If only…

     If only; I could offer to you where my heart undeniably dwells. There would be no need to create any elaborate story to tell. As if; to justify, to excuse, or to ask reprise within a trusted wishing well. 

     Forever then; would you forgive me, allow me, accept me as if an iridescent pearl within its earthly shell.

     If only; as it brings forth and beats my heart could speak to you this well. 

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My Morsel 

Give me something to bite my teeth into.Tearing away, please, but a taste to sustain me through the feast or the fast of this lifetime.

A morsel to arouse my pacified senses; nourish me, energize me, awaken me once again to the flavors of each and every creation.

The moments of magnitude, the ones labeled insignificant or those of obnoxious overindulgences, even those that leave you weak from it all; give me but a serving from each to ground me, yet all the while enticing me to find the balance in all the irony and contradiction that garnish unwelcome. 

Give me my bite, my sliver of heaven, my tasty morsel~ forever more satiating to my heart’s delight. 

Eroding

Behind the White Coat

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“I went to the drive through and got the biggest thing of popcorn chicken they sold and I ate every last bit of it in the car.” She had that numb, dead look in her eye that I had seen before. “Then I pulled over on the side of the road, stuck a finger down my throat, and made myself throw it all up.”

“You’ve done this before?” I asked in disbelief. “You are bulemic?”

She nodded. “Since I was a teenager. I hadn’t done it in a year or two, though.” I had been seeing her for over ten years and not an inkling of this was ever spoken of before.

No clue.

“Why did you do it this time? What the hell happened?”

“That new pulmonologist you sent me to? She’s as skinny as my pinkie. She says to me as soon as she walks through the door…

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Let Go

Behind the White Coat

beach at sunset
Whenever my son swims, I have flashes of him lying in an ICU bed, intubated.

Some prick of a neurologist will tell me that my baby is brain dead and I will hate that man forever because of it. I will wait to have someone wheel his body off to harvest his organs. My heart aches with a deep despair and my eyes sting with the promise of tears not yet cried.

I want to hold on to him.

Don’t go!

There is a smell that patients get when they are gravely ill, in ICU. I smell it over the chlorine. I hear the beeps, the psht…psht…psht of the ventilator instead of the splashing of water and squeals of joy. I can feel his tiny lifeless hand. It used to squeeze mine…

“Mommy! Watch me!”

I want to follow him to the deep end. I want to keep a hold…

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Keeping it real; a Sport’s Mom dishes on all the balls…


Yes, I am a Mom, a “Sports Mom” to be exact, which means I have numerous balls throughout my home, my yard and my car.  Soccer balls, baseballs, footballs, basketballs, and most recently, lacrosse balls.  I feel like Bubba and his shrimp from Forrest Gump!
By the way, interesting that we are called Sport’s Moms, don’t you think?  Sports becoming the possessive entity.

Tackling the topic of youth sports in my community is much akin to talking about politics or religion. I wish I could insert that cringe face emoji at this moment!  In our community, it has become a religion.  You pay homage to it every weekend and most days during the week.  I am not sure when the sports craze momentum started, but our family is definitely riding the waves.


I cannot even pretend to lie, I was swept up by it.  Two years ago, when my son was eight, he turned to me with affection and pride in his eyes and said,

Mom, when I make it to the NFL, I am going to buy you diamond earrings.”

Then, he proceeded to buy me fake diamond earrings for Christmas that same year.  Did I dream of the day he would be a grown man and buy me real ones, of course!  Did I think it was possible, yes!  After all, he and my daughter are great little athletes, whose to say?

 

Before I go any further, I would like to preface this blog: My intention is never to be a dream crusher for anyone, never mind my own flesh and blood. However, the intensity of youth sports warrants at least once allowing an objective stance.

One article I read on this topic, simply stated parents were “delusional.”  This caused me due pause. This is my attempt to find the truth to this proposed epidemic of delusion.  Stay with me till the end my friend!

Many families, including my own, have been pacified my accepting that at the least their student athlete could get a scholarship to college.  OK, they may not make it big time but the devotion to their sport will pay off financially in this way.  For me, this has justified a lot of the concerns I have had in the past.  It was my security blanket, a Sport’s Mom raison d’etre.  OK, it is all fair in love and basketball. Game on.

What concerns have I had?  Enough.  My perspective was changed this past year.  I read an article in a Scholastic magazine that discussed the relatively recent rise of overuse injuries in young athletes.  This concerns me as it has the potential of causing long term pain or limited use of a part of the body.  Although I am aware of the contributing factors to this and the call for diversity within youth sports, there is still inconsistencies.

This article also introduced me to a disturbing reality that has developed in youth sports.  With this tidal wave of attention to youth sports and parents who believe their child is the “next professional player” (I was one so I am not judging here!), others have capitalized for profit on this dynamic whether they realize it or not.  It has become a booming business.


My children have played sports with an intensity for some time now.  I have been to enough games to witness in myself and in others some undesirable behaviors.

Most recently, at a championship baseball game, I screeched in panic for my son to “get up” after he fell diving for a ball.  I became quickly ashamed and shut down, not particularly enjoying the rest of the game.  My reaction was not at all to do with how he played, but how I had allowed myself to act.  I can only speak for myself, but the belief that one play, one game is the end all be all is flawed.  Most parents would deny this, but actions speak louder than words.

For most, witnessing the passion in your child’s eye, the focus and the determination, is enough to throw all caution to the wind. I experience that passion regularly through my young athletes and it can be intoxicating.

But, the schedules, the sacrifices, the demands on all facets of their being, the pressure to excel, the expectations: all factors a young athlete has to manage even before the game starts.  Can you imagine if your job everyday was under that sort of microscope? Most adults would snap. But, these athletes would not be still playing unless they were incredibly resilient, which they are! Amen for that.

A definite advantage to dedicating a life to excelling in a sport is nurturing passion and resiliency. Awesome. A disadvantage I propose is parental or another involved caregiver’s expectations. Why else would we be at times resorted to turning crimson,  sweating and yelling at young players despite ourselves?

Statistically, of the 541,054 high school basketball players, 3.4% will play in college and a mere 1.2% will be drafted into the NBA.

Of the 1,093,234 high school football payers, 6.5% will play in college and only 1.6% will be drafted into the NFL. And, I have not even mentioned concussions.

Of the 433,344 women’s high school basketball players, 3.8% will play in college and a measly 0.9% will be drafted into the WNBA.

Of these college athletes, 1-2% will receive an athletic scholarship and often times these are far less than anticipated. Ok, the numbers don’t lie.

So, what am I proposing? It is so incredibly simple! Let our young athletes have fun playing a game. Do not link any sport, any game, any play to some perceived success in the future. Do not burden them or their game with our lofty expectations.

Let them live and play with passion, be attentive by providing them the resources they seek, listen to them just as much as you expect them to listen to you, be informed and then…let go.

Relish in their accomplishments and be emotionally present when they struggle. Allow them to enjoy honing their natural abilities without pairing a trophy or a dollar sign to it. After all, the ball is most definitely in their court not ours. Let it be.

A quill cured my dyslexia

Eric's blog

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I don’t normally write this sort of thing it’s a tad too personal. Obviously it’s not been cured by using a quill. I wouldn’t want you to get the wrong impression either, being dyslexic is not the end of the world. Although it’s classed as a disability it’s a long way from being the worst. I would much rather be dyslexic than say blind or have muscular dystrophy. It hasn’t stopped me doing what I want in life, although I have had to work a lot harder because of it.

Those who are dyslexic can vary a great deal in how it affects them. I can read very well, in fact I read a lot. Occasionally I’ll skip a word and miss the sense of a sentence and have to re-read a few times until I’ve got it right. My biggest problem comes with spelling and hand writing. My hand…

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