More Than a Sister

I've always wanted my daughter to have a sister. Even before she was born, even before she was conceived, I knew I wanted at least two girls for the sake of sisterhood, so I guess the technical start should be I wanted my daughters to have sisters.

Having a strong bond with my sister, I wanted my daughter to be able to share in all the good times (and bad) that comes with having a sister. I wanted her to have funny stories, precious memories, shared moments over Barbies and baby dolls, an instant second wardrobe, someone to blame, and someone to cover for. I wanted her to have a helping hand with her aging parents, a shoulder to cry on when they passed, a fabulous aunt for her children, an understanding ear when her husband drove her nuts.

The reasons I haven't had another child yet are numerous, and at the age of six, it increasingly looks like my daughter may never have the sister I had wanted to give her. At times I am more sad for her than I am for myself, because although I got to experience having a baby once, she didn't get to experience having a sister. I feel guilty, no matter how many times I run through the "why not" list.

But in the moments that I am looking on the bright but still realistic side of life, I know that included in the relationships she has with loved ones in her life, is a cousin who fulfills many of the sister job descriptors. Being eight months apart in age, the girls are often miniature replicas of my sister and myself who are a comparable ten months apart. In fact, we love to marvel over the similarities while fondly reminiscing of our time together at each age and stage they go through. And it's in these times that I comfort myself with the knowledge that sometimes plan A isn't the only path to happiness.

Tonight we had the joy of having my niece spend the night or a "sleepover," as the girls excitedly call it. I watched them giggle, tickle, fuss, make up, plot, hide, share, cuddle, and take care of each other. My niece helped my daughter look for her bear Teddy when he was nowhere to be found. I happened upon a scene in the bedroom with my daughter shining a flashlight on a book saying, "We'll finish the rest tomorrow, okay?" They will share many more special times and continue to comfort each other during life's hard times, as well.

I thought my daughter needed someone to share both parents with, as if that bond would somehow mean more than others. When in reality, my sister and I do not share the blood of birth parents and are closer than many siblings who do. What my daughter and her cousin do have in common is my sister and me. And I think that's a pretty good start.

Top 10 Reasons Why Scrapbooking is Better than Real Life

10. You can shave inches off your thighs in seconds.
9. You can work out how you want to say something until you get it right.
8. Everything coordinates.
7. If you mess up a page, you can throw it away and start over.
6. You never get too old for stickers.
5. You get to pick which moments everyone sees...and which ones they don't.
4. It's okay to punch things.
3. It's the one thing your husband doesn't try to tell you how to do.
2. Everyone stays where you put them.
1. If you don't want someone to be in the picture, you just crop them out!

The Vegetables of My Labor

Sometimes I feel a bit like the little red hen when it comes to my garden. Among the chorus of "Not I's" is my heavy sigh as I do it myself. Usually those "Not I's" come in a different form of "too busy doing this" or "when I finish that." Even when there is a positive answer, usually an eager helper only lasts 2 of the 60 minutes I may have needed.

This year as part of my de-stressing, taking a break plan, I didn't plant a garden. Although it's a part of summer I always look forward to, when it came time to plant, I felt a "Not I" rise up in my throat. And so, my husband and children planted a little patch of garden and nothing more was ever planted. I tried to pull myself out of break mode to plant more, but every time I did, it rained. Last year I replanted several times due to the overpouring of rain, and this year I didn't have the oomph to fight it. I couldn't bring myself to even weed the small area, so this is the smallest, ugliest garden we've ever had. A small part of me is hoping everyone realizes this is what happens when Mom takes a break. But the realist in me knows that probably no one noticed, made a connection, and/or cared.

Still, when the beans came on, I was out there picking. And snappping. And cooking. And canning. My legs groaned in protest at the hours spent bent over in the rows, but my back is what really insisted that I stand up and stretch periodically. I could literally see drops of sweat dripping off my bent head onto the ground. My fingers rejoiced each time they found the last bean out of the bucket to snap. My whole body visibly sank with relief when I put up the canner for the day. And I smiled with satisfaction as I looked at the rows of filled jars that would fill my family in the cold months ahead.

There is a certain amount of pride that comes from doing things oneself, especially when it comes to caring for a family. Each time I open a jar or freezer bag of something I have carefully preserved for them, I know they are well taken care of. Whether it's something from my garden, a friend's garden, or the Amish store up the road, I can trust where that food came from and count on it to fill and nourish the bodies of those I love. It's a little old-fashioned, but it's my new way of life. Many people who knew me (including me!) would never have pegged me to become a country girl, but now I can't imagine any other way to raise a family.

A good friend who also preserves food from her garden for her family said her grandma always said it would "taste good when the snow flies." She must have known how good it feels, too.

Last night I was wide awake as I lay in bed trying to get to sleep. Instant replays of the evening and even the last six weeks continued to enter my thoughts. I've been unable to sleep many times before over a variety of issues, some full of anxiety, others of excitement. But never do I remember the topic of baseball stealing my Zzzzzs.

Sheridan had her last baseball game of the season last night, and I was her coach this season. To the average person reading the previous sentence, it would seem to be pretty normal, especially in Small Town, Midwest America. I know that scenario is played out in many lives across our area, but not usually in mine.

I'm not that athletic, I've never been the star of any team, and I don't care for any professional sports team. I'm pretty quiet when I watch my own kids play, because I think they're already hearing too many directions coming from too many voices. I've thanked my lucky stars many times that my husband isn't a professional sports fanatic during seasons where other husbands are camped out on the couch. I've often thought that many coaches get carried away and that they should remember, "It's just a game, and it's supposed to be fun." All of those things are still true. But this summer I coached Sheridan's 5 and 6 year old co-ed baseball team, thought I was fairly good at it, and really enjoyed myself.

I was pleased to find that coaching was much like teaching, although that shouldn't have been a big revelation. I introduced concepts, vocabulary, and rules. I demonstrated and had whole group, small group, and individual practice. I reviewed and retaught. We prepared and then were assessed in a performance event. I could usually sense when I needed to reword something and how to individualize instruction so a particular child's needs were met. Even pitching was really about reading a child's body language and trying to place the ball where they could access it.

Also like teaching, there were external factors that created times I was irritated, such as the phone call that told me both that Sheridan would not be moving up to the older girls age group like she did last year and that, by the way, her team needed a coach (me) and a sponsor (my husband's small business.) Or the times when I'd make 11 phone calls to only find 5 kids at practice and one of them was mine. Or the times when certain parents displayed a sense of entitlement and ill-educated assumptions and expectations that made me shake my head. But also like teaching, the things that mattered were certainly worth the irritations.

What mattered? Seeing the light in a kid's eyes when he looked in his glove to see that he'd actually caught the ball. Watching the grin on a kid's face when she heard the bat make contact with the ball I pitched. Looking at the pride each one felt and feeling a little bit myself as they crossed home plate. Hearing, "Hey, Coach!" and knowing it was for me. Receiving a hug from my daughter who thanked me for coaching her team and told me I was "the best coach ever." Giving a "five" to the other team and really meaning it when we said, "Good game." Placing the participation medal over the head of each child. Knowing that I had made each one of these kids feel successful and had hopefully contributed to their positive feeling about sports and themselves.

Breaktime

School has been out for a week and a half, and I am on vacation. Not my regular summer vacation where my house is turned upside down while I clean and organize, my long-awaited projects get tackled, my kids are enriched with my wonderful activities, or my to do list begins anew each morning. I took a real break. I haven't walked down to the garden, up to my neighbors, or through my classroom door. The TV has been on. A lot. We went to the library on Tuesday, and on Thursday I finished a 750+ page book, followed by another couple hundred page book on Friday. I slept in all this week and lounged in my pajamas at times. I sat under a shade tree, in the recliner, or next to my family and just sat and relaxed. For the first time in quite awhile I updated my Facebook status. Every other time I had wanted to say something, it was filled with bitterness, sarcasm, and anger, so I just didn't put it. I was over scheduled, over committed, and over stressed. I needed a break and I took it. I didn't just take a physical break; I took a mental break from the stresses that have been raining down on me from all directions. It helped that school ended and several other activities all wrapped up for the time being. The visit to the doctor where he told me I had an ulcer starting may have prompted it, too. And it could be that the yelling, screaming match that my husband and I had never had before turned on the light for both of us.

Regardless of the reasons it began, I know my well-deserved break will have to end. I have to pick up a few of the balls I juggle, even if I don't have to use them all. I just had to re-charge to be able to do so.

But I do know that as I begin to emerge out of my break, I won't let my Martha take over so completely as my Mary peeks out a little.