Michael hit a baseball that hasn’t landed yet in his last game. It was a high pitch and he crushed it. I had a nice view of the sequence – the pitch up in the zone, the swing, the contact, the beautifully-trajected, long flight of the baseball over the leftfielder’s head – since I was coaching at first base. I barked at Michael, as he ran toward me, to go to second, and faster for heaven’s sake, although I didn’t utter any silly appending phrases like that, I only thought them and with more intensity and pungency I’m sure. My son runs like he’s pulling a plow. Or he has a piano on his back. Or both. My commands, as he rounded first base, were likely more spirited than normal because I was elated. I was surprised too, frankly, and I wasn't the only one. I’m pretty sure a dozen jaws dropped, including those on Mommy and Grammie and Coach Lee and several players. We expect Michael to hit well but not launch the ball into orbit. Of course, Michael only got a double. Holy shit is he slow. I know turtles that could’ve taken three bases. The kid in left field nearly ran to the next town to retrieve the ball (there's no outfield fence to corral things) but Michael only ambled into second on the play. Oh well. He’ll never leg out a triple unless he hits one into a passing train car headed to Canada or something (in a league with no ground rule doubles). Speaking of big, lumbering guys who crush the baseball, Papa Mike caught an Adam Dunn foul ball for Michael at the White Sox game a few weeks back.
Michael’s lethargic, leisurely baserunning seems very purposeful and swift, actually, compared to Megan putting on shoes. Oh my God, turtles are rocket ships, snails are race cars. (I mean snails other than Turbo.) In Megan's defense, I’m referring only to her glacially paced routine with a specific pair of high-top gym shoes that just can't be thrown quickly onto my sweetheart’s socked little feet. They're sneakers with panache, I'll admit; they have rhinestones and gems on them, the patterns of which I've nearly memorized as I wait and sometimes help with the unknotting and loosening of laces, followed by sock-straightening and the actual donning of the shoes with exertive pulling accompanied by teeth-gritting and soft grunts, followed by shoe-tongue unbunching and arranging, followed by lace tightening, untangling, and tying. If Megan does every step by herself – and she usually does because she’s eight now and should really put her shoes on without parental assistance – it feels like a lifetime. It takes forever. The sun could rise and then set again. I notice new leaves on my plants. My fingernails are longer. Okay, my jokes are overdone and poor but it can’t be overstated. And I consider myself a patient father. Wait… that’s the problem, isn’t it?
HOLY cow. That isn't being patient my friend. It is being a turtle by example. At least in my own parenting I find if I rush! rush! rush! Lauren out of bed, through breakfast and out the door she gets quicker day by day and at almost 6 years old has now mastered all morning activities before school in 20 minutes. And that includes the 120 seconds one needs to brush according to the ADA. Boy, did I feel your pain through your descriptions.....I almost felt at one point I was reading in slow motion.
ReplyDeleteTrust me, I USED to be like you (like 2 months ago) but sometimes that 'patient' parenting does nobody any good when the parent ends up frustrated all the time. We are now win-win. no more double whammies.
You often lose me at 'baseball' but rhinestone high tops with a contrast colored tongue tied just so a crinkle sets in like a tulip....that I know. I do help Lauren with her shoes although she can tie them herself.....quicker to put them on dangling feet while she is eating her bowl of honeycombs every morning. Try it. It will save you 20 minutes.