10 Sweetest Things, 5 1/4

My baby is 5 already. Five and a quarter in a few days. Where do the days, months, years go? I just re-read some old entries, and was struck by how much I had forgotten. Everyone says that you forget things, but I didn't really believe them.

So, for the sake of remembering, here are 10 sweetest things about right now:

1. He holds my hand as we walk to school. These days may be numbered, so I enjoy every last one.
2. He kisses me goodbye, in front of his whole class. Ditto above - days numbered.
3. He hugs me, both spontaneously, and when asked.
4. He makes up his own songs. All the time. Sometimes I question the content, like the one with the refrain about drinking alcohol, but mostly they are about God's creation (Catholic School), or whatever he is looking at (ie living room couches.)
5. He loves to read stories together. Current favorites: The Pout Pout Fish, Star Wars anything, and anything haunted.
6. He asks us to make up haunted stories, almost every day, then tells us when they get too scary.
7. He loves to help: vacuuming, feeding Nalu, emptying trash - any job he can do around the house, he does with joy.
8. He's a road warrior. We can drive 6 hours to Central New York, with nary a complaint from the backseat.
9. He's generous. He'll share his dessert, even if it's M&Ms, and he only has a few left.
10. He loves to tell jokes. He's even creating his own material. He'll be writing his own blog entries soon.

A Wish for All Young Ball Players

And in honor of my dad and the St. Bernadette's Beavers...

Originally published in The Philadelphia Inquirer on April 15, 2015

Julie Owsik Ackermanis a writing coach for college applicants

Spring means crocuses, robins, and baseball. The Phillies come back to town, and little boys and girls are fitting their hands into leather gloves, running the bases, and swinging a bat. I began playing baseball on a boys' team, at the age of 5. I hated it. I would have preferred dance class, but no one was going to tell my mom that her daughter couldn't play baseball because she was a girl, and it was probably easier to take all of her children to one place. So off to the baseball diamond I went week after week.

After that first season, my parents switched me to the girls' softball league, which I liked better. I had three brothers, and lived on a block with all boys, so having girls around, at least at the ball field, was a relief. But did I even enjoy softball? I don't know. It's hard to like anything while you're learning. In those first years I just remember being at "The Field" all the time. We practiced when it was still so cold that my hands were red and raw, and would sting when I caught a ball in my glove. Other days we baked in the sun, thirsty and unsheltered. In the early years, I tried every position, kept showing up, kept practicing, and over time, became a decent player.

Although anyone could play in the town Little League, it was a big deal to make the St. Bernadette's school team. So when I made it in seventh grade I was pleased. In eighth grade, our coach got sick, and the call went out for volunteers. My dad asked me what I thought about him coaching. He had played Division 1 baseball at St. Joe's University, coached high school sports for years, and my brothers in many things, but could he handle girls? There weren't many options, so I said we could give it a try.

At our first team practice we told my dad we didn't want to order hats.

"What?" he asked, incredulous. "This is softball."

"They'll ruin our hair," one of the Nicoles explained. This was the 1990s - big bangs were important.

What would Dad do? Get angry? Force the hats on us? He thought for a moment, then said: "OK, I guess we'll vote on it. How many people want hats?"

A few nerds raised their hands.

He laughed, and then said, "OK, looks like we won't be wearing hats this year."

It may seem a small thing, even silly, this respect of our big bangs, but it was brilliant. With that vote, he showed us - he showed me - that he respected us, that he heard us, that our opinion mattered.

So began a magical season. With Katie Weinrich pitching, me at first base, the team's solid defense, and some good hitting, the St. Bernadette's Beavers were almost unbeatable. I'd never had so much fun. Winning will do that. Winning with your dad as the coach, and your friends as your teammates, well, that's a dream season.

\

The golden season tarnished a bit when I contracted chicken pox right before the playoffs. Restricted to bed, I learned the news when my dad came home from each game with his play-by-play report. It was torture to be lying at home, missing the pinnacle of everything we had worked to accomplish, but the team kept winning and winning.

In a movielike ending, the doctor cleared me to return for the big game. We had made it all the way to the Archdiocesan Championship, playing to be the best Catholic school team in the whole Philadelphia area. I was so proud, so pleased, and so glad I could be there with my teammates. Pock-covered or not, I was ready to play my heart out.

The score was 1-0. It was the bottom of the fifth inning (we played only six). The bases were loaded with one out, and I came up to bat. Here was my chance, to knock in the winning runs for my teammates. I gripped the bat, breathed, waited for my pitch, and when it came I knew it. I swung with all my pent-up weeks of frustration, crushing that ball. CRACK! I knew my glory moment had come. Just like in the movies, I heard the screams, I felt the joy, then no! No! THUD. The ball landed. Directly in the shortstop's glove. I was out.

Everything went silent. It was supposed to be the best hit of my life. How could it end this way? I walked, trembling, back toward the bench, and when my dad put his arm around me, the tears just poured out.

He hugged me and let me cry, let me be the 13-year-old that I was. After I calmed down he said, "Jewel, that was a great hit. You did everything you could. I'm proud of you."

We lost the game.

When I recently asked my dad about the game, he said what he has always said, "If you had hit that ball two feet in the other direction, we would have won."

That was a good lesson to learn. Even when you pull yourself up from a sickbed and have a chance to be a hero, all you can do is swing the bat - you can't control where the fielder is standing.

I can't lie. The loss still hurts a little. But in losing, I won something way more valuable. I learned that day that my dad was proud of me even when I wasn't the hero, even when I lost. That is my wish for every child this baseball and softball season.

How to Survive a Shitstorm (Deep Acceptance)

My family got walloped this week. Not just with snow. Carl hurt his back Monday morning. So badly he couldn’t get up for three days straight. I had a migraine that started Sunday and lasted until Wednesday. And the three-year-old and pug can’t take care of themselves just because we’re sick and hurt. (Can we put that clause in the parenting contract somewhere?)  

Immobile trumps migraine, so I was caring for everyone with my headache. I do not recommend this. By Wednesday night, I felt beaten. Driving home from work, exhausted, head pounding, I put in a CD called The Deepest Acceptance by Jeff Foster. He reminded me that most of my suffering comes when I want things to be different from how they are. Right. It’s so simple and so true. Is the headache causing my pain, or the fact that I want the headache to go away right this instant? Is Carl being on his back causing my pain or the fact that I want him to be up and helping right this instant? Is the snow causing my pain or the fact that I want it to be spring right this instant? Usually, what is causing my suffering is the latter. Something happens, and I don’t like it, but it’s the fighting against it tooth and nail that causes the bulk of my pain.

Why is this thought helpful? Because I can’t change the fact that the headache is here. I have meds, but they don’t always work. The headaches come when they come, and go when they go. But changing the way I think about them does relieve some of the suffering.

The snow is another example. I hate winter. So when a friend texted me yesterday to ask if Daniel and I wanted to come play in the snow with her, my first (inward) response was “hell, no.” But, after being cooped up all morning with my husband on his fourth day at home immobile, I decided an outing was a good idea. We bundled up, and trudged outside. Daniel brought his shovel with him, shoveling walks as we went. I had to admit, once I stopped wishing the snow wasn’t here, that it was beautiful. My friend was thrilled to see us, which further lifted my spirits. We lied on her lawn and made snow angels. We hunted for a sled in her basement, finding an old snowboard instead. We constructed a hill on her porch steps, then watched Daniel slide down it over and over and over, saying, “I wanna go fast!” and “Can I go again?” My grumpiness and my headache slid away as Daniel slid down the hill, as we laughed and played in the crisp winter air, laughing and loving it. 

Some days pain appears, some days joy appears. Some days both. Jeff Foster says we don’t have to try accept anything, that anything that appears we have already allowed into our experience, and have therefore already accepted. I like that. I don’t have to try to accept, I’ve already accepted. Just for today, I accept that it is March 6, that my world is snow covered, that I did not get as much work done this week as I wanted, but that I took care of myself, I was a good wife, a good mom, and I had a beautiful day with my boy yesterday. Just for today, that feels like enough.

Biggest Party Night of the Year - With Kids

Nothing can stop this family from having a good time

The night before Thanksgiving used to mean meeting friends in a swanky lounge downtown, or a local neighborhood pub, or a sweaty dance club. For a few years, when most of my friends had kids, but I didn't, I held on to this tradition, tried to rally my gang for a night out, unable to accept that things had changed. Now, three years into parenthood myself, I get it. I'm not getting a babysitter for Thanksgiving Eve. Not gonna happen. But as I contemplated the weekend arriving, I wanted to be with friends. My nights in sweaty clubs may be (mostly) on pause, but that doesn't mean I can't see friends. So I took matters into my own hands, brought the party to me.

What the biggest party night of the year looks like, with kids, is this:

Your husband for some reason decides to clean off the top of the fridge for the first time in 10 years, right before everyone arrives, leaving the whole house smelling like bleach. This makes you open the windows even though it's 25 degrees and snowing. He's still vacuuming when people are arriving, since "there will be babies crawling," and though you want to murder him, because who cares if the rug is dirty when the food isn't ready, you remember his mom telling you to never interrupt a man who is cleaning, and remind yourself that it's good to have a clean rug and a sweet husband.

Four other families with youngens come, arriving at 6 pm. You order pizza, cook up some veggies from the CSA, and French fries for the kids. The guests bring crudite with hummus, Greek salad and pumpkin pie. You feast, eating in shifts, some people standing. Parents are used to this. When Rhoda stands, you discover she was sitting on your son's stethoscope. She laughs and said she didn't even feel it. You love her for this.

Daniel, Jacob and Ruthie, ages 3, 3 and 5, eat quickly - only pizza and fries, obviously, and then go play in the living room. When Teddy, age 3 arrives, he joins them. The babies, Trixie, Tyler and Kieran, ages 7 to 12 months, join the fray. After dinner, parents sit on couches, sprawl on the floor, talk in pairs or triads. The moms sit in the dining room for a blessed fifteen minutes and talk about comedy dreams, while the dads manage the mayhem in the living room. A few times you look in the living room and shudder to see every scarf, glove and hat that you own strewn about, along with every lego, toy, musical instrument and book. Oh well, it is the biggest party night of the year.

At 8:15, Lauren starts to pack up baby Trixie, the youngest of the bunch, with the biggest eyes, and most adventurous palate (duck confit, yes please says baby Trixie.) The dads do a crazy cleanup sweep that you wouldn't believe if you hadn't witnessed it. Your living room is restored to order in five minutes. Babies are bundled into car seats, kids into winter clothes. Hugs and kisses are exchanged. Your little guy is jumping on the couch like a maniac, fueled not even by sugar, but by the sheer excitement of Thanksgiving Eve. He's shouting Happy Halloween! Happy Easter! Your husband puts him to bed as you begin cleaning up and cutting up the bread to make the stuffing for Thanksgiving dinner.

No alcohol was served, it was hardly swanky, but it was loud, and full of love, and connection. The only thing missing was dancing. Next year, I'm adding a dance party to the mix.

Is Bottle Good Enough?

I'm very excited to share an essay I wrote about breastfeeding, published by Bitch magazine. Please read it if you're interested, and pass it along to any moms who may benefit from my experience.

As always, I love to hear your responses, either here on the blog, by email, or any way you wish to share them. I know many women, like me, have trouble with nursing. Failing at this act that seems like it should be so easy and natural caused me a lot of shame, and pain, at a time when I was vulnerable, hormonal, and sleep-deprived. The judgment from health professionals, other moms, and strangers didn't help. I might still be a tad angry. But writing the article helped. Check it out:

Is Bottle Good Enough?

What If He Wore Pajamas to School?

So apparently the "terrible twos" is a big fat lie and it's actually the "terrible threes." Here I was, thinking we were out of the woods, when the trouble was just beginning.

Okay, it's not all bad

Carl was away for nine days, though it's never easy, this trip coincided with the beginning of what I'll call an ornery phase. A few examples:

D: I want cereal for breakfast.
(upon seeing cereal in his bowl.)
D: I want yogurt for breakfast!!!

Me: Time for bed.
D: It's not time for bed.

Me: I like your haircut.
D: You don't like my haircut.

And then there's getting dressed. What was once a longish, fairly annoying process has become pure torture. For me. In Carl's absence, running late for work, out of patience, I slammed the bedroom door and told him that we weren't leaving his room until he was dressed. This set us up for a show down that left me completely drained, by 8:30 a.m.

Upon recounting this to a friend with adult children, she said, "What if you had just let him wear his pajamas to school?"

Her question stopped me short. I thought about it. "Everyone would have judged me," I said. "All the teachers, and other parents."

My friend paused, then said gently, "Probably not."

I exhaled loudly, realizing two things: she was right, and even if she wasn't, even if they all judged me, the awful fifteen minutes of forcing my child to get dressed was just not worth it. Let them judge.

So now, whenever I start to have a conflict with Daniel, I ask myself, "What if he doesn't: brush his teeth, put on his shoes, eat his carrots, say goodbye, etc?" And most of those battles, I let them go. Because if I'm going to survive the threes with any serenity, I'm going to have to pick my battles.