brushfire"This, yes, this, it was always like this." -Stanley Koehler
REFLECTIONS OF AN EMPTY NESTER
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One of my favorite New Yorker cartoons depicts a man sitting on a couch while a young child enters the living room brandishing a trophy larger than he is. “We lost!” reads the caption. It’s sure to draw a laugh because we all recognize the times we live in. Children nowadays, we’re told, expect a trophy just for showing up. But is that actually true? I can only vouch for my own experiences with three children competing in multiple sports over the years, from recreational league to college. Maybe at age 4 or 5, they received participation trophies, but all they cared about then were the snacks anyway. Once kids enter the realm of competitive sports, reality hits. Children as young as 8 try out for travel soccer teams. Not everyone makes the ‘A’ team and some are cut even from ‘C’ teams. In Little League baseball, only a select few are chosen for the All-Star game or tournament team. I remember hearing a story about tryouts for travel hockey. These boys were maybe 9. The coach read aloud the names of players to go into the locker room and players to remain on the ice. One group made the team; the other boys were told to go home. No participation trophies, to my knowledge, were handed out. Some kids mature faster than others and peak early, only to have their peers catch up or even surpass them. Others fall short of expectations or potential for a host of reasons. Moving on to high school, the talent pool often exceeds the number of spots. There are cuts in many sports even at the freshman level. Some kids make the team and sit on the bench, destined to be a sub rather than a starter. Many show up for practice every day, work hard, do everything the coach asks and still see little playing time. Athletics teach a lot of things — discipline, perseverance, dedication, teamwork, time management. These are great reasons to encourage your child to play sports. But if your goal is to build their self-esteem, you might want to pursue other avenues. Playing on an athletic team, in particular at the high school level, is as likely to humble your child as boost their confidence. What I learned as the parent of student-athletes is this: It’s not the wins and achievements that build character and resilience; it’s the tough moments. Getting cut from a team, sitting on the bench, losing a starting spot, getting yelled at by a coach, showing up for practice day after day even if you’re injured — these all take personal grit and fortitude. Your child may learn as much about leadership from cheering teammates on from the bench as they do from assuming the role as captain — and they certainly gain more lessons in sportsmanship from accepting a loss with grace than reveling in a victory. It’s not easy as a parent to stand on the sidelines and watch while your child faces disappointment or manages the intense pressures of competition. But in the long run, it’s worth it. Your kids’ memories of participating on a team — the pasta parties, spirit days, friendly rivalries and rituals passed down from team to team — will be part of the fabric of the ups and downs of their high school experiences and far exceed any number of trophies on their shelves. This appeared in the Aug. 30 issue of the Grosse Pointe News.
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When I was growing up, our next-door neighbor's dogs spent most of their day in a pen on the side of their house. And they barked. Nonstop. Two things my father did daily were work in his study and nap. Both his study and bedroom were on the side of the house closest to the barking dogs.
My father never complained to our neighbors. Not once. He took a long view of the situation: One day the dogs would die and in the meantime his friendship with the neighbors would remain untarnished. He was right. The friendship between our two families outlasted the dogs and continues to this day. In fact, our neighbors' son spoke at my father's memorial service and the wife, a registered nurse, was one of the reasons we felt comfortable with our mother remaining in the house after his death. She kept an eye on my mother and popped in regularly. A resident on my block — let's call him Stephen — could learn a few lessons from my father's example. Stephen recently initiated a kerfuffle over trash left in front of a house several days before pickup. The inhabitant of that house — let’s call her Susie — had moved out over the weekend, as was obvious from the SOLD sign in front of the house. We live directly next door and thought nothing of it. Even the city makes concessions for move-out situations, we discovered later. But apparently Stephen, who lives on the opposite side of the street many doors down, found the refuse objectionable enough to make a fuss on Facebook, publicly embarrassing not only Susie, who had rented the house, but the owners, longtime neighbors and good friends — let’s call them Mark and Alice — who had moved out of state a few years prior. Steven went so far as to compare the scene to a “Detroit-style eviction,” raising hackles with his coded language. I understand the importance of following rules for the benefit of the neighborhood as a whole and perhaps even reporting repeated violations. But I also believe in extending empathy and compassion when circumstances warrant it. This is where Stephen and I part ways. How do I know he didn’t care about Susie’s particular situation? Because he said so. When Alice told him, on Facebook, how hard Susie had worked to move out by the agreed-upon date, he replied, “I don’t care how hard she worked.” Eventually Susie called the city for a special trash removal, to the tune of $100. She offered, via Facebook, to cancel the pickup and donate the money instead to a charity of Stephen’s choosing in his name. He didn’t respond. The trash is long gone from the block, but what remains is the stench of mean spiritedness generated by the attitude and actions of one person. I suspect in time he'll capitalize in full on his shortsighted investment in ill will. In the meantime, I'll take the long view and give him what my father would have called a mental demerit. |
Mary Anne BrushJournalist, fiction writer, wife and mother |