A Chosen Busy

I have a mini poster on my file cabinet at work. It says, “I don’t have time to be this busy.” These are true words. However, busy is what I am. And, busy is what I’ve always been.

My parents tend to forget that I have always been busy.  The sighs and the “oh you’re so busy” comments began when I was young and continue now into my middle age. To me, it is not a deficit or a sign of weakness that I am consistently occupied. One other thing you should know about me is that I crave structure and predictability.  I am not spontaneous and even the first days of a vacation are a little unsettling and anxiety producing for me. There are people who criticize busy, who say that those of us who are, miss the more important things in life. The thing is, I am not busy for the sake of being busy. I am not occupying myself to escape other things or to stop me from being in the stillness of life. Whatever I choose to do, I want to do it well.  I am all in and fully invested in the things that feed my soul, my body, and my family.

When I was a kid, my summer activities had three basic categories – the pool, summer camps, and community education classes.

Basketball Camp and Vacation Bible School were in June. Church camp was in August.  Those weeks of camp provided even more of the structure I craved. That left July and small spaces within each of the other months for me to fill. 

If I were lucky, I would get to sign up for more than one session of swimming lessons. Swimming was something I was good at doing. My only problem was my age.  One had to be a certain age to pass each level. Because of that inescapable requirement, I would take some classes two or three times. I would pass each of the skill tests, not be old enough to pass, and would sign up again for the next session. Today, I’d be called a pool rat. Lessons were in the morning. After that, I’d bike home and make myself lunch and then head back to the pool. I was usually waiting outside the gates when it opened at one o’clock and then would swim until five o’clock when it was time to go home for dinner. A few nights a week, I’d head back to the pool for the seven o’clock to nine o’clock evening session.  Inevitably on some of those nights, it would be family night and that meant the pool was only for families from 7-8 and then would open to the rest of us from 8-9.  On the bench outside the fence, I’d wait out the hour with my towel around my neck and my bike in the rack. Toward the end of the summer, it was getting darker and colder on my ride home, but I’d still stay until the three whistle blasts told me that it was time to get out.  I’d speed home as fast as I could on my blue banana seat “Sky Queen” and hope that no bugs flew into my mouth.

My earliest “organizing my life” memory comes when I was eight and I devoured the community education brochure.  Every May, the brochure would come in the mail, or some of us would pick it up from the community education office early to get a head start on things. Back in the late 70s and early 80s, every community ed class was free. You just signed up for what you wanted to do. 

My bike and I were the best of partners in the summer. The town where I grew up wasn’t very big, so by the time I was able to ride, I rode all over town to get myself to my various activities.  This particular summer, I signed up for Arts and Crafts, Floor Hockey, Canoeing, and Softball.  

Softball practiced a couple of times a week and we would board a bus for the neighboring communities for the morning or afternoon games.  I was a terrible softball player. Catching the ball was not one of my talents, so I played second base. That is, until the game when a grounder hit the base, flew up, and hit me in the face.  Left field then became my spot...way out in left field. I didn’t care though, the sunshine and being with my friends made me happy.  Batting wasn’t one of my talents either, but I did okay, except for that one time when we were playing Wood Lake. I accidentally threw the bat after I hit the ball and knocked out the catcher. Literally knocked her out. Oops.  I wasn’t in the batting order very much after that.

Canoeing was at Memorial park, about a mile from my house. We canoed in the Yellow Medicine River for about 45 minutes, learned a few safety rules, and then slid back to the crumbling concrete boat landing below the big shelter house.  My bike would be waiting for me and I’d ride as fast as I could underneath highway 212 to the high school where floor hockey was held. As far as I can remember, not too many girls played that floor hockey. The boys on the opposing teams made sure I knew I was in the minority (before the days of protective equipment) and I would come out of the games with lots of bruises on my shins and if I was lucky, a few goals. Arts and Crafts class took place in the basement of City Hall, just a few blocks from the high school. I am sure there were other classes that summer, but those made the biggest impression.

Fast forward to age fifteen. Finally, I could get a job. So, I got three. I worked as a carhop at Oak’s Drive Inn (which we lovingly called Choke’s), where I’d take orders, bring them back to the window, and when the food was ready, bring it to the cars on little trays and hook the tray onto the window. Picking up the tray was determined when the customers would honk the horn or blink the lights at me. A quarter tip was pretty much what I could expect, but one of my regulars would always give me a nickel with a look that said, “I know I’m cheap, but be grateful anyway.” The tips were better when I waited tables at the Eatery Family Restaurant. It wasn’t my favorite job, but I’m a firm believer that everyone should be a server at some point in their lives. My shoes were always sticky and my summer perfume was kitchen grease.  My favorite job was working the front desk at the pool. While I longed to guard and teach lessons, the front desk was the only place I could work at age fifteen. Just as in my years of lessons, I wasn’t old enough to take the Water Safety Instructor and Life Guard course. Sixteen was the magic age. Walking beans was another job, but that was short lived and another blog post entirely. In addition to the three jobs, I still had Church Camp, Basketball Camp, and then got to (finally) add in summer basketball league.

At 45, it’s no surprise since I love structure and predictability that I became a teacher. It’s my own little microcosm of boundaries and schedules and passion for learning and love of kids. I’m also a wife and a parent to three active kids. I coach two sports for the high school and one 4^th-grade girl’s basketball team.

My mom recently said to me on the phone, “I’m so glad you can finally relax now that school’s over.” That’s a funny statement considering that during my first week of “relaxing” I coached an elementary/middle school track and field camp, ferried my kids to their activities, and did two days of Staff Development with my teaching team. Oh, and I did approximately 27 loads of laundry in preparation for our cross-country vacation.

We left for our vacation on Saturday. So far, 19 hours into a 25-hour road trip, I’ve read nine magazines, one book, and written two blog posts.  The only thing I’m sure of on this vacation is where we are staying. Rest assured, I’ll stay busy because I’m all in for this time with my husband, my kids, and our friends.

Disappointment

Disappointment is the teacher you don't want, of the class you don't want to attend. You know that you'll have to attend it at some point, and it'll be on your schedule when you least expect it. Sometimes you attend for a short time, other times you will go to that class for what seems an interminable amount of time.

Yesterday saw one of our senior athletes end his career at the state track and field meet. He's been ours since he was 12, literally.  We've watched him grow from a 70 pound little squirt to a 120(?) pound young man.  He's the kind of kid you want to sit and talk to, just to hear what's going on in his head. His opinions are thoughtful and fierce at the same time. He doesn't need you to agree with him, but he'll listen to what you think.  He's always respectful, but questions you to gain a deeper understanding, not simply to challenge your authority.  He truly wants to know WHY you think the way you do.

Last year's conversation after the state meet was all about swear words and if I thought I was doing my kids a disservice by "demonizing" certain words.  We agreed to disagree in the end.  This year's conversation at the state CC meet was all about the upcoming Presidential election.  This year's state track conversation centered on disappointment appearing on both of our schedules, unexpectedly.

He's funny and serious. He's a 4.0 three sport PSEO (college during HS) student.  He's been to state in Cross Country, Wrestling, and Track and Field. All in all, he's a pretty phenomenal kid. There are some athletes that become a part of the fabric of your life and he's one of them.  So he graduates today, and we are happy/sad and sad/happy.

He raced in the 800 on Friday night, a beautiful and smart race.  He had the 2nd fastest time coming into finals on Saturday.  It was hot on Saturday and windy. We weren't concerned about that, weather doesn't seem to affect his races, he just goes out and runs well no matter what. The only thing we were both concerned about is not our athlete's race, but how the others around him would race. All day there had been a lot of bumping and stumbling going on. We had never seen a meet where there had been so many athletes fall (and we're not talking in hurdle races either).  So we both (without talking about it) said to ourselves, just let him run his race and not fall.

The gun went off and he positioned himself well.  Of course there was a rabbit (someone who goes out super fast), but that's never bothered him. After the first lap he was in the lead pack and with 250 meters to go, he made a move, out to lane 2 and battling for the lead. Heading into the final stretch, he and two other kids were assured of 1, 2, 3 with just the order to be determined at the line. Watching from the back stretch, they disappeared from view behind the med tent, we heard the crowd go "OHHHHHH" and only one - not ours - appeared and raced to the finish line. Then we finally saw him cross - 8th place.

We were in shock. What happened? We raced to the other side of the track where we found his girlfriend, crying. She said that one of the other athletes lost control, fell, and took Jack with him. He was on his way to a career PR and a 2nd place medal and boom, now we're face to face with the disappointment on our schedule. Fear and Anger made brief (but will come back and visit again) appearances as we were called to the coaches rep tent.  We watched Jack be directed to grab his things, nod to the officials, and walk back toward us.

I was in a panic, was he disqualified? NO WAY. Then I was mad and fearful. The head official spoke to the other coach first.  His athlete was being disqualified because when he fell, he impeded another runner....our runner. Then the official spoke to us. Jack had the option to re-run if he wanted. By himself. After the completion of the 4x400. Or, he could take the 8th place.  So he's not disqualified? No. Relief, but still anger and disappointment.

He decided to re-run. After all, what was there to lose? He hit his first lap - 57 - just like we knew he could. And then, he just couldn't. He finished in 2:05 and maintained his 8th (now 7th due to the disqualification) place.

Then the disappointment started to really descend.  There was nothing we could have done as coaches. There was nothing he could have done differently as an athlete. The outcome of his race was beyond his, and our, control. So here we sit, surrounded by the disappointment and the anger. And, it won't go away. We'll come to terms with it, and by that I mean, learn to live with it. But, it will always be part of ours, and Jack's, story. We will attend that unwanted class, again and again. We will watch the videos and wish we didn't. We will replay the conversations and wish we didn't have them.  We will re-imagine how the race could have ended, and then we will be disappointed again.  We will eventually put it into perspective and realize that it's not life threatening nor is it tragic.

Most of all, we will remain so proud of this kid. Proud of how he handled this unexpected assignment and exhibited courage to run alone.  This is part of our story and his and we will handle it the best way we know how.