Keep Moving Forward

A month ago at our school district's meeting of the Board of Trustees, our teacher's union president presented on various clubs our teachers sponsor at our elementary, middle, and high school campuses.  She showed photos of the students and teachers in action, building robots, playing board games and bonding at lunch, providing community service, and jogging.  The elementary school running club was the one that stuck with me, though; they meet in the mornings before school with the simple goal to "keep moving forward for 30 minutes."

I love this idea of focusing energy positively for a discrete period of time.  It seems so doable.

But truth is, in my non-working hours the past month or more, I've had trouble moving forward.  Household chores, social events, exercise--even my own soccer games--have felt undesirable and inordinately challenging.  Depression does that.  Anxiety ups the ante.

I haven't gone running in a couple weeks.  Running is a solo venture, and it requires my own motivation.  I easily recall a few years ago, when I attempted to jog in the nadir of my post-partum depression and I ran/walked and cried, fantasizing about lying down on the side of the road and just staying there.

Busy weekends and weekdays have provided ample excuses for not even trying to venture forth.  Nervous and anxious energy, coupled with an increased resting heart rate and blood pressure, made it seem safer to Just Not.

But this morning we would arrive early for Big Sis's soccer game.  And I felt like running.  So I wore sweats and running shoes and low expectations.  I gave myself plenty of outs.

Big Sis's soccer tournament was at a park on a big block.  I could just run around that block. One mile, max.  So I started out slowly.  I hit half a mile, satisfied that to get back to our parking spot would be about one mile, a distance that I could nod at.  I kept going.  And all the way around the block turned out to be 1.5 miles.  Do it one more time, I urged myself when I was back at the start.  And I felt like it.

Not all runs are equal:  I've run marathons and logged qualifying times.  I've run cross country races and half marathons.  I've run fast and free and jubilantly.  Today I ran a slow 5K by myself on suburban streets, cautiously, but with increasing speed and confidence.  I didn't break any of my own records and I impressed no one but myself.  But my little run today made all of today so much better.  I felt strong and accomplished, and then unusually normal later today, without even noticing.

Tonight at dinner, instead of sharing The Best Part of Our Day, we told each other what made us each most proud today.  Big Sis, who scored a goal in one of today's tournament games which ended with her team as champions, shared that welcoming a new teammate and befriending her made her most proud of herself.  I talked about my little run.

Pride is relative, we are reminded.  The moments of which we are most proud don't have to be fastest times, goals, or championships or awards.  They're best when they're acknowledgements of when we are reaching outside or beyond or despite ourselves or the doubt of others.

I won't fit in a run tomorrow morning.  It's Monday and I have carpool and a parent meeting in the office first thing and then Senior Awards and a long to-do list in between.  I hope to draft off yesterday and feel good about myself but I know it's not that simple.  Nevertheless, I have proof it's possible and within reach of running shoes.  But I'm not going to pressure myself.

In the meantime, I will keep on moving forward for the next five minutes.  Or four or three or two or one.  At least.

Baller

The last time I played in my high school's Women's Varsity Soccer vs. Alumnae game it was ten years ago.  Legend has it I told one of my best friends, who played in that game in December 2002 and on many teams with me back in the 80s, that I was feeling "kind of funny" and maybe I should "go buy a pregnancy test." 

Somehow, Big Sis survived that game, which I recall being a little rough and rendering me barely walkable the next day.  Nonetheless, I was safely pregnant.  We don't remember the score of that game, but we remember that I emerged with a bun in the oven. 

Big Sis and Little Sis came out to watch me play today, ten years later, in my next soccer game (I should really stick to one game per decade, because that pattern is working for me, apparently, unlike my legs).  I went into today's game with excitement (I'd been out of town or oblivious for the last nine games and today was an opportunity to play again!), reassurance (I'd heard there are usually So Many former players available that playing time could be negotiated; I planned on subbing out after five minutes), and trepidation (my knee, injured from a mere Recreation League Coaching Clinic, has only recently started feeling better--would playing in this game be worth wrecking it for good?). 

I showed up at the field on time, donning our high school's (lucky) gym shorts, running shoes, and my daughter's soccer socks and shin guards.  And for an excruciatingly Long Time, I was the only alumna there, as students/teenagers/current players swarmed.  I asked them all how their holidays were going, but inwardly I was panicking. 

Oh heck, I thought.  What if I have to play The Whole Game?  I had not planned on this. 

So I was definitely one of the alums counting the arriving alums on her fingers (dangerously close to start time, we were only up to 5).  I was not, however, one of the alums rolling a goal toward the fifty-yard-line in an attempt to shorten the field (though I could be overheard agreeing this was the Widest and Longest Field EVER), nor attempting to add an extra extra current player to our team (only 10 alumnae showed up, so we had to borrow a Varsity player) to make 12 , which is never the number of players on a soccer team (that I know of). 

FYI:  They made us roll the goal back and return one of the kidnapped ringers.  

We played three 20-minute "periods" (which is never the length of a soccer game.  That I know of).  But which was 20 minutes longer than many old and young players wanted to play.

In the end: 

We beat those youngsters (and when I say Youngsters, let's be clear:  at the end of the game I asked my fellow alums who was next oldest after me and one of my teammates pointed to another alum and said, "I think we're both 22?").

We did a round of penalty kicks after, which preyed on one of my very worst fears, manifesting in a recurring nightmare of me vs. goalie in which I clutch and miss the shot, every time.  But this time, I scored!  (I suspect the goalie, a current student, might have gone easy on me...she didn't seem to move at all...)

We laughed a lot:  About counting the time remaining in each period.  About catching our breath.  About running into each other (I think I was in about 95% of the body-on-body incidents).  About unexpectedly winning (we did have some incredible collegiate players--and a current Varsity player--on our team, though...). About hurting in every possible place.  About negotiable calls:  we had no referee, so I took the opportunity when a ball rolled out of bounds and my team yelled "Goal kick!" as an opposing player claimed, "Corner!" to pull vice principal and yell at our opponent, "Referral!"

I left with a geometric soccer-ball imprint on my right thigh, earned when an airborne ball hit me hard on the leg.

I played soccer again!  So fun!  I was one of the teammates hoping for the third 20-minute period, even though I was exhausted.  It could be my last soccer game, ever, I figured.  Let's go!

I was starstruck:  I told the players from both sides that I could say from now on that I'd competed with and against incredible high school and collegiate players, including NCAA champs.  Yeah!

I was proud of myself:  I wish for myself some daring adventures in 2013 that challenge my comfort zone.  Today's soccer game was emblematic:  I am uncomfortable (I've already popped Advil and soaked in the jacuzzi), but triumphant.  I don't know if I played well (informal feedback suggests I was "running around a lot"), but I know that I got out there and played among current students, ran harder than I thought I could, had more fun than I thought I would, and bonded with a team like I remember doing in high school and college.

I hope I inspired both my daughters and the women who played to come on out, even when they're fortysomething, and represent. 

I told my father tonight, "I hope it's not the coolest thing I do for myself in 2013, but it just might be..."

He pointed out, "It's a heck of a way to start."

Yeah!

Dear Soccer Parents, Chill Out

In my spare time this semester, I am coaching Little Sis's Under-8 Girls' Soccer Team.  Despite how much I love coaching, it's the other thing besides parenting that makes me most insecure.  I have the enthusiasm and willingness, but I always wonder about my coaching skills and also Am I Subbing Out My Players Equitably.   Pondering this can keep me up at night; that's just how I roll. 

I have to remind myself that I am not judging Big Sis's soccer coach, and not just because I know him and he's my friend.  I am truly just grateful that he is willing to take on the task (as well as 10 fourth graders), and impressed that, under his leadership, his players go out and understand positions and make and save some goals. And more importantly, have fun. 

I imagine that the parents of my players feel similarly:  Supremely thankful that I, and my BFF/assistant coach, are willing to run around for an hour every Thursday afternoon with goofy, sometimes completely wackadoo under-eight-year-olds and make stuff up, such as drills and games called "Coach Says," while parents watch from lawn chairs.  An hour of soccer practice, by the way, is a Long Time, even with 15 minutes of stretching at the beginning and another 20 of scrimmaging at the end. And breaks for water and shoe-tieing and injuries.

Also, it's hard to reach back to one's own rec soccer days to remember cool and fun drills.  So even though this is my third year "coaching" soccer, I attended a soccer coaching clinic in September because my insecurities hadn't abated.  I learned a lot at the soccer clinic, but mostly I hurt my knee.  An injured knee is one thing it's clear I will take away from this soccer season.  While the soccer season appears to have taken running away from me. 

And yet, I don't resent the coaching or the clinic or the practices.  I continue to love them so much that I didn't even think before I responded to the email asking for coaches to volunteer for the all-star tournaments.  I didn't even think about the fact that Neither of My Daughters Will Be Playing on This Team of All-Stars I Will Coach.  This is because Big Sis plays Under-10, and Little Sis is...not so much an all-star. 

But here's what I do resent:  today we received the league "Bad Sideline Behavior" email.  The Bad Sideline Behavior email must be an annual inevitability, because I have seen various versions of it over my five-year career as a Soccer Mom.  The Bad Sideline Behavior email is directed toward the non-coaching, non-volunteering parents of soccer players under the age of 12, and it says, basically, Stop Acting Like an Asshole.  Stop Acting Like an Asshole in Front of Your Children.  Stop Yelling at Volunteer Coaches and Refs and even your own kids.  The email actually does include a part about, if the system  makes you so angry, go ahead and volunteer and fix it. 

Haha!  That part surely makes people angry, because people don't like to quit complaining and fix things.  In general, they don't.  Election Day tomorrow will prove that.  I know some portion of my Facebook feed will be moving to Canada on Wednesday, which is not exactly fixing things. 

But, just like the Facebook post I saw today which says, "'I changed my vote for President based on your Facebook post',  said no person ever," emails exhorting people to stop being jerks are similarly futile.  And I know this because That Email Does Not Apply to Me.  If it doesn't apply to you, you feel guilty about it and write back and say I am so sorry did you mean me?  If it does apply to you, I imagine that you get in your car and flip off the next Slow Driver you meet on the freeway.  Or write a trollish comment in response to an online article.

But what scares me is that if it applies to you, you're quite possibly my neighbor, the parent of my kid's friend, a seemingly otherwise rational person who loses her shizzle when she approaches the soccer pitch.  Something about the ubiquity of this youth sport makes everyone entitled to "coach" and "ref" and judge soccer, though only a portion of adults have played it.  The fact that there is a reality show for Toddlers in Tiaras, which highlights outrageous stage parents, and not for "Kiddoes in Cleats," suggests that parental passion on the soccer sidelines is acceptably mainstream.  Aggressive Yelling Dad and Screamy Mom seem to show up every Saturday.  My BFF refers often to Oakland rec soccer, where they had to declare "Silent Sidelines" because of overly exuberant parents.

I get some of the passion, parents; I have had to temper my own "Go go go go gogogogogogogogo gooooooooooooooooo," which is white noise to our children who are either already gooooooooooing or not likely to get up and go at all despite all exhortations.  As a coach, I've learned that talking excessively to my players on the field raises the likelihood they're looking at me and not at the ball (a few key plays missed that way!).   

So we've got to calm down, folks.  We've got to save some of this outrage and passion for human rights abuses and miscarriages of justice more consequential than a 13-year-old ref's bad call at a U-10 game. 

I can't help but wonder if we made the parents of the opposing teams' players get out and play one other for two five-minute halves, we'd humble our fans and quite possibly knock the hot air out of them before the kids play.   

Save profanity and disgust and censures and tantrums for pro sports and the players and coaches paid to endure good and bad press.  They've even got security guards at those games. 

Spare the kids and volunteers, willya?

List: Ways I Increase the Likelihood I Will Exercise

Formerly, I was only a runner.  I did a good amount of running, and that's all I did.  But as I mentioned recently, last year I joined a P90X "club" at school, which has broadened my exercise repertoire.  We meet at 5:45 AM in the gym on Mondays and Fridays, and as one can imagine, I've had to maximize the potential that I will actually leave my bed and my home to go make my body hurt in the wee hours. 

List:  Ways I Increase the Likelihood I Will Exercise (with an approximate 75% success rate):

1.  Assign husband the role of preparing and setting coffee maker to auto-brew at 5:15 AM.
2.  Set alarm for 4:45 and push "snooze" until 5:20.
3.  Have gym bag packed COMPLETELY with work clothes (try not to forget undies, bra, towel, or dress shoes, or endure awkward results), ready to grab by the front door.
4.  Go to bed dressed in workout clothes instead of pajamas:  jog bra, tee shirt, shorts.  Place socks and running shoes right next to bed. 
5.  Lie in bed between 4:45 and 5:20 thinking about the potential for chiseled arms, contoured legs, and ripped abs.  Get up despite necessary reality check.
6.  Lie in bed between 4:45 and 5:20 thinking about how lame it would be to skip the workout and have to change out of not-even-sweaty workout clothes.
7.  Lie in bed thinking about the reward of an amazing meal. 
8.  Fear the reprisals of colleagues in the club who will be there without you. 
9.  Drive fifteen minutes to the gym with a to-go mug of hot coffee:  just enough time to wake up and caffeinate.
10.  Acknowledge, as the car engine ignites, that it's too late to turn back now--high-five self about inevitable workout!  It's almost like it's already done. 

Almost. 

That Punishing Pooch

There was a period of time when I did yoga regularly...a time before I had children.  Now, I mostly run, because fleeing my home on foot only requires another adult left behind with the kids and no prior appointment. 

And, well, I love running. 

I love running so much that for decades I have pretty much ignored my upper body and, as it's become affectionately known, my core.  And then last year I was recruited into an inclusive club of colleagues meeting at 5:45 AM to work out to P90X videos projected on the wall of our dark and otherwise empty high school gym.  I have learned how to lift weights that weren't children or groceries.  I have learned how to make my abs hurt a lot.  I have learned that even though I run regularly, a good leg workout will mean I can hardly walk on those running legs the next day. 

I'm not trying out for a P90X promotional here; nor do I want to become part of Tony's Team, but I have to say, it's been nice to notice that my back doesn't hurt as much when I get out of bed, and I even sit and stand more comfortably since, allegedly, I have Strenthened My Core. 

This morning's o'dark-thirty workout incorporated some yoga, and I was reminded of a poem I wrote ten years ago, when I was dogged by one particular pose. 

Perhaps you can relate:

Down with Downward Facing Dog

I hate you,
Stretch that my dog achieves with such ease and grace and
sloping back
You make my calves burn and my arms ache.
I shift my weight and try, try, try
To push my heels down flat
while my biceps tremble and my eyes tear. 
I cannot turn my elbows outward
I cannot move my outer arms inward
I cannot move tailbone upward
I cannot release my head and make my back concave. 
I long to collapse on my haunches,
forehead on the wood floor.
I whimper when I hear the words
"Downward Facing Dog"