It's a rare rare Tuesday -- no baseball game for Abe tonight. No dinner with friends. No meetings about teen alcohol prevention, no science fairs or school concerts. No soccer practice or music rehearsal. And so we are home. Oscar is napping and I'm making dinner for the first time in over a week.
Ruby made fruit salad, cubing apples and oranges and bisecting tiny frozen blueberries till her fingers turned blue. She topped the salad with sliced almonds and divided it into two bowls - one for her and one for Abe. They sat at the breakfast table and chatted and made silly sounds while I scrubbed carrots for the stew.
Then Abe tuned the little toy guitar he got when he was two and handed it to Ruby. He picked up his own guitar and they strummed together, Abe stopping every couple minutes to reposition Ruby's still chubby fingers on the frets. And now they are playing a board game. Abe is explaining the rules to her in a fake British accent and she is giggling and hopping like a frog in the orange jumper that she's wearing with purple leggings and wool socks.
I love Abe's baseball games. I love the evening sun on my face and the cheering and chatting with friends in the stands. I love watching Ruby invent ball games with other siblings or wheel around on her scooter in the adjacent basketball court. I love how Oscar cheers for his favorite players on both teams, watches the umpires and keeps track of the count. I love rooting for Abe (who is playing with a cast on his wrist and somehow still contributing) and seeing the energy and excitement he brings to the game. I love it all.
But I do love a quiet afternoon at home, too.
Showing posts with label baseball. Show all posts
Showing posts with label baseball. Show all posts
Tuesday, May 3, 2011
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
To Not Have Him (Hopeful Parents)
Another month gone by and I haven't posted a darn thing here. As usual it is not that nothing has happened, it's that too MUCH has happened and that by the time I process one thing and start to write about it I either get interrupted or a new crisis erupts.
I will tell you that Abe broke his wrist playing baseball at a tournament and that when I saw him crouched on the field holding that limp wrist I jumped up and down on the clangy metal bleachers and screamed every swear word I know. Yep, I'm calm in a crisis. After a couple of nerve-wracking days of uncertainty over what was broken (or not) we landed with a most fabulous hand surgeon, who thankfully did not suggest surgery, but fashioned a beautiful cast with which Abe can still play baseball. I found myself jumping up and down on a different set of clangy metal bleachers a week later when he hit a single and a triple after switching back to righty hitting (after three games of lefty bunting he decided that just wasn't his thing) wearing the cast. It's amazing he can play at all, and believe me I asked the doctor fifteen different ways if he was sure he didn't risk further injury.
And I'll tell you that Oscar, that same weekend, performed so beautifully with the Latin American youth ensemble Los Mapaches, leading the group onto stage confidently playing bombo, a traditional drum made from wood and sheep's skin. He sang out earnestly, played zampona, and did his best with the dances. After the concert, a member of the adult Latin American music ensemble complimented Oscar on his bombo playing and all I could think was "he doesn't know!" That man doesn't know that Oscar has a disability and that he worked extra hard to learn that complex beat that might have come easier to someone else. He wasn't just being nice. (If he'd complimented Oscar's dancing I'd know he was just being nice). Oscar idolizes the adult musicians and just beamed up at him emitting a barely audible "thanks".
And I'll mention that Ruby's perseverance and stamina on the soccer field is astounding me. Before this season she liked soccer, but now she seems to love it and runs harder and longer than I thought she could. Some parents from her old preschool formed an all-girl team this season and she's so thrilled to be with her old buddies again twice a week. Last week, after playing for nearly 45 minutes without a goal, her team finally scored against a dominating squad. The girls, all just 5 and 6 years old, immediately rounded into a joyful celebratory circle, red sweaty cheeks pressed together, and laughed and whirled around. I got all teary-eyed as did my good friend B, not because her daughter scored the goal, but I think because like me she saw in that spontaneous celebration how our girls are already understanding perseverance and teamwork and friendship on such deep levels.
So that's a slice of our month.
Today is my day over at Hopeful Parents. I posted an essay I'm working (or should be working on) that I adapted from a blog post here a year or so ago.
I will tell you that Abe broke his wrist playing baseball at a tournament and that when I saw him crouched on the field holding that limp wrist I jumped up and down on the clangy metal bleachers and screamed every swear word I know. Yep, I'm calm in a crisis. After a couple of nerve-wracking days of uncertainty over what was broken (or not) we landed with a most fabulous hand surgeon, who thankfully did not suggest surgery, but fashioned a beautiful cast with which Abe can still play baseball. I found myself jumping up and down on a different set of clangy metal bleachers a week later when he hit a single and a triple after switching back to righty hitting (after three games of lefty bunting he decided that just wasn't his thing) wearing the cast. It's amazing he can play at all, and believe me I asked the doctor fifteen different ways if he was sure he didn't risk further injury.
And I'll tell you that Oscar, that same weekend, performed so beautifully with the Latin American youth ensemble Los Mapaches, leading the group onto stage confidently playing bombo, a traditional drum made from wood and sheep's skin. He sang out earnestly, played zampona, and did his best with the dances. After the concert, a member of the adult Latin American music ensemble complimented Oscar on his bombo playing and all I could think was "he doesn't know!" That man doesn't know that Oscar has a disability and that he worked extra hard to learn that complex beat that might have come easier to someone else. He wasn't just being nice. (If he'd complimented Oscar's dancing I'd know he was just being nice). Oscar idolizes the adult musicians and just beamed up at him emitting a barely audible "thanks".
And I'll mention that Ruby's perseverance and stamina on the soccer field is astounding me. Before this season she liked soccer, but now she seems to love it and runs harder and longer than I thought she could. Some parents from her old preschool formed an all-girl team this season and she's so thrilled to be with her old buddies again twice a week. Last week, after playing for nearly 45 minutes without a goal, her team finally scored against a dominating squad. The girls, all just 5 and 6 years old, immediately rounded into a joyful celebratory circle, red sweaty cheeks pressed together, and laughed and whirled around. I got all teary-eyed as did my good friend B, not because her daughter scored the goal, but I think because like me she saw in that spontaneous celebration how our girls are already understanding perseverance and teamwork and friendship on such deep levels.
So that's a slice of our month.
Today is my day over at Hopeful Parents. I posted an essay I'm working (or should be working on) that I adapted from a blog post here a year or so ago.
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
Baseball Season
It's baseball season again! The house is littered with aluminum bats, muddy cleats, white and gray polyester pants in three sizes, and long navy blue socks. I've spent hours entering five teams worth of practice and game times into my calendar. I'm team parent for two of those teams so I am also creating and updating rosters, assigning snack shack shifts, and communicating game and team photo times. So much work, and yet, it just feels right. Seven months without baseball was way too long.
Abe had practices and scrimmages almost every day last week and a tournament this past weekend. He tapes the rosters and schedules for his three teams to the kitchen door and marks his games on the family calendar. Ruby's first t-ball practice was Saturday morning and she showed up at breakfast in full uniform. Her pants, which are supposed to be knee length, reach her ankles and I had to cut a full foot off the bottom of her navy and white baseball t-shirt so that it didn't bunch once tucked in. She's especially excited about her new pink bat with the words Girls Rule emblazoned on the side.
Oscar is playing Single A again this year and has already had two practices. With Paul in Brazil last week I played the role of shadow -- keeping him focused and moving him from station to station where he's learning to properly throw, swing a bat, and field a grounder. I'm hardly the right woman for the job. I make a great team parent but I've never really played the game. Baseball is so hard for Oscar but he insists. I love his determination and so I do whatever I can to make it work, including learning to throw right alongside him.
The manager of Oscar's team is a close friend and Abe's travel team manager, as well as the manager of yet another team. D is awesome -- and I mean that in the full sense of the word. I am fully in awe of his ability to manage three baseball teams so thoughtfully and skillfully and still spend time considering how to coach Oscar and every other kid (while also managing his business and raising four kids of his own with his equally wonderful and busy wife). He requested that Oscar be on his team, and the commissioners who also know us happily honored that request. We were thrilled, because D is such a fantastic coach, because Oscar thinks the world of D, and because his daughter L, also on the team, has an energy and enthusiasm that just lights Oscar up.
We got double lucky (or is it triple?) in that Oscar's classmate and good friend Ben's little brother is also on the team and their dad, is also awesome. He helps out at practices too, as does Ben, who anticipates and quells Oscar's anxiety better than most of us.
With all these supports I guess it's not too big of a surprise that the practices actually went pretty well. Oscar still takes forever to find his grip on the ball before he throws it. He argues over the right height of the tee and how to follow through on his swing, but he's paying attention and trying. He makes contact when pitched to, he's more "in the group" than he was last year, and I even saw him move his body towards a ground ball. Whenever he gets stuck or seems resistant to an activity I put on my serious face and talk about how Major League Baseball players do these exact same drills, including hitting off a tee. He was skeptical, and I definitely saw tears brimming at the base of his dark lashes, but he proceeded to hit balls off that tee without a meltdown.
Even though we know a few of the other kids and families on this team, I decided to send an email last week about Oscar, to explain. I didn't do this last year, or the year before when Oscar played t-ball. I'm not sure why, though I am sure it has something to do with vulnerability and commitment and protection.
Here's the email:
Hi Mariner's Families!
I wanted to send out a quick email letting you know a little more about Oscar. As some of you may have noticed I've been shadowing Oscar at practice, and it is obviously not my baseball skills that drive me to do so. Oscar was born with a rare genetic disorder, Prader-Willi syndrome. PWS is a complicated disorder -- the hallmark of which is insatiable appetite. I know it's hard to believe since Oscar is rather thin, but his diet has been painstakingly managed since birth. On the field you'll notice Oscar's reactions and processing are quite a bit slower than a typical kid. It just takes him longer to do everything. He also stutters, perseverates and has some anxiety. I'd feel remiss if I didn't also add my (clearly unbiased) opinion that he is also an endearing and awesome kiddo that works so hard at everything he does. Baseball is challenging for him but HE LOVES IT. This is his second year in single A and he is so proud to be a Mariner.
Paul (my husband) or I will be with Oscar at practices and games just to make sure that his extra needs don't get in the way of other kids getting the coaching and play they come out for. Coach D (L's dad) and D (F's dad) have also both known Oscar for years.
We are happy to answer any questions you or your child may have about Oscar. We talk about PWS a lot and are very comfortable with anything that comes up. We also feel like kids are so understanding when difference is acknowledged. If your child has questions, here are a few things we often say with younger children -- Oscar was born with very weak muscles and he's worked hard to get stronger. Also, sometimes it takes longer for words to get from Oscar's ears to his brain and then back to his muscles (slow processing and reaction times). Oscar's brain gets stuck on an idea and it's hard for him to stop thinking about it (perseverating). And regarding food, Oscar's body doesn't know when he's full so his parents always give him the right amount of food to keep him healthy and strong. (insatiable appetite)
The only thing we really ask, for Oscar's safety, is that he never be offered or given food. We'll always be around too, of course.
Ok, in the end, not a quick email... Anyway, we're really excited about this team and look forward to a fun season!
Go Mariners!
Mary (and Paul, Abe, Oscar, Ruby)
My email set off a flurry of other emails. One from coach D to the team saying wonderful things about our family and Oscar, and Oscar's love of the game. I was really touched, and had that feeling I get sometimes that we have a whole army of supporters. I got several other emails, including one from another dad who coached Oscar as a t-baller. He said that he remembers Oscar's determination and success with hitting and that he was such a pleasure to coach. (I remember only my sleepy kid on the bench waiting for his turn to bat and my spacey kid sitting in the dirt at 2nd base watching balls go by...). The other Mariners' coach emailed to say what a great kid Oscar is and how glad he is that Oscar is out there doing what he so clearly loves. And finally, I got an email from a mom saying she's so happy her son is on Oscar's team, "literally and figuratively". Talk about getting it.
The point of this post, if I can finally get to it after so much rambling, is that I truly believe in giving people the information they need to interact with your kid with special needs. Over and over again, at school, at camp, and now at baseball, I am often initially hesitant to share but when I do I am stunned at the compassionate and thoughtful responses, first from the adults and then from the kids as they get to know Oscar and are supported by their parents, teachers, and coaches in understanding O's struggles.
It is hard to put myself "out there" in an email to people I've never met. Not because I am a particularly private person -- if you know me you know I am not -- but because it is hard to turn all of the attention onto our family. I feel bad clogging up strangers' inboxes. I question whether people want the full story. Perhaps I don't want to bias people against Oscar before they've actually met him. And yet, when I do share, the attention we get is the perfect kind. People in our community seem to be genuinely glad we are here and that Oscar is out in the world insisting on doing what he loves (baseball, clay class, Los Mapaches, zoo camp). And they genuinely like having the information so that they can help Oscar be successful too.
And so begins baseball season. Three very happy children and one grateful and busy mama.
Go Raptors! Go Mariners! Go Braves! Go Thunder! Go Cobras!
Abe had practices and scrimmages almost every day last week and a tournament this past weekend. He tapes the rosters and schedules for his three teams to the kitchen door and marks his games on the family calendar. Ruby's first t-ball practice was Saturday morning and she showed up at breakfast in full uniform. Her pants, which are supposed to be knee length, reach her ankles and I had to cut a full foot off the bottom of her navy and white baseball t-shirt so that it didn't bunch once tucked in. She's especially excited about her new pink bat with the words Girls Rule emblazoned on the side.
The manager of Oscar's team is a close friend and Abe's travel team manager, as well as the manager of yet another team. D is awesome -- and I mean that in the full sense of the word. I am fully in awe of his ability to manage three baseball teams so thoughtfully and skillfully and still spend time considering how to coach Oscar and every other kid (while also managing his business and raising four kids of his own with his equally wonderful and busy wife). He requested that Oscar be on his team, and the commissioners who also know us happily honored that request. We were thrilled, because D is such a fantastic coach, because Oscar thinks the world of D, and because his daughter L, also on the team, has an energy and enthusiasm that just lights Oscar up.
We got double lucky (or is it triple?) in that Oscar's classmate and good friend Ben's little brother is also on the team and their dad, is also awesome. He helps out at practices too, as does Ben, who anticipates and quells Oscar's anxiety better than most of us.
With all these supports I guess it's not too big of a surprise that the practices actually went pretty well. Oscar still takes forever to find his grip on the ball before he throws it. He argues over the right height of the tee and how to follow through on his swing, but he's paying attention and trying. He makes contact when pitched to, he's more "in the group" than he was last year, and I even saw him move his body towards a ground ball. Whenever he gets stuck or seems resistant to an activity I put on my serious face and talk about how Major League Baseball players do these exact same drills, including hitting off a tee. He was skeptical, and I definitely saw tears brimming at the base of his dark lashes, but he proceeded to hit balls off that tee without a meltdown.
Even though we know a few of the other kids and families on this team, I decided to send an email last week about Oscar, to explain. I didn't do this last year, or the year before when Oscar played t-ball. I'm not sure why, though I am sure it has something to do with vulnerability and commitment and protection.
Here's the email:
Hi Mariner's Families!
I wanted to send out a quick email letting you know a little more about Oscar. As some of you may have noticed I've been shadowing Oscar at practice, and it is obviously not my baseball skills that drive me to do so. Oscar was born with a rare genetic disorder, Prader-Willi syndrome. PWS is a complicated disorder -- the hallmark of which is insatiable appetite. I know it's hard to believe since Oscar is rather thin, but his diet has been painstakingly managed since birth. On the field you'll notice Oscar's reactions and processing are quite a bit slower than a typical kid. It just takes him longer to do everything. He also stutters, perseverates and has some anxiety. I'd feel remiss if I didn't also add my (clearly unbiased) opinion that he is also an endearing and awesome kiddo that works so hard at everything he does. Baseball is challenging for him but HE LOVES IT. This is his second year in single A and he is so proud to be a Mariner.
Paul (my husband) or I will be with Oscar at practices and games just to make sure that his extra needs don't get in the way of other kids getting the coaching and play they come out for. Coach D (L's dad) and D (F's dad) have also both known Oscar for years.
We are happy to answer any questions you or your child may have about Oscar. We talk about PWS a lot and are very comfortable with anything that comes up. We also feel like kids are so understanding when difference is acknowledged. If your child has questions, here are a few things we often say with younger children -- Oscar was born with very weak muscles and he's worked hard to get stronger. Also, sometimes it takes longer for words to get from Oscar's ears to his brain and then back to his muscles (slow processing and reaction times). Oscar's brain gets stuck on an idea and it's hard for him to stop thinking about it (perseverating). And regarding food, Oscar's body doesn't know when he's full so his parents always give him the right amount of food to keep him healthy and strong. (insatiable appetite)
The only thing we really ask, for Oscar's safety, is that he never be offered or given food. We'll always be around too, of course.
Ok, in the end, not a quick email... Anyway, we're really excited about this team and look forward to a fun season!
Go Mariners!
Mary (and Paul, Abe, Oscar, Ruby)
My email set off a flurry of other emails. One from coach D to the team saying wonderful things about our family and Oscar, and Oscar's love of the game. I was really touched, and had that feeling I get sometimes that we have a whole army of supporters. I got several other emails, including one from another dad who coached Oscar as a t-baller. He said that he remembers Oscar's determination and success with hitting and that he was such a pleasure to coach. (I remember only my sleepy kid on the bench waiting for his turn to bat and my spacey kid sitting in the dirt at 2nd base watching balls go by...). The other Mariners' coach emailed to say what a great kid Oscar is and how glad he is that Oscar is out there doing what he so clearly loves. And finally, I got an email from a mom saying she's so happy her son is on Oscar's team, "literally and figuratively". Talk about getting it.
The point of this post, if I can finally get to it after so much rambling, is that I truly believe in giving people the information they need to interact with your kid with special needs. Over and over again, at school, at camp, and now at baseball, I am often initially hesitant to share but when I do I am stunned at the compassionate and thoughtful responses, first from the adults and then from the kids as they get to know Oscar and are supported by their parents, teachers, and coaches in understanding O's struggles.
It is hard to put myself "out there" in an email to people I've never met. Not because I am a particularly private person -- if you know me you know I am not -- but because it is hard to turn all of the attention onto our family. I feel bad clogging up strangers' inboxes. I question whether people want the full story. Perhaps I don't want to bias people against Oscar before they've actually met him. And yet, when I do share, the attention we get is the perfect kind. People in our community seem to be genuinely glad we are here and that Oscar is out in the world insisting on doing what he loves (baseball, clay class, Los Mapaches, zoo camp). And they genuinely like having the information so that they can help Oscar be successful too.
And so begins baseball season. Three very happy children and one grateful and busy mama.
Go Raptors! Go Mariners! Go Braves! Go Thunder! Go Cobras!
Sunday, July 26, 2009
Baseball Fever
It would be perfectly understandable, after five baseball tournaments and never progressing past the semi-finals, if Abe started to get discouraged. He's been playing baseball nonstop since February, first with his regular league team, and then this summer with All Stars, and now with his tournament team, the Thunder. We're at tournaments most weekends, and some weekdays too. And when they don't have games, they're practicing, up to three times a week. More for Abe if you count the two weeks of baseball camp and a couple of extra private sessions. They've won games, many games, but they've never won it all. Despite all the hard work, the excellent coaching, and the deep pool of talent, they seem to always lose in the semis.
Today, though, I witnessed something really hopeful, something way more important than getting to the finals. Something I'd been waiting to see. The Thunder came back from being down 1-3 to tie the game and then win 4-3 with a walk-off single in the bottom of the sixth. I was so proud of them all, and their perseverance. It would be so easy at age 10 or 11 to get discouraged when you're down by a few runs. But today they stuck with it, battled hard, and won the game that deservedly landed them in the semis. I jumped up and down on the metal bleachers, screaming "I'm so proud of you THUNDER! Way to stick with it". I'm pretty sure Abe was too busy celebrating with his team to notice his kooky mom. At least I hope.
Abe didn't hit well this weekend. I didn't keep close track, but he did of course. "Four pop-ups today, Mom" he said as we got in the car. "All I needed was a ground-out (his specialty) to bring in a run, but I couldn't even do that." I reminded him that last week he was striking out a lot and that he didn't strike out once this weekend. He battled up there, forcing the pitchers to throw him a lot of pitches. Sometimes runners even advanced. And he really excelled at catcher in his first full-running tournament. But he's not satisfied.
Let me be clear --while he's not happy about his hitting, he's neither tired nor discouraged. If anything he's even more motivated. His first words, upon leaving the dugout after the 9-1 loss in the semis, were "Can we please go to the batting cages? I really want to work on my hitting." He was enthusiastic, almost cheerful, despite the loss not 10 minutes earlier.
And tonight, after returning from a marathon wii baseball tournament with friends, he walked in the front door and immediately asked Paul to throw him some wiffles in the backyard.
He's in a great mood, full from all the baseball (the wins and the losses) and fun times with great teammates. No, he's not discouraged...he just wants to get back out there and play.
Even as I type, he's standing in the living room throwing phantom pitches, and demonstrating the full concept of a "balk" to Paul. And I just heard them make a plan to hit the batting cages at 7:30am tomorrow. Abe's not an early riser, so this is serious.
I was talking with another parent this week about how baseball is really a metaphor for life. Whether they win or they lose, these kids are learning so much about working hard at something they love, about learning from and then letting go of mistakes, about supporting a teammate in a slump or in a streak, and about respect for their coaches, the umps and their opponents. I never played on a team as a kid, but I think if I had I wouldn't have been so afraid to mess up every once in a while. I might have learned to persevere even if I wasn't particularly good, just because I loved it. Abe is good, but what matters even more to me is that he loves this game and he keeps asking for more opportunities to play.
I'm afraid to break it to him that he starts basketball camp tomorrow.
Friday, May 29, 2009
No time like the present...
I'm excited and nervous! I decided to sign up for an online summer writing class called Mother Words with Kate Hopper. "No time like the present", Paul said, when I asked his opinion.
Am I nuts? The summer is full of baseball, swimming lessons, more baseball, zoo camp, baseball tournaments, a few visitors and more baseball. So, yes, Abe will be playing A LOT of baseball this summer. I love it -- I love the kids' excitement, their hard work, their camaraderie, coaches, the families, and, of course, the games. It's a great community for our whole family. I don't want to miss a second of it.
But still, I'm going to distract myself slightly from all that baseball and also take a writing class. Have I ever mentioned that I have absolutely no writing training? Well...unless you include that time Senior year in High School, where I somehow got chosen to compete in a county-wide writing contest. In the van on the way over to the school where the competition was taking place the smart kid English teacher (not my teacher) gave us some general guidelines. "Use lots of sensory details and imagery", he said. So, I did. I remember the adrenaline rush and sitting on my knees as I crafted my piece. It was a fiction piece and it unfolded in my head faster than I could put it on paper. The experience was almost magical -- and I came in 2nd place! (The girl who won, for the record, supposedly won every competition, and is probably a very famous writer now). That was my shining moment. But that was 1986.
I don't care though. I've been wanting to write for a long time. I might as well learn HOW.
Am I nuts? The summer is full of baseball, swimming lessons, more baseball, zoo camp, baseball tournaments, a few visitors and more baseball. So, yes, Abe will be playing A LOT of baseball this summer. I love it -- I love the kids' excitement, their hard work, their camaraderie, coaches, the families, and, of course, the games. It's a great community for our whole family. I don't want to miss a second of it.
But still, I'm going to distract myself slightly from all that baseball and also take a writing class. Have I ever mentioned that I have absolutely no writing training? Well...unless you include that time Senior year in High School, where I somehow got chosen to compete in a county-wide writing contest. In the van on the way over to the school where the competition was taking place the smart kid English teacher (not my teacher) gave us some general guidelines. "Use lots of sensory details and imagery", he said. So, I did. I remember the adrenaline rush and sitting on my knees as I crafted my piece. It was a fiction piece and it unfolded in my head faster than I could put it on paper. The experience was almost magical -- and I came in 2nd place! (The girl who won, for the record, supposedly won every competition, and is probably a very famous writer now). That was my shining moment. But that was 1986.
I don't care though. I've been wanting to write for a long time. I might as well learn HOW.
Saturday, March 21, 2009
A Good Day Afterall
The rain never came. I did keep looking at those dark gray skies, begging them to open wide and save us, but all we got were some occasional sprinkles. And yet, it still turned out ok, better than ok... it was a really good day at the ballpark.Oscar got on base three of the four times he was up to bat. (It helps that the coaches pitch in Single A and it turns out that there are no strikeouts.) On his first at-bat he hit the ball solidly to short on the 3rd pitch and made it to first with time to spare. We were stunned. On his second at-bat, it took quite a few more pitches but he finally made contact. He was out before he could make it to first, but he didn't know and kept going till he reached the base. He took the news well, though, and trudged solemnly back to the bench. A teammate met him partway and gave him the special Blue Jay's handshake. That's when I teared up. No arguing, no "private conversations". A whole lot of respect for the rules of the game. Comforted by a teammate. Wow.
Defense was a little trickier. Oscar played third base in the first inning. Paul stayed nearby on the sidelines, coaching him along. He watched all the balls go by, but he watched all the balls go by. He was down and ready at every pitch, and managed to sometimes get his foot on base when a runner was heading his way. Paul helped him orient his body so he could keep that foot on and still look for the throw. He was starting to look like he understood, and he was definitely focused.
I didn't see the whole game -- Abe's game was on the adjacent field so Ruby and I were moving back and forth. Paul said Oscar started to lose steam around the 4th inning, but he hung in there! When the game was over I asked Oscar how it went. He grinned wide and said,
"It was a challenge, mom. Yeah, it was hard and fun. It was a real mix of all of those three things -- challenging, hard and fun!"
He was practically bouncing down the sidewalk as we were talking. If you know Oscar, you know he doesn't bounce, but that is how happy he was. I'm so proud of that kid and his wonderful spirit. Keep it up Oscar, keep it up!
It's Not Raining Yet
Lots of ominous gray clouds here in Berkeley, but no rain yet.
Here are my boys off to their first games of the 2009 season.
Go Rays! Go Jays!
Play Ball?????
Last Saturday's baseball practice did not go well. Paul called me from the field about 45 minutes in and I think his exact words were "This is a DISASTER". Oscar was having a terrible time catching the ball, among other things. Honestly, I don't think his fingers are strong enough to close a mitt (slight problem). The coaches gave him a tennis ball to work with (great idea!) but then Paul accidentally bonked Oscar on the chin with it. As in, Paul lightly tossed the ball and Oscar didn't try to catch it or protect himself. When Paul called me, Oscar had retreated to behind the backstop and was having a "private conversation".
Oscar has a lot of private conversations. Generally, I think they are a good thing. He gets really upset and stomps off to a quiet space to argue his point about why we are all wrong and he is right. I've spied on him a few times and I see lots of hand gestures and overhear "See!?" and "I'm right!" and "You don't know!" In his private conversations he gets to create an alternate reality and he wins the argument. When he returns, he is often tired, but calm and resolved. Most private conversations happen in his bed and we usually just go about our day not paying too much attention.
It's a little trickier when the private conversation happens in public. It's just not exactly "private". If we try to talk him down the situation just escalates - more stomping, yelling and pulling away. If we ignore him...well, it can be a little uncomfortable that your kid is freaking out, yelling at an imaginary person while you stand by trying to look bored. I'm ok with it. But I completely understand why Paul called me in that moment. Shame, exasperation, desperation.
The coaches noticed of course and inquired. I'd sent them a big email about Oscar before the first practice, ending it with a cheerful "but don't worry, one of us will always be there...".
Oscar rallied eventually. Paul had been thinking of just putting him the car and heading home, but I disagreed. "Remind him how much he wants to be on this team. Remind him of his promise to work hard and not give up". It worked, but both Paul and Oscar looked exhausted when they got home.
I couldn't believe there was practice again on Monday. Paul had planned to be there at the start but got stuck in a meeting so I was down at the field with a super cranky Ruby waiting for him to show. Ruby didn't want to get out of the car, so I backed the car into the space so that we could look directly onto the field. I could keep an eye on Oscar while staying with Ruby in the car. Practice started off ok with running laps. Oscar was slow, and kids were passing him, but he was trying hard and looking happy. A few minutes later Oscar was warming up with one of the three incredibly patient coaches. She would toss a ball to him and he would try to catch it. And then he would take no less than a full minute to position the ball in his hand (gotta line up those stitches just right!) before he would throw it back. I never saw her flinch. She just stood there waiting. If it had been me, I would have been frustrated and trying all of my tricks to get him to move through it faster. A game perhaps -- pretend the ball is made of fire and you have to get it out of your hands quickly. But from my front row seat in the car there was no way to communicate. I could only watch. And I was so grateful for her patience.
As the minutes slowly ticked by, and Paul still hadn't arrived, I really tried not to watch anymore. The kids had moved into the field for fly ball practice. One coach popped balls up from home plate while the kids tried to catch them. They placed Oscar in the pitcher position, but he kept turning around, looking away from home plate. He was looking at the other kids to see what they were doing, but also at me, in the car. I think it was really really hard for him and he needed someone to tell him what to do. I turned around, toward the back of the car and Ruby, hoping that he would go back to concentrating on practice. But he didn't. He just kept looking towards the other kids, towards the car, towards me, lost. It was painful, but I was stuck...no way to get on the field with Ruby in tow. I really needed Paul.
Paul arrived what seemed like an eternity later, but he was only 1/2 hour late. He sat on the bleachers for a minute assessing the situation, but it was clear almost immediately that he needed, in his words, to "get in the game". Oscar needs the 1:1 support of someone telling him what to do out there, and still it is a huge challenge. We probably shouldn't have let him talk us into this. It is just too hard.
Today is opening day. The Blue Jays play the Mariners at 3pm. Oscar is anxious - we know because he's collecting all the pieces of his uniform and every few minutes he'll ask a question or offer a concern. He's lost the pre-season excitement he had just a week ago. His eyes reflect his own uncertainty, or maybe he's mirroring mine. I'm not worried about him bobbling the ball or striking out (that's bound to happen), but I am worried about him feeling defeated and lost. I'm worried that if we have to withdraw him, for his safety and sanity, that it will be a bigger blow than if we hadn't tried at all.
Maybe it will rain.
Oscar has a lot of private conversations. Generally, I think they are a good thing. He gets really upset and stomps off to a quiet space to argue his point about why we are all wrong and he is right. I've spied on him a few times and I see lots of hand gestures and overhear "See!?" and "I'm right!" and "You don't know!" In his private conversations he gets to create an alternate reality and he wins the argument. When he returns, he is often tired, but calm and resolved. Most private conversations happen in his bed and we usually just go about our day not paying too much attention.
It's a little trickier when the private conversation happens in public. It's just not exactly "private". If we try to talk him down the situation just escalates - more stomping, yelling and pulling away. If we ignore him...well, it can be a little uncomfortable that your kid is freaking out, yelling at an imaginary person while you stand by trying to look bored. I'm ok with it. But I completely understand why Paul called me in that moment. Shame, exasperation, desperation.
The coaches noticed of course and inquired. I'd sent them a big email about Oscar before the first practice, ending it with a cheerful "but don't worry, one of us will always be there...".
Oscar rallied eventually. Paul had been thinking of just putting him the car and heading home, but I disagreed. "Remind him how much he wants to be on this team. Remind him of his promise to work hard and not give up". It worked, but both Paul and Oscar looked exhausted when they got home.
I couldn't believe there was practice again on Monday. Paul had planned to be there at the start but got stuck in a meeting so I was down at the field with a super cranky Ruby waiting for him to show. Ruby didn't want to get out of the car, so I backed the car into the space so that we could look directly onto the field. I could keep an eye on Oscar while staying with Ruby in the car. Practice started off ok with running laps. Oscar was slow, and kids were passing him, but he was trying hard and looking happy. A few minutes later Oscar was warming up with one of the three incredibly patient coaches. She would toss a ball to him and he would try to catch it. And then he would take no less than a full minute to position the ball in his hand (gotta line up those stitches just right!) before he would throw it back. I never saw her flinch. She just stood there waiting. If it had been me, I would have been frustrated and trying all of my tricks to get him to move through it faster. A game perhaps -- pretend the ball is made of fire and you have to get it out of your hands quickly. But from my front row seat in the car there was no way to communicate. I could only watch. And I was so grateful for her patience.
As the minutes slowly ticked by, and Paul still hadn't arrived, I really tried not to watch anymore. The kids had moved into the field for fly ball practice. One coach popped balls up from home plate while the kids tried to catch them. They placed Oscar in the pitcher position, but he kept turning around, looking away from home plate. He was looking at the other kids to see what they were doing, but also at me, in the car. I think it was really really hard for him and he needed someone to tell him what to do. I turned around, toward the back of the car and Ruby, hoping that he would go back to concentrating on practice. But he didn't. He just kept looking towards the other kids, towards the car, towards me, lost. It was painful, but I was stuck...no way to get on the field with Ruby in tow. I really needed Paul.
Paul arrived what seemed like an eternity later, but he was only 1/2 hour late. He sat on the bleachers for a minute assessing the situation, but it was clear almost immediately that he needed, in his words, to "get in the game". Oscar needs the 1:1 support of someone telling him what to do out there, and still it is a huge challenge. We probably shouldn't have let him talk us into this. It is just too hard.
Today is opening day. The Blue Jays play the Mariners at 3pm. Oscar is anxious - we know because he's collecting all the pieces of his uniform and every few minutes he'll ask a question or offer a concern. He's lost the pre-season excitement he had just a week ago. His eyes reflect his own uncertainty, or maybe he's mirroring mine. I'm not worried about him bobbling the ball or striking out (that's bound to happen), but I am worried about him feeling defeated and lost. I'm worried that if we have to withdraw him, for his safety and sanity, that it will be a bigger blow than if we hadn't tried at all.
Maybe it will rain.
Sunday, March 15, 2009
Play Ball!
Oscar's first day of Little League practice was Thursday. He's playing Single A, on a team with typical kids a year or so younger. We're just a tad nervous...he can't catch, his throws come with a lot of effort and not too much accuracy or speed. His timing on hitting is waaay off. He's been know to argue or cry when he is out. And last year, in t-ball, he spent a good portion of every game crouched down by second base playing in the dirt. He rarely saw a ball coming his way, and I'm surprised one never hit him. So yes, we're nervous.
I tried to switch Oscar to the Challenger league -- to the baseball team for kids ages 5-19 with all types of disabilities. I thought it would be a better match. But he was adamant -- his heart was set on Single A. He wants to play on the same fields as his brother, as his friends. He's been sitting in the stands, watching, for years, and now he wants his turn and it has to be the full Albany Little League experience. He is clear.
For the first time ever I tried to talk Oscar out of something because it might be too challenging. Usually if he wants to do something I jump aboard and figure out a way to support him. This time, though, I told him frankly that he'd have to really listen to his coaches, that he couldn't argue the calls, that he couldn't "opt out" of activities, that he'd have to practice, that he'd have to be a good teammate, and that he might not always get on base. I didn't tell him he couldn't play Single A, but I felt like I had to be honest and let him know this one could be a real challenge.
We don't talk about his disability too much. We talk about abilities and strengths. And of course we all have things we are working on. I don't ever say "You can't because you have Prader-Willi syndrome". But I sort of did say that when I told him all the hard parts about playing Single A, didn't I?
When I was done, he looked me straight in the eye with more resolve and wisdom than I'd ever dreamed he'd have and said:
"Mom, I'm up for it. I can do it, I know I can."
He understood my concern, and was telling me that he was going to work past his disability on this one. I was so proud of his fighting spirit...that flame we've seen burning in there since birth. Of course I said yes.
Still, I was sort of jittery and nervous on Thursday. Paul stayed down at the field with him "to facilitate". When I left, the kids were all lined up playing catch with a partner. Oscar's partner was one of the coaches and Oscar wasn't catching any of the tosses. I didn't care about that...I was just so proud of how hard he was trying.
One of the coaches emailed this picture Thursday evening. He took pictures of all the kids running the bases so it took me a minute to see that this one was Oscar. I still can't believe that's my kid --he looks like he might even have a little speed.
Go Blue Jays!
I tried to switch Oscar to the Challenger league -- to the baseball team for kids ages 5-19 with all types of disabilities. I thought it would be a better match. But he was adamant -- his heart was set on Single A. He wants to play on the same fields as his brother, as his friends. He's been sitting in the stands, watching, for years, and now he wants his turn and it has to be the full Albany Little League experience. He is clear.
For the first time ever I tried to talk Oscar out of something because it might be too challenging. Usually if he wants to do something I jump aboard and figure out a way to support him. This time, though, I told him frankly that he'd have to really listen to his coaches, that he couldn't argue the calls, that he couldn't "opt out" of activities, that he'd have to practice, that he'd have to be a good teammate, and that he might not always get on base. I didn't tell him he couldn't play Single A, but I felt like I had to be honest and let him know this one could be a real challenge.
We don't talk about his disability too much. We talk about abilities and strengths. And of course we all have things we are working on. I don't ever say "You can't because you have Prader-Willi syndrome". But I sort of did say that when I told him all the hard parts about playing Single A, didn't I?
When I was done, he looked me straight in the eye with more resolve and wisdom than I'd ever dreamed he'd have and said:
"Mom, I'm up for it. I can do it, I know I can."
He understood my concern, and was telling me that he was going to work past his disability on this one. I was so proud of his fighting spirit...that flame we've seen burning in there since birth. Of course I said yes.
Still, I was sort of jittery and nervous on Thursday. Paul stayed down at the field with him "to facilitate". When I left, the kids were all lined up playing catch with a partner. Oscar's partner was one of the coaches and Oscar wasn't catching any of the tosses. I didn't care about that...I was just so proud of how hard he was trying.
One of the coaches emailed this picture Thursday evening. He took pictures of all the kids running the bases so it took me a minute to see that this one was Oscar. I still can't believe that's my kid --he looks like he might even have a little speed.
Go Blue Jays!
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