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.