Bullies v. Public Servants, and the Deep Freeze

Yesterday on the campaign trail, I was making some fundraising calls.  This whole concept of campaign is new to me, and calling people I don't know to ask them for money is challenging.

"Hi!  You have never met me, but please give me money!  You will get nothing in return, except a thank you note!"

There is more to it than that, but sometimes that is what it feels like.  I am not getting the money myself -- this is to fund our aligned visions of what a well-run district should look like.

I digress.

After lunch and after I took Claire Adele to the orthodontist, one of the people I called left me a message, so I called him back.  I am surprised when people call me back, but when I connect with them, I am often not surprised.  Most of the time, these people have a story they want to tell me about the district and they usually have interesting stories and opinions they want to share.  Most of these people don't harbor any ill will towards me, as I do not yet work for the district.

This guy who called me back was different.  He was difficult.  He tried to pin me down and ask me lots of harassing questions.  Part of me understands I am in the hot seat, and life as an elected official will bring in lots of angry parents.  It wasn't until later that I realized this guy wasn't angry at me.  He had an agenda, which I did not know.  He wanted to know how I would fix the district.  There wasn't a right answer to any of his questions.  To him, it was irrevocably broken, beyond what any human could repair.  Nothing I could have said would satisfied him, as he was predetermined to be unsatisfied.

And I had to sit there and take it, within reason.  I couldn't haul off and call him unreasonable.  I couldn't say he was a bully.  I had to smile, be kind, be respectful, and still be respectfully assertive.  he knew that by virtue of my position, I was stuck.

But that doesn't mean I don't have power.

I now understand the bureaucratic Deep Freeze.  The Deep Freeze is when a bureaucrat works with an outsider or advocate who is an intolerant bully.  They can't tell the bully to fuck off, so they can just not respond to emails, phone calls, or acknowledge them in public.

I asked him what he thought needed to be done to fix the problem, and that clarified for me what he was so upset about. Even still, I felt attacked because we so fundamentally disagreed.  I tried to find common ground, but wasn't looking for that.  He would only accept is position as the right one, never mind my years of experience.  He told me as much.

Sometimes I see advocates working on not getting the Deep Freeze.  I know some women who are borderline bullies.  They can be difficult to work with  They kind of know they are abrasive, but they really don't have the social skills or the desire to stop being abrasive.  So they avoid it by sucking up to the bureaucrat with obvious and over the top flattery.  It can be painful to watch.

And then there are the Super Bullies.  The bullies so grand that they think every word they think is straight from God's lips.  These bullies cannot be frozen, as at times the freezing process causes more damage than not freezing them.  So they are managed, I suppose.

Yet, the Deep Freeze doesn't solve problems--it puts them on the back burner and prevents them from boiling over.  Yet how do we manage the bully to protect ourselves from the blowback of their wrath?  Public servants have been struggling with this for centuries, I am sure, so much so that it is easier to go to war than talk.

State's Rights v. Slavery, and Ms. Cohen

When I was in middle school, we studied the Civil War.  Ms. Cohen was our teacher, and she was strict.  Super strict.  I think we had a nickname for her but I can't remember it.  She called everyone "Hey Buddy."  Not "Buddy" or "Bud," but "Hey Buddy."  And it was most definitely not a term of endearment, as in "Hey Buddy, quit making noise in the hall.  I am trying to teach a class here!"  "Hey Buddy" was code for "asshole."  She would point at students with her middle finger, which to 8th graders is both really funny and highly annoying.  Did she know she was doing that?  I bet so.

We didn't like her, but we respected her.  She was militant at times, yet we sensed she cared about what we learned. This is leaving me now perplexed.

Ms. Cohen was a fervent believer that the Civil War was over state's rights.  I remember her yelling at us, telling us we'd flunk is we every said the Civil War was fought over slavery.

"Never, ever say the Civil War was about slavery," she said many times.  "It was about State's Rights."

If there was one thing I learned that year, it was that.

What strikes me interesting now is that numerous articles are coming now saying, yes, the Civil War was fought over slavery.  See this article from The New Yorker.

Duh.

We were kids just learning about the Civl War and we knew the obvious: it was about slavery, and we had to be taught otherwise.

Why did we let ourselves be fooled?  I don't know.  I just trusted Ms. Cohen, who probably trusted a textbook.  Did Ms. Cohen believe this herself?  I bet she did, but nor did I think of her as one who would be interested in being an oppressor (except to her students.)  She did not strike me as inherently racist or biased.  In fact, my guess is that she was part of two groups that were persecuted.  She often told us about her vacations with "her sister."

Nevertheless, she stuck with this "State's Rights" mantra.  I wonder what she thinks now.  I don't know if she is still alive -- she might be.  I wonder what she thinks after years of teaching students history to come up wrong.  To years of being in the closet perhaps, and then to be free.  And all in the same week.

Office, Treadmills and a Run in the Woods

I am working on my campaign.  As you all know, I have been working as a volunteer for many years.  It is work but I never had an office like I did back in my consulting days.  The other day, I was downtown working with my fundraisers.  I had about 30 minutes between meetings, and they let me use one of their offices.

I plugged in my phone, pulled out my laptop, shut the door, and made a phone call.  It was the first time I had been in an office in years, sitting at desk doing work, and it was surreal.

People have asked why I am running for office.  As with anything this large, it is complicated.  After Ada died and Claire Adele was born, I got off the treadmill of the corporate world.  While Claire Adele napped, I wrote.  When the Boy started kindergarten, I started my advocacy career.  At the time, I didn't think of it starting a career, nor did I directly compare it to working at E&Y.  Instead, I thought I was finding a way to get to know people, solve some problems and use part of my brain that had been on hold for years.

Then it became a way of life, but a way of life that was opposite of running on a treadmill.  Running a treadmill isn't a bad thing.  I have a membership at the University YMCA, and I like to hit the aerobics machines, especially when it is raining or cold.  The temp is usually consistent, it is dry and I know I'll get a good workout.  I can choose the workout ends, and I never get lots or trip and fall.

Corporate life is like a treadmill.  The work is predictable, I knew I would get a workout, and it was reliably there.

Being an advocate is different.  It like running in the woods.  It could be cold one day, dark and rainy the next.  You could get lost or trip on a branch.

You could also find yourself running on a beach, or catching a sunset.

Both are good for cardio, but the woods are better for the heart.

Staring Contest

I was walking Fox the other morning and he saw a squirrel.  He tried to chase the squirrel, so I put him on a tight leash.  The squirrel ran by a tree and stared at Fox.

Fox stared back.

I stood there, slackened the leash, and wondered how long Fox would watch the squirrel.

They were locked in a staring contest for about two minutes.  Neither blinked or moved.  A jogger ran nearby, and Fox looked away.  The squirrel kept staring.  Finally, Fox and I left.

This got me wondering about the staring contests kids have, where they look at each other until someone blinks.  Why do we play such a game?  It is part of an animal instinct?

As I watched the game, I realized it wasn't a game.  It was a case of predator and prey, and who ever blinked first would lose.  If the predator turned a away, the prey could escape.  If the prey loses it, then he's dinner.

Middle of the Road

We just moved back into our house this week after living in an apartment across the street for three weeks.  We had the old carpeting ripped out and oak floors put in.  We had to move all of the furniture off the floor and we needed a place to keep our stuff and sleep.  Our neighbors bought the two flat apartment across the street from us almost a year ago.  Since then, they have been remodeling the place which had not seen any upgrades in at least a decade, maybe longer.  The windows were painted shut, for starters.

One of the best things about the place was we got to keep Fox there without any issue.  I was worried we might have to kennel him for the time we were getting the floors done, but we were very lucky we could keep him there.

The kids seemed to handle the adjustment to the new place just fine.  Claire Adele would hide in the kitchen of our house and check SnapChat as our temporary abode didn't have Wifi.  The Boy would sneak back to the house once in a while and play with his Legos, but otherwise he was fine.

Fox, our third child, struggled.  He wasn't used where we live being so close to the street.  He would bark and people walking by and at our neighbor's cat who rightful thought she owned the place.  We would eat dinner on the back porch of our house, and then return to the apartment in the evening.  We would bring Fox with us while we ate.

Sometimes in the morning, Jack would let Fox out to pee, and he (Fox) would bolt of out the yard, across the street and into our backyard to take his morning potty break.  When we would walk the dog at night, Fox would sometimes try to go back to our house.  Other times, he would head back to the apartment.

The day were were moving back in, I was carrying some bags back to the house.  Fox decided to walk with me, which was fine until he stopped in the middle of the street.  I called him to come, but he just stood there in the middle of our two worlds.  It was like he was paralyzed, not knowing which was to turn.  Fox wasn't leashed, and I was carrying a heavy load so I couldn't just drop everything and pick him up.

After a minute or so, he followed up up to the steps to our house, but I felt bad for him in his confusion, not knowing where he lived, stuck in the middle of the road.

Photoshop?

As part of my campaign, I needed to have my picture taken.  My neighbor across the street is a professional photographer and he did a fine job.  (I previously wrote about having my picture taken.)

I first posted a picture on my website and Facebook account, and then I submitted it for the Voters' Guide.  Now, I am at the step of getting campaign fliers made for doorbelling, where I knock on numerous constituents doors and ask them to vote for me.

In each draft of the flier, my photo kept getting bigger and bigger.  And I kept cringing and cringing.  I wanted a small tiny picture in the corner, something maybe the size of a dime, not a big more than half of the 5x10 flier.

The bigger the picture, the more I noticed my flaws, especially the little middle-aged double chin and the dark brown gum line above the tooth I broke in third grade.  I maybe could get plastic surgery to fix the chin, or lose forty pounds, but neither is going to happen before my campaign needs to print 5,000 fliers.  There is nothing to fix the tooth except Photoshop.*

I talked to my photographer to discuss my dilemma -- to photoshop or not to photoshop.

"I'll do whatever you want, Lauren," he said.  "I can do anything with Photoshop.  I can make you look like a Barbie.  I could even make you look like a man.  But I left it the way it was.  I think you look fine.  I take pictures of people without teeth and people who are wrinkled and disfigured.  You should own how you look.  "

I thought about Tina Fey.  She was knifed by a stranger as a child and she has a large scar on her chin which is covered up with make-up.   Tina Fey doesn't let the scar define her.  Does she cover it up at home, or go naked?  Has it faded significantly since she was a child?  I have no problem with Tina Fey covering her scar if it makes her feel more confident.

Before I said yes to vanity, I went for a second opinion.  I emailed a draft of the flier to my friend Susan, who thought it looked fine.  She didn't comment on the picture, so I asked.

"What do you think of the picture?  Is it too big?"

"No, you just aren't used to seeing glamour shots of yourself," she said.  "It looks great."

Glamour shot?  I was too busy looking at my gum line to see the picture as glamourous.

Then I thought about it.  Aside from the dark gum line from my broken tooth, I have a great set of teeth.  They'd be damn near perfect if it weren't for root canal and cap.  I have what is officially called a "winning smile," which is defined as having visible molars when I smile.  My photographer takes pictures of people without teeth, and here I am complaining about a tiny flaw in what otherwise would be perfect.

I ponder my double chin.  Sure, I could lose a few pounds, but I am far from obese.  Who am I to be so picky about my appearance?  I don't have a disfigurement, so I should be happy.  I let the picture go au naturale, and not photoshop.

* Poor Photoshop has to get a bad rap as the company that allows women to look twenty years younger, when they just make the software to enable such behavior.

Moving: Heaven and Hell

We are getting hardwood floors installed in the house this week, and we have moved into our neighbors’ duplex across the street.  They have been remodeling it for almost a year, and the work continues.  The previous owner did very little in the past decade, and the place was in need of major updates. 

We asked our neighbors about six weeks ago if we could move into their apartment.  They blanched, but said, “Sure.”

“I am happy to pay market rate for the whole month, and pay for utilities,” I said.

“Oh no,” the wife replied.  “You don’t have to pay me.  I am glad you are staying.  It will force us to get the place ready for someone to move in.”

The day before we moved in, the wife was telling us she was having the floor painted.  

“Egads!  You didn’t need to paint the floor for us!” I said.  “It won’t be dry in time, and we will just mark it up!  You should have waited until we moved out.”

“It won’t be a big deal,” she said.  “I will give it another coat as soon as you move out.”

Over the past few weeks, Elke, a college girl from Indiana who is helping me out around the house, helped me purge and clean before the move.  We had to clean out the basement to move stuff from the closet down there while the work is being done.  I’ve made a handful of trips to Goodwill and Value Village to unload stuff, plus a trip to the dump.  We’ve had numerous loads of recycling.

I thought that doing this (purging, cleaning, re-organizing) during a campaign might be a bad idea, but I find it a pleasant distraction.  There is a limited amount of control I have over my life as a candidate.  I can have control over the move, more or less.

The movers arrived yesterday morning to take our entire first floor and move us out.  We had far less to move, thanks to Elke.  The movers were supposed to arrive at 9:00 a.m.   They arrived at 8:40, just as the rain began.  It wasn’t a downpour, but it was heavier than a drizzle.  They were carrying the first load out by 8:50.  Kind of a bummer to have the only rain in a week happen while we were moving, but what can you do.

I walked into the apartment to see where to put the furniture.  Angela’s construction worker was laying down construction paper so our feet wouldn’t stick the floor.  They ran out, and had to run to Home Depot before we could finish the move.  The third bedroom was still a construction staging area, with an old water heater and lots of tools and wood debris.  We couldn't set that up as one of the kid’s room or move my desk in there, so we have extra furniture in the kitchen and living room.

But that wasn't all: there was no hot water heater, no oven, no cooktop and no refrigerator.  The shower wasn’t hooked up, even if we wanted to take a cold shower.   I had to bring over all of my hanging clothes, but there were no rods in the closet, so all of my clothes were draped on the couch.  It was a roof over our heads, but that was about it.  I told one friend we were moving out of one construction zone into another.  Jack joked that he wanted to see the thought bubbles above Angela and my heads when we had our previous conversation about using their space and she refused to take rent.

Lauren’s thought bubble: “I am happy to pay rent.  Please don’t think I am a mooch!”

Angela’s thought bubble: “Oh my god the place is a train wreck.  It will take a miracle to have it ready by the time they move it.  I can’t charge her for living a place that has no doorknobs!”

And I love the place.  It is not nearly the disaster it appears to be written on paper.  Our regular house is across the street, so we can easily go back and forth and shower, check the mail and access the internet.  My kids have the same walk to school, we still walk the dog on the same route.  But the convienence isn’t the whole reason I like it.

I feel genuinely happy to be living someplace else, and I don’t know why.  Back in my twenties, I moved every few years, from Chicago to Saint Louis, from an apartment in St. Louis to a house, and then from Saint Louis to Seattle.  With each move, came a cleansing and a purging, lightening the load.  It feels good to get rid of stuff that has hasn’t been used in ages, or to find new uses for old and forgotten things.  Angela needed shower hooks, and I had found an old set in the basement which I gave to her.  I lived in the same apartment in Chicago for all of my twenties, and I loved the place.  I also loved my house in Saint Louis.  Maybe I was longing for a change of scenery, and new location, a different perspective.  I’ve spent years looking at the house across the street.  Angela did a great job of picking a bright new exterior pain color, and has cleaned up all of the plants.  She fixed the retaining wall.  On the outside, it looks great.  But now I can sit and look out the window at my own house.  My friend Diane used to live in this spot, and she said we had a really cute house.  She would know, as she could see it all the time.  She was right.

Maybe I like this move because it is just like my place, minus the clutter.  There are no stacks of unread mail and magazines.  There are no stacks of notes from my countless meetings.  I don't have my hundreds of books.  It is clean and neat and tidy, but it also still my life.  It isn’t sterile like a hotel room or a vacation condo.  There is charm, and it is in my neighborhood.  It is like I have just lost twenty pounds:  it is still the same me, only better. 

“Better?” you are thinking.  "Lauren has no cooktop, no hot water, no shower curtain.  She is nuts."

Sometimes "nuts" and an upside down life beats the status quo.

Aviation

The Boy's Rocket Club went to Aviation Day at Seatac Airport two weeks ago.  Jack when along as a chaperone -- I think he was just as excited as the Boy to walk on the tarmac and see the planes up close.  One summer while he was in college, Jack worked at Eastern Airlines in Atlanta helping them audit flight maintenance records.  He wanted to throw luggage (if I recall correctly) to help build his strength for the swimming season.  Instead, he got a desk job.  In either case, he got to be around airplanes.

So the Boy had fun at Aviation Day.  The next day, Jack, the Boy and I ran into one of our neighbor's at the grocery store.  Jack has seen this man's son at Aviation Day, and told the father how polite and nice his son behaved in public.  Nick is a freshman at Aviation High School at Boeing Field.  Aviation High School is run by Shoreline Public Schools, and has a partnership with Seattle Public Schools.  Even though it is a public school, kids have to apply.  About 25% of the kids who apply get in.

We asked how Nick was doing.  We assumed he would be fine, as Nick's research projects in middle school were on historical airplanes.  The father gave us a run down of the school.

The dad talked about getting his son halfway across town everyday, but he didn't mind.  There are carpools and kids can take the bus.  It is a small school with about 100 kids per grade, and not much of the usual high school extras, like sports and music.  The kids can partake in extra-curricular activities at their neighborhood school.  All of the hassle was offset by his son's love of the program: "They get to take physics as freshman," he said.

The Boy listened, not saying much.

A few days later, we were talking to some other parents.  The topic of high school came up.  Because of the program he is in, the Boy has a few choices of where to go.  Jack and I have been heavily lobbying in to go to Roosevelt, the neighborhood school that Clare Adele attends.  It is a lovely school and Claire Adele has made plenty of friends.  The other schools are in corners of town, and he would have to take a city bus instead of walking to the school blocks from our home.

"Where are you going to high school?" the grown-up asked the Boy.

"Roosevelt," he said.  I was glad he was listing that as his first choice.

"I'm also considering Aviation," the Boy said.

Oh dear.  I hate driving.  I don't want to spent four years driving past downtown and back twice a day.  No!  And they teach the kids to fly and build airplanes. What?  A few years ago, kids died in plane crashes.  Claire Adele told me about the high death rate.  I thought she was exaggerating until I looked it up, and it was tragically true.

A few days later, Jack googled Aviation High School.  It turns out their First Robotics Team came in 24th.  Out of 3,000 team from around the world.  One of the reasons selling points of Roosevelt is that it has a First Robotics team, and the other two schools don't.  I thought about keeping it a secret from the Boy, not telling him that they have a great robotics program.  But I told him the truth.  His eyes widened, as if they weren't wide enough before.

Do I let the Boy chase the dream, or keep him grounded?

Three Goals and Left Turns

I was talking to a friend the other day and she asked me why I was running for office.   She wasn't looking for the sound-bite answer--she looking for introspection.  This is the role and purpose of good friends: to ask you questions that make you a little uncomfortable while providing a safe environment to explore questions that don't have simple or easy answers.

In answering her question, I started back in the beginning, when my life took a left-turn.  The first left turn was when my first daughter Ada died back in 1998.  I was never one to have a life plan that was laid out to the tiniest detail, but I had a general sense that I'd keep on the path that I was on.  I was working in consulting, learning how to manage, run projects, look at data and talk to people about things that were not making them happy.  It was interesting and challenging work, and I was thriving.  I worked with people I liked, who also liked and respected me.  

I was doing project work, which meant when the project was done, I would have to find something else to do.  I expressed this concern to my friend Julie from graduate school. She said, "If you do a good job on this project, the next one will follow.  Don't worry.  Projects will find you."  And she was right.  I learned to be content with a reasonable amount of uncertainty, but as long as I could develop my skills, I knew I could find work that I found interesting.  I worked with a leadership consultant, and she said she saw me one day working as a VP of Operations at a medium sized company.  I was slightly offended that she didn't see me as the president, but I figured that if I could be VP of Ops, then President could be around the corner.   

Then came another left turn.  Ada died and I had a miscarriage before I became pregnant with Claire Adele.  I was traveling three or four days a week, and Jack was working nights and weekends.  We had just moved to Saint Louis, where we had no family.  We would have needed overnight care, and that really wasn't feasible, both practically and emotionally.  We had a small apartment, with no place for an au pair to stay.  I also couldn't imagine how I could leave my baby with someone else while I traveled out of town.  

The third left turn came when my brother had a crisis with his schizophrenia.  I was laid grief stricken again for the second time in four years.

It was then I knew I wouldn't be returning to the traditional workforce.  I set three goals for myself at that point:

1.  Write a book

2.  Run for office

3.  Make a movie

Now I look at these goals, and ponder.  I've written two books, one about Ada and another about my brother, both of which are languishing unpublished.  Part of me doesn't want publish the book about my brother until my kids are older.  Even though only a handful of people read my books instead of hundreds, I wrote them nonetheless.

This makes me pause and think about my goals.  My second goal was to run for office, not win.  Why did I have the goal of "running" instead of "winning"?  Was I being a chicken or realistic?  Back then, I had no idea what office I might run for:  City Council?  State Rep?  US Congress?  Yes, I have fantasies about someday about being a US Senator.  I am lucky enough to live in a state where both of our Senate seats are held by women, which gives me hope.  

But that is not where I am today.  I've taken Julie's advice -- do a good job on one project and the next will follow.  Look for challenging and engaging work.

Running for office isn't only challenging and engaging, it is also meaningful.  I can make a difference in the lives of kids in Seattle.

Lauren's got a Brand New Bag; or Tale of Two Purses

This is my current purse.

I bought it for the trip to New Zealand because it is lightweight, study and has tons of pockets.  I was helping pack bags today at my son's school for their "Packs for Kids" program so kids who have food insecurity can have something to eat over the weekend, and all of the moms there had similar styled and shaped purses.  This purse is light weight, soft and very comfortable.  As a friend of mine said, "It is a mom bag."

It was decided by several members of my family that is purse was not suitable for me to wear while campaigning.  A floppy nylon bag was a little too casual to wear with a fancy skirt, a pressed while shirt and a black pumps.  I went downtown to the main shopping store and one of the sales associated helped me for an hour pick something out.

This is my new purse. 

It is a briefcase/purse.  It can fit a notebook, my calendar, and a small laptop.  I can put my campaign material in here and it stays flat and unwrinkled.  It has an over-the-body strap as well as two handles.  The handles aren't long enough for me to swing over my shoulder, so I have the bag on my arm as if I am Queen Elizabeth.  It restricts my ability to use my hands when I talk, a trait of my Italian heritage.    I can talk with one hand, but I lose my symmetry.  This purse is leather, stiff and uncomfortable since it doesn't fold against my body.  I went downtown this week to a luncheon and all of the women walking the streets had purses like this.  This is not a mom purse.

I am a one purse kind of gal.  I am not the type to have one bag for the day and other for the evening, or changing my bag to match my outfit.  I am far more practical and have a one purse for all occasions.  I have a hard time taking everything important (wallet, sunglasses, phone) out of one bag and putting in another, and then remembering to put it all back into my daytime purse.  I did that once, and found myself at the grocery store with a full cart and no wallet.  Not fun.

Now I am officially a two purse woman, and for good reason.  Yesterday, the Boy had soccer tryouts: nylon purse.  I came home, changed clothes, and went to a school district meeting while wearing candidate attire: briefcase bag.  I came home changed, and we went to the Bryant Blast and then to the Mariners game wearing mom clothes: nylon bag.  

At the Mariners game, the woman sitting behind me spilled her full beer down the back of my seat.  I was sitting up, so I was only slightly drenched.  Yet, a river of beer flowed down the steps of the stadium, and picked up my nylon bag before it was soaked. 

Yes, I need two bags.

Private

I am taking my blog private for the next several months, maybe longer.  As you may know (or may not), I am running for office.  I spoke with my writing teacher and mentor, and she recommended I take my blog down during the campaign.

"You have to decide if this could help you or hurt you.  If you only had a few posts, that would be one thing, but you have a lot here.  You are vulnerable and as your writing teacher, I am proud of you," she said.

But...

"Since there is so much there, something might come back to hurt you.  You might be better off taking it down."

My friend Eleanor agreed, but for a different reason.

"People who write blogs only write about themselves and what they do," she said.  "They tend to be exercises in self-absorption."

But I try to write about the challenges I face, difficult decisions, turning points, conflicts, places where I changed my mind...

"How many blogs do you read?" she asked.

None.*  Point taken.  I'd like to think--like many mom bloggers do--that I was channeling Erma Bombeck, catching those moments of home life and making them into something worth sharing, that others might find comfort, laughter or tears.

I am slightly mourning the loss of my blog, even though it is still here, but in a mode where only my nearest and dearest can find me.  My friend Diane said having an unpromoted blog and hoping people would find it on the internet would be like hoping someone would randomly pick up a piece of sand on a beach.  She is right.  Nevertheless, I liked putting thoughts and feelings on the internet and see what would turn up.  It felt like I was a kid riding in the car with the windows rolled down and my head leaning out with the wind in my face.  I was exposed, but not so much.  Writing my blog was a risk, albeit a small risk, but a risk nonetheless.  I love the creative outlet this blog gives me a few days a week.

A few new people were finding it, somehow.  I've had a few more readers here and there.  I don't know who they were, but maybe I'll find them again if and when I re-open my blog to the public.

Now I am open to a new vulnerability-- running for office.  I met a friend for coffee who once ran for office.  She sad she felt completely naked, out there shouting her opinion, vulnerable.

* I used to read the brilliant Hyperbole and a Half, but the author has since taken a break.

Losing

As some of you know, the Boy is rather intense.  This spring, he joined his middle school junior varsity soccer team.  The school is in its first year, and many of kids who are outstanding soccer players did not try out for the school team.  Other middle schools might four or five kids from elite teams.  The Boy's team has a few select players, at best.  In the first four games of the season, they have scored one goal.

The Boy was having a very hard time being one of the better players on his team and watching his team get crushed.  He seems okay if his team loses and he is a bench warmer: he knows it isn't his fault if better players than him lost the game.  If he plays poorly and the team loses, he often blames himself.

Two weeks ago, the Boy was playing defense, and the other team scored three times in about five minutes.  The Boy was visibly frustrated.  It didn't help that four players on the team were out because they forgot to turn in their grade sheets.  The coach pulled the Boy out of the game, and he was in tears.  He yelled at the coach, "I am NOT a center defender.  I am terrible at this position.  I can't play center D!"

I winced.  I hoped the coach didn't think my kid was an ass.

The next week, the Boy's team was getting shellacked.  They were down 0-4 at the beginning of the second half.  I worried the Boy would flip out again, but he didn't.  He kept playing without getting frustrated.  They lost the game 0-7.

After the game, the boys were off goofing around, shooting goals at one and other.  The Boy was smiling and laughing, something I have never seen after a 0-7 loss.  One of the moms and I approached the coach.  He asked if our kids were having fun.

"Tanner is having a blast!" she said.  The coach smiled.

"I am the Boy's mom," I said.  The coach pulled his head back slightly afraid.  "He is as serious as a heart attack."  The coach laughed.

"He got mad at me last week," he said.

"No," I replied.  "He was mad at himself.  I am so sorry he reacted that way."  I didn't explain that the Boy has been working on trying to keep his emotional reaction under control when he is trying his hardest and he feels like he is failing.

The coach seemed relieved that the Boy wasn't mad at him specifically.  People often forgive the Boy for being overwhelmed.  They see how much he cares and how hard he tries.   Nevertheless, it is hard to be around the Boy when things are falling apart.

When we were driving home, I asked the Boy about the game.

"When we were down 0-4, I knew we were going to lose.  I figured I might as well just keep playing."

I was happy for the Boy.  He is learning to face loss and not take it personally.  Sometimes you go out and put your heart into what you are doing, and it doesn't work the way you planned.  At least your heart is still beating.  I hope this serves him well.  It will either make him a fierce but calm competitor like Bjorn Borg, or conversely member of the Chicago Cubs.  Either way, I am glad he is outgrowing his John McEnroe phase.