team mate got a hit. 

So, tonight we had a game. For whatever reason, his team was on fire. Maybe it was the free dinner at 3 Parrots Taco they were promised if they won. I don't know. But every single kid was smacking it out of the park. Well, not really out of the park, but they were smacking it. 

Except Mason. He struck out twice. 

But then it happened. No outs and we were in the lead. It wasn't a high pressure situation. Mason was two batters away. I'm sure there is some baseball lingo for that but I'm hoping you all know what two batters away means. 

I caught his eye and he gave me that look. That "i'm the worst" look that literally breaks my heart. I'm not kidding. Breaks my heart.

 And so I prayed. I prayed, with eyes closed and lips silently moving. 

"Lord, I know it's just a silly baseball game. I know. And I know you've got a lot going on right now in Oklahoma. 

(I'm being serious. Literally prayed those exact words. I felt like one of those kids in movies kneeling beside their beds asking for a puppy for christmas or something.)

But, Lord, if you could please just let mason get a hit, just one little hit... please." 

When I opened my eyes, Grant was standing there doing the pee pee dance. 

Now, there's something you need to know about grant. If he's doing the pee pee dance, you gotta go. NOW. 

As I already said, Mason was two batters from batting so I literally grabbed grant and ran to the boy's bathroom. 

Now there's something else you need to know about Grant. He's not a fan of public restrooms. Especially the dark boy ones at the baseball fields. He won't go in alone. So then we ran to the other side for the girl's restroom so I could go in with him. Both stalls were full. So we ran back to the boys. He refused. We ran back to the girls. He goes in and the moment he emerges from the stall I yell, "Wash your hands." as I sprint back to the Mason's game... right as I hear the crowd roar, "MASON!" "WAY TO BUNT, MASON!" "WAY TO GO SUNSHINE!" 

I had missed it. But there was my son. On first base. Grinning ear to ear. And I saw it. I saw him change. In that one split second where the ball hit that unbelievably small bat, it happened. He changed from a "can't" to a "just did". He could hit the ball. He did hit the ball. He earned his base. 

And that moment right there, well, that moment can just about make up for all the glares and frustration and heartbreak. 

He made it all the way home along with several other teammates. They were up by 7. 

When they took the field for the last inning, he got to play short stop. He was still smiling. He even made a sarcastic comeback to a teammate who was reminding him what shortstops do. He was a completely different kid. 

 When the team gathered at the end of the game, Mason was chosen to lead the "1-2-3 Go Rangers!" cheer. Oh, and they call him Sunshine. I'm not sure why, really. But it's not because they're teasing. I think it's partly because of his name. If there's anything i've learned about baseball over the last three months it's that names get changed into all sorts of weird things. Blake to Blaker, Peyton to Paytie... One kid they even call Rooster. But regardless of why they call him Sunshine, the nickname makes him part of the team. And tonight, his smile lit up the field better than any sun ever could.

I don't know what the next three games hold. He may strike out every time. But tonight, Mason was snagged by the magic of baseball. That miraculous moment when the thing you thought was most impossible became possible.

He's my son. And unfortunately that means he may always struggle with the thief of comparison. But not today. Today he won.

He wasn't the best on the team and that didn't matter one single bit.

Because, tonight, he was the best he's ever been.

prayer run for boston

I've been running off and on for about 5 years now. I've always been somewhat hesitant to deem myself the official title of "runner" because I am slightly sporadic during most of the year. But as of Monday, I'm official.
I'm a runner.
I'll put the shoes on and I'll run every dang race I can get to.
Because I can.
I'll run in the hush of dawn and the peace of dusk.
I'll sprint up hills.
I'll dash through intervals.
Because I can.
I'll be fast.
I'll be slow.
Because I can.
I'll wear every racing bib with pride.
Because I can.

Yesterday, as I watched the coverage of the attack on the Boston Marathon, I cried. Yes, I cried because it was sad and horrible and awful. I cried because of the lives lost. I cried because it's just...wrong.
But you know why else I cried? Because of the triumph of the human spirit.
I cried when they showed footage of the heroes running towards the scene, not away. I cried when I heard that a website was set up with a list of names and numbers of people willing to drive people home, offering them a couch to sleep on, a meal to eat.  And I cried because I saw marathoners seconds after the first  bomb went off, still stride for the finish line! Runners don't stop. I cried when I saw that elderly gentleman get blown to the ground, shake it off, and still make it the finish line, because that chip timer is still ticking! I smiled through the tears at their dedication. And I can guarantee you that if those 4000 plus runners who didn't get to finish the marathon could come back next week and do it, they would. Runners don't stop.
 And I cried because for the first time in a long time, we were all Americans again. Patriots, if you will, standing together shaking a collective fist at an unknown enemy. At a time when all you hear about is how much everyone hates everyone, Monday reminded us that what unites us is far greater than what divides us.

And that brings me to the reason for this post. I can't fly to boston and...I don't even know what I would do if I could get there. I don't know what to do. And I think in situations like this we all want to do something. anything. Just so it doesn't feel so out of control.

So on Sunday morning, the day most runners hit the roads, I am doing my own Prayer Run for Boston. During my very slow 10 mile long run on Sunday I'll be praying every step of the way for the citizens of boston, the victims, the runners who were deprived of finishing, the survivors, the families...

I know it's not much. And I'm fairly certain no one in Boston will ever know or perhaps even care that a part time runner from a West Texas town hit the road in their honor, but I'm doing it.
Because I can.

and you can.
The morning of Sunday April 21st, before you put on your Sunday best, lace up your running shoes and hit the streets. Run, jog, walk, sprint, but most of all pray. Let's fill the streets, San Angelo, as we lift our fellow patriots up in prayer.