CurrentMom

One Mompreneur's Story

Startup Sunday

Mompreneurs have it made: they have a career, a family and they manage to keep everything perfectly in sync.

Well, not really. Olympic gold medalist Gigi Fernandez knows how it difficult it is. Since the age of three, Fernandez yearned to play the sport she loved most, tennis. Even though her parents knew she had a talent for tennis, her eye and hand coordination skills were very good, her parents resisted her begging for lessons until age 7.

Path to the Olympics

Never feeling forced to love the sport, Fernandez says she saw playing as the greatest time. "I was having fun; I was hitting against the wall when I was three and started taking lessons at 7, both my parents were players and when they went to play, I would watch and play."

Fast forward to the 1992 Olympics and Fernandez became the first Puerto Rican female to win a gold medal. She won gold again in 1996. Her ambitions didn't end there, however.

The Penalty for Boys Who Don't Like Sports

Truth Tuesday

I have never shunned the idea of being a soccer mom. I’ve just never been given the opportunity to be one, mainly because my son doesn’t play soccer.

Or baseball, or football, or any other sport. And lately, that’s posed a problem.

My 8-year-old son recently finished a basketball camp, one he specifically wanted to attend. My husband and I were thrilled. Basketball has been the one sport our son has shown an interest in. My son knows he needs to practice more than others his age, but we always emphasize that it’s the effort that matters in sports – and we love to point out what a good defensive player he’s become.

The camp lasted only a week. We were encouraged by our son’s apparent enjoyment of it, so we asked if he was interested in signing up for another week at the end of summer.

He hemmed and hawed. We told him another week would give him more confidence on the court. He would improve his dribbling and shooting.

Fine, fine, he told us, I’ll do it because you’re begging me!

The answer surprised me.

And then, my son laid in with the confessions.

Not Your Everyday Baseball Story

Fatherhood Friday 

 After a lot of years of trying to make it work out, I finally saw a baseball game last week with my old friend, Ben. It might not sound so special, but it ranked right up there for me among special baseball memories. 

Ben's dad, a lifelong Chicago Cubs fan, passed away a number of years ago. As a way to honor his father and retain a special connection, every year on the anniversary of his father's death Ben catches the Cubs game, no matter where they are playing. As he put it, rather than being overwhelmed with sad feelings its actually a day he can look forward to, knowing that he'll feel extraordinarily close with his dad.

In recent year's this closeness has taken on a deeper meaning as Ben's daughter is now old enough to accompany him and his wife to these baseball games. Even though she never knew her grandfather you can still see a very special connection being formed.

Depending on where the game is being played, Ben and his family (and friends who are able to join him) are invited on to the field before the game. Other times, the scoreboard might welcome "Friends and Family of" Ben's father. While all that is greatly appreciated and contributes to warm memories, I get the sense that its extraneous to Ben's experience. For him, those three hours in the stadium are precious time that is carved out each year to spend with his father.

For years I've been hoping to join Ben for his annual outing, but something or another prevented it from happening. This year, when I found out the game would be in my new home town, I was incredibly excited to join Ben and his family. And I truly felt honored to be there. 

Our time was spent talking about baseball, catching up on family and friends, discussing jobs, etc. Nothing unusual. We talked a little about his father, but that wasn't the focus. It was enough to experience the connection - the almost spiritual space that Ben carves out each year.

It really was a privilege to be able to join Ben and his family, and I've already marked off the date for next year. And its not just because I got to go on the field for batting practice - though that was pretty cool too!

(Photo Credit - flickr.com/photos/ iacas/2747432863/)

Olympic Dreams, Perfectionism, and Parenting

Family Friday

Future Olympic gold medalist!  Few parental fantasies of children's future glory carry quite as much emotional weight.  Now that we parents have aged past such athletic endeavors ourselves, it's natural for the current Olympic fever to infect even the most level-headed parent.  As Petula Dvorak of the Washington Post noted, nothing drums up tears among us moms and dads more than the cheering parents in the stands waving their signs. 

I may represent the minority here, but I frequently cringe while watching the Olympics, especially with my kids.  And it's not the events, athletes, or cheering parents that bother me – it's the snide, often catty commentary, combined with an unhealthy dose of schadenfreude.  

Here you have some of the world's most amazing athletes performing almost unbelievable feats, yet the commentating focuses on tiny, nearly invisible errors.

"That did it – he lost the gold right there!"

"Oh no!  That triple toe loop became a double!  She just didn't bring it tonight, did she!" 

"I'm not sure what those costumes add, besides looking ridiculous."

"Oopsy-daisy!  Wow, what a catastrophe!"

"Look at the angle of that ankle there – he is out of the running for the gold now, and he'll be lucky to even make the top twelve."

"How devastating – to have trained for all those years, only to turn in a performance like that!"
and the worst interview question of all:

Lindsey Vonn, Title IX and Ugly Gym Suits

Sharing Saturday

I am bawling as I am watching now-Olympic gold medalist Lindsey Vonn win the women's downhill race. Until two weeks ago, when she graced the cover of my favorite brain candy, People Magazine, I had never heard of Lindsey. Now I'm cheering her on, secretly hoping that her German and Swiss rivals crash (the Swiss one did and now I feel guilty) and am eagerly waiting for NBC to show the medal ceremony so I can really wallow.

 Honestly, I don't really care about the Olympics. I never watched them as a child.  My parents were not at all interested in sports, and they sneered at anything that was so prosaic that millions of Americans would watch it on tv -- even the incredulous, other-worldly athletic ability on display at the Olympics.  So I had never given them much thought.

But I married a sports nut. And I am raising three children who are all interested in sports, both as players and as spectators. It's a foreign world for me, and it takes all strength not to allow my ingrained disdain for sports, especially televised sports, ruin my family's pleasure.

The thing that these Olympics are sending home for me, however, is my utter gratitude for Title IX. I was nine-years-old in 1972, the year that the Title IX was enacted, which stated that "No person in the United States shall, on the basis of sex, be excluded from participation in, be denied the benefits of, or be subjected to discrimination under any education program or activity receiving Federal financial assistance..." Up until that point, girls and sports were, for the most part, an afterthought, if not incompatable. And woefully underfunded. You had to be a real athlete to overcome the bias against women and girls in sports.

My memories of gym class in elementary school consist of standing in straight lines stepping sideways to the Alley Cat, and playing dodge ball, may it rest in peace. Junior high school was spent dreading gym days, when we were forced to don burgundy and white gym suits, complete with elastic waistbands separating the striped tops and the plain burgundy shorts, along with the lovely matching tube socks. I would pray for "that time of the month" (as the gym teachers called it) so that I could sit on the sidelines of rope climbing, basketball and the absolute nadir of my gym experience, softball, where Erin Maloney's ratted hair and cracking gum would mock me every time I was up at bat or tried to run. A forward-thinking high school thankfully offered me the opportunity to take only dance classes for my gym credits.