Junior High: The Mom Years.

Deep in the bowels of my painfully awkward junior high years I decided it was time for me to stop sitting on the bleachers and time to join the ranks of sports-playing friends. It was a small, private school I went to and when the voice over the scratchy loud speakers would dismiss the basketball/soccer/field hockey/softball teams for their away games, the vacant chairs would well-outnumber the occupied ones. There was no real desire to play for the sake of the sport, but there was a desire to be KNOWN AS one who plays and plays well. And to get out of the last few classes of the day as my jocular classmates did.

Thus, one evening in my hand-me-down Espirit sweatshirt and Jordache jeans, I approached my newspaper-reading parents to try and convincingly present a case for joining the Jr. High girl's basketball team. I was tall, could run fast and was committed to learning that of which I knew very little (my experience was limited to games of "PIG" with my dad around the old netless hope hanging from a barn door). Besides, isn't it is important to learn teamwork? I asked them. They were leery, but put forth a decent effort to try and conceal their fear for my lack of skill. There were also the considerations of providing transportation to and from my school as it was over 30 minutes away (time commitment)  and having come to recognize my patterns of passionate 
beginnings and lackluster endings, did not want me to give up mid-way through the season. I clearly remember my father driving home the point that if I commit to the team, I MUST finish out the season no matter what. With visions of new multi-colored Umbro's my mother would surely buy me for my athletic debut and the student body chanting my name in the last seconds of a close game, I earnestly vowed that I would play 'til the close of the season.

The truth is: I couldn't STAND basketball. I hated having to stay after school and miss my daily big after-school snack and television show. I didn't like sweating because when wearing large volume of ultra-mega-super-freeze hairspray equated to very sticky streams of sweat down the neck. Also getting hot made my face blotchy, making it hard to impress the boys while getting them not to look at my cow-patterned face. Plus, my mother never did agree to buy me actual UMBRO's. I had to settle for women's knit shorts from Sears, as I think she secretly refused to invest her money in a short-lived wardrobe. Oh, and my height? My towering stature was all for naught. As it turned it out, coordination was also required. It was such a tiring, humiliating facade to keep up with, but I knew my parents wouldn't hear of my quitting especially after my impassioned plea to play.

The first practice I remember my dad showing up early to watch me was the one where we were practicing waist-level passes (I know. I am still clueless on terminology). When I caught sight of him, I began to excitedly wave, forgetting that there was a big orange ball headed directly towards my mid-section and promptly double over from the direct impact. The second practice in which my father observed from the bleachers, we were playing a scrimmage against another small private-school team. The scene could not have played out more gloriously, I thought, after having caught the (rare) pass from the point guard and making the shot that ended the game. I was confused when there were no high-fives or cheers from my team...and then in the din I heard someone say "You scored for the OTHER team!".  Oh. 

The next night my father and mother put their newspapers aside to tell me they had decided to make an exception to their firm approach to sticking it out. Watching the humiliating lack of coordination from the sidelines was just too much. I was allowed to hand in my jersey and call it a sport.

The next year was the beginning of my foray into drama and student government. I absolutely LOVED the stage, staying after for rehearsals and running for class president. Those were "my things". Any future attempts to play sports (there were only two more), were carried out to the end, but never truly enjoyed. While I took good things away from my athletic peers and our shared experiences, it was never natural, never really embraced.

Somehow throughout the rest of my junior and senior high years, God in His patient kindness, gave me the grace to be alright with not being a star athlete (like my dearest BFF, pictured below in her athletic gear that she donned quite naturally...and me in my mother's Liz Claiborne shirt and high waisted wonders) and mostly content with the things that DID come naturally to me (which was obviously impersonating a 40-year old woman).

I've been of the growing opinion that we never truly leave Junior High. For those of us who are in the profession of mothering, we each have our own "thing"...a personality-based approach to life with children. Some quietly and reflectively take their children down paths of learning in the discovery of nature or art or music. Other's find great fulfillment in going on frequent and bold adventures with their crew. There are those who thrill at the thought of teaching their little ones how to cook or how to craft alongside them. As for me, I can throw a wildly fun dance party and tell spell-binding stories to the children (when I remember to be fun). We each have our "thing"...personality traits that tint how we parent. 

With 80,000,000 (obviously prone to exaggeration as well) articles written by moms posted all over Internetdom on a daily basis, it is exceedingly important to remember that which I painfully learned in Junior High: What might be a passion/natural instinct to one, does not HAVE to become another's passion/natural instinct. Almost always, the forcing of such a mismatch results in a perpetual sense of failure and to hold one above the other is to erect a false form of righteousness. Sure, take what you can from those with different inclinations, especially when you have a child who has differing passion than yourself. Value and thank them for their insight, for you have little on your own. Be vulnerable to improve upon your weakness, yes do that. But do not try to force yourself into being  a basketball player mom when you could be spell-binding your children with tales of drama and ideas for creative play. You (& they!) will miss out if you keep hanging onto what you think you SHOULD like/be/do/offer. 

God gave you the personality He did on purpose, knowing that you would be interacting/leading/raising the people He has placed in your care. Stop trying to be someone you are not, and concentrate on remembering to let God use those unique STRENGTHS He's given you, that not only taint--but brilliant paint--your approach to life.

PS. I now want to be a runner, because Target just came out with the most darling athletic wear and I need an excuse to wear it. See? It is really, really hard to truly graduate from Junior High.