My six-year-old son, Sweet Potato, is continuing his contract with the Super T-Ball team known as The Poisonous Lizards. My husband, Mr. Baseball, is enjoying his role as a baseball dad and coach's assistant. Progress is evident in all areas, most notably with putting his mitt on the right hand 75% of the time. Now that is an IEP goal in the making, note to self. But enough of the OT jargon.
Sweet Potato is learning baseball terminology. He knows that there are bases, however, when his coach told him to stand by the bag, he couldn't find an actual bag so he sat down instead. His coach instructed him, "SP, play second base," SP hustled out to the base, looking ready. He literally stood upon the bag, with both feet. This was impressive because he was not sitting or twirling, however, the kiddo running from first to second had trouble finding the bag. He didn't know what to do and skidded to a stop a few feet away from the base and looked puzzled. SP was sent to another position.
When it was SP's turn to bat, he is becoming more adept at hitting the ball. He rounded first, skipped second and headed to third. "Touch the base!" commanded the coach. SP ran back and leaned over and tapped the base using his hand instead of his foot. The next player made a hit. "Run home!" urged the coach.
"Which one?" Asked SP. "My real home o 'that' home. It was a cute literal language issue, but also some wishful thinking for Sweet Potato.
At his most recent game, there was minimal laughter in response to Sweet Potato's actions. He is learning patience and sometimes following the coach's directives. One player's grandmother was impressed with the amount of patience and progress he has demonstrated.
Sweet Potato will continue with the Poisonous Lizards until the end of the month, then he will become a free agent.
Monday, July 31, 2017
Tuesday, July 18, 2017
The Naked Truth
Our son, Sweet Potato, is an energetic six-year-old. He moves quickly and impulsively. Consideration of rules, standards, and reactions usually occurs after an event. This applies to most areas in his life, and wardrobe is no exception.
If SP is going swimming, he will bring his swimsuit to the pool. He goes through the turnstile at the gate and BOOM! Naked on the deck of pool! Need to use the bathroom at the library? His pants and undies are magically around his thighs outside the door and he does potty shuffle into the restroom. Hot after playing outside in 90-degree weather? Whoomp, there it is!
This was cute when he was a toddler. However, he is an elementary school student and nobody wants to see that. My husband, parents, and I have decided to have a kind, but firm, nudity crackdown. We have made simple rules: If you change at home, you need to be in your bedroom or the bathroom. If you have to change clothes away from home, you do so in a bathroom.
We have been practicing the new rules this summer with success. He will stop himself mid-button or mid-snap, then make his way to privacy. He will even duck into the restroom at the pool to remove his rash guard. The rash guard removal is a very literal interpretation of our rule, obviously, because he will be shirtless in the pool. If we point that out, it would be confusing for him. I take advice from Paul McCartney and Let It Be.
Until this morning, I was not aware that Sweet Potato appointed himself the clothing police. We were leaving the house, he was ahead of me, out the door. I grabbed my purse and locked the door and I heard him yell, "Why are you NAKED?" For one scary second, I actually worried that there was a naked person in the yard. He yelled again, "Why are you NAKED?" I looked at past the driveway. There was a young guy in the street walking two dogs and he was shirtless. SP screamed at him a third time.
He was stunned, and could not comprehend why the kiddo in the driveway was screaming about his offense. He stood there and looked scared. Partially naked and afraid. I spoke to SP, "He is not naked, he is shirtless." SP looked panicked and he said, "But Mama, he is naked! He should not be naked!" The man with the dogs said nothing and made his way down the street.
When SP was in the car and strapped into the car seat, we talked again about clothing. I explained again that the guy wasn't really naked, he just wasn't wearing a shirt. SP insisted, "But you make me wear a shirt." I knew this conversation would not end without me simplifying things.
"In our family, we wear shirts unless we are in the shower or swimming." Aha! Silence! Even if it was for just 30 seconds.
If SP is going swimming, he will bring his swimsuit to the pool. He goes through the turnstile at the gate and BOOM! Naked on the deck of pool! Need to use the bathroom at the library? His pants and undies are magically around his thighs outside the door and he does potty shuffle into the restroom. Hot after playing outside in 90-degree weather? Whoomp, there it is!
This was cute when he was a toddler. However, he is an elementary school student and nobody wants to see that. My husband, parents, and I have decided to have a kind, but firm, nudity crackdown. We have made simple rules: If you change at home, you need to be in your bedroom or the bathroom. If you have to change clothes away from home, you do so in a bathroom.
We have been practicing the new rules this summer with success. He will stop himself mid-button or mid-snap, then make his way to privacy. He will even duck into the restroom at the pool to remove his rash guard. The rash guard removal is a very literal interpretation of our rule, obviously, because he will be shirtless in the pool. If we point that out, it would be confusing for him. I take advice from Paul McCartney and Let It Be.
Until this morning, I was not aware that Sweet Potato appointed himself the clothing police. We were leaving the house, he was ahead of me, out the door. I grabbed my purse and locked the door and I heard him yell, "Why are you NAKED?" For one scary second, I actually worried that there was a naked person in the yard. He yelled again, "Why are you NAKED?" I looked at past the driveway. There was a young guy in the street walking two dogs and he was shirtless. SP screamed at him a third time.
He was stunned, and could not comprehend why the kiddo in the driveway was screaming about his offense. He stood there and looked scared. Partially naked and afraid. I spoke to SP, "He is not naked, he is shirtless." SP looked panicked and he said, "But Mama, he is naked! He should not be naked!" The man with the dogs said nothing and made his way down the street.
When SP was in the car and strapped into the car seat, we talked again about clothing. I explained again that the guy wasn't really naked, he just wasn't wearing a shirt. SP insisted, "But you make me wear a shirt." I knew this conversation would not end without me simplifying things.
"In our family, we wear shirts unless we are in the shower or swimming." Aha! Silence! Even if it was for just 30 seconds.
Friday, July 14, 2017
Ball Practice
My husband and I signed our son, Sweet Potato, up for Super T-Ball.
SP's first day of T-Ball practice was this week. He strutted through the parking lot like John Travolta in the opening sequence of Saturday Night Fever. He jumped onto the field. "Hey buddy," the coach called, "Put your glove on and play catch." SP slipped his glove onto the wrong hand. The ball came to him and he watched it land at his feet. At the coach's urging, he picked up the ball and tried to throw it--with the gloved hand. There was a quick time out to determine his hand dominance and the glove was now on the correct hand, his right hand.
Two minutes later, the mitt was on the wrong hand again. The balls slipped by Sweet Potato and he happily allowed them to invade his personal space. When the coach encouraged, "Get the ball, pick it up," he would suddenly pounce on the ball and make a throw that would send the ball diagonally from the intended recipient, hitting the dirt halfway between them.
During batting practice, he loudly announced, "I am JACKIE ROBINSON!" He hit the ball and dashed to first. We cheered!. When he was on first, he was providing his verbal commentary, which included proclamations of extreme thirst and happily booing his teammates for striking out. Then, he adjusted his sweaty drawers. At least he can scratch himself like a ball player, I thought to myself.
In the outfield, he collected rocks and put them in the pockets of his shorts, which were on backward. In between rocks, he called out, "My coach is making me work SO HARD!" The parents all laughed. Comic relief for them. Another day-in-the-life for us.
His turn to bat again. He made contact with the ball and did this run-hop-shuffle to first. Then he grabbed his backside with his hand and attempted to run the bases holding his butt. What is he doing? "I've got so many rocks," he told his fans, who marveled at how well he can play with a fistful of rocks on his booty.
It was time to clean up after the practice and he just stood there. I guessed that the rocks were slowing him down. I urged him to follow the coach's directions and clean up and he said, "I am a shepherd watching my sheep." He had been listening to a storybook Bible CD in the car and apparently the imagery was convenient for avoiding the work.
His first T-Ball game is tomorrow. It should be interesting.
SP's first day of T-Ball practice was this week. He strutted through the parking lot like John Travolta in the opening sequence of Saturday Night Fever. He jumped onto the field. "Hey buddy," the coach called, "Put your glove on and play catch." SP slipped his glove onto the wrong hand. The ball came to him and he watched it land at his feet. At the coach's urging, he picked up the ball and tried to throw it--with the gloved hand. There was a quick time out to determine his hand dominance and the glove was now on the correct hand, his right hand.
Two minutes later, the mitt was on the wrong hand again. The balls slipped by Sweet Potato and he happily allowed them to invade his personal space. When the coach encouraged, "Get the ball, pick it up," he would suddenly pounce on the ball and make a throw that would send the ball diagonally from the intended recipient, hitting the dirt halfway between them.
During batting practice, he loudly announced, "I am JACKIE ROBINSON!" He hit the ball and dashed to first. We cheered!. When he was on first, he was providing his verbal commentary, which included proclamations of extreme thirst and happily booing his teammates for striking out. Then, he adjusted his sweaty drawers. At least he can scratch himself like a ball player, I thought to myself.
In the outfield, he collected rocks and put them in the pockets of his shorts, which were on backward. In between rocks, he called out, "My coach is making me work SO HARD!" The parents all laughed. Comic relief for them. Another day-in-the-life for us.
His turn to bat again. He made contact with the ball and did this run-hop-shuffle to first. Then he grabbed his backside with his hand and attempted to run the bases holding his butt. What is he doing? "I've got so many rocks," he told his fans, who marveled at how well he can play with a fistful of rocks on his booty.
It was time to clean up after the practice and he just stood there. I guessed that the rocks were slowing him down. I urged him to follow the coach's directions and clean up and he said, "I am a shepherd watching my sheep." He had been listening to a storybook Bible CD in the car and apparently the imagery was convenient for avoiding the work.
His first T-Ball game is tomorrow. It should be interesting.
Wednesday, July 12, 2017
Om Bop
I have spent much of my adult life treading water in a sea of athletic shortcomings. I am, by all accounts, a klutz. If you were an occupational therapist like myself, you would understand that body awareness and motor planning are not my gifts. I occasionally look like a real swimmer when I look out onto the horizon, but my efforts are thwarted by one or more of the following issues: broken toe 1, broken toe 2, shoulder injury 1, the sequel, and III. Then there are respiratory issues. I always make an effort to come back, but sustaining my attempts is difficult.
I have this fantasy of becoming a runner. I love to move fast, especially with skiing, in-line skating, and riding roller coasters. I want to run by the side of the road in a cute little sports bra with ear buds and aviator sunglasses with my hair in a ponytail. The reality is that I am built like a fire hydrant, my hot pink sports bra would blind motorists, and my hair is far too thick and curly to be contained. Let's not forget that I am clumsy and broke my foot jogging with my toy poodle when I was in my 20's.
I know exercise is a necessity, with many physiological benefits. Now that I am a mother, I urgently feel the need to improve my fitness so I can parent my son and give him a healthy mom. Frankly, I also need to keep up with him. He has ADHD and more energy than any human should be allowed to possess. When we go walking at the neighborhood track, he literally runs circles around me.
Years ago, I was reading a "healthy" magazine that addressed weight loss. I saw a biography about a woman who regularly practiced Yoga. The woman was slightly overweight and otherwise appeared average. She was assuming the Warrior poses and exuded confidence and self-satisfaction. Ever since then, she has been the face of yoga for yours truly. Anytime I hear about it, I picture Ms. Average Warrior.
I finally decided to take the plunge and enrolled in Gentle Yoga, obviously targeted at people with "issues". I even bought some actual workout clothes that I would like to wear running because they make me feel like more of an athlete. I was prepared for the physical challenge. I was also embarrassed by the degree of the physical challenge that Gentle Yoga would offer.
I was not, however, prepared for the mental challenge. My stream of consciousness is more like a class V rapids of consciousness. My brain bubbles and churns from my first sip of coffee until dreaming about my next sip of coffee. When class started, the teacher stated, "Leave your worries and issues at the door. Do not think about what you have to do, this time is for you." I immediately pictured stuffing my worries into the world's largest rolling suitcase and struggling to push it down a concourse.
As the class progressed, the teacher said, "This is your standing mountain pose. Imagine yourself on a mountain." Then I pictured Maria singing, "The hills are alive with the sound of music", followed by the song "How Do You Solve a Problem Like Maria?"
Then the instructor requested that the class adduct their shoulders with elbows extended (OTish for spread out your arms). Then she said, "Open your heart." Immediately, I imagined Madonna and the music video of the boy covering his eye. I smirked and snorted. I forgot to open my heart. When I did remember, I resumed silently giggling to myself like a middle-schooler.
Now that I have been in several classes, I am able to assume challenging poses such as The Pigeon (or as Bert sings, "Doin' the pigeon!") and The Bow. However, I am still a rookie when it comes to quieting my earworms and concentrating on breathing. I continue to imagine Maria twirling on a mountain top, Bert singing about his favorite bird, and loading the plane with extensive baggage. I have found an athletic pasttime that I am able to do without falling and breaking bones. Now the real work begins.
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