The world of youth sports provides an interesting glimpse into American mentality. If there was ever a place to witness the egomania that has become such a widely recognized characteristic of our nation, it is in the stands of a little league baseball game. I know. I've spent countless hours there.

My husband and I signed our son up for his first season of baseball when he was five years old. We thought it would be a great learning experience for him. We hoped he would begin to gain some fundamental sports skills, of course, but mostly we just wanted him to be part of a team and have some fun. Baseball is a game, after all. Turns out we were late in introducing team sports to our first born. At age five, he was already behind. I guess it's more acceptable for kids to begin team sports at age three in suburban Atlanta. You know, while they still trip over their own feet walking on flat, unobstructed surfaces and have attention spans lasting approximately two and a half minutes.

Admittedly, it's adorable to watch three-year-olds on a soccer field. Their shin guards are big enough to protect their thighs and they run in circles chasing one another while the ball rolls in the opposite direction. They're just as cute playing baseball. They dig in the dirt while playing center field and sit down on the bases to rest in the middle of an inning. Let's face it, toddlers doing anything in uniforms are cause for extreme amounts of sideline photography - I get the excitement in that.

I don't think we're doing our children a desservice by encouraging them to play sports at young ages. It's good for kids to try new things, work on their gross motor skills, improve their hand-eye coordination. Sports were a huge part of my life as I grew up and I believe they instilled in me all kinds of important values including confidence, patience, determination, and a positive attitude, just to name a few. I do, however, find it disturbing to see that youth sports no longer seem to be viewed as activities designed to promote physical activity and build values. Youth sports in America today are serious business.

Today, children in elementary school take costly private lessons in the sport of their choice. Today, it's not sufficient for a child to play in a youth league at their local park. Instead, they try out for travel teams and their parents drive them all over town to play in games that prove they are better than the kids playing at their local parks. Today, parents pull their kids out of school and travel across the country for higher levels of competition. Today, men coaching eight year olds get into yelling matches over a score. Today, it seems many parents aren't interested in encouraging their children to gain beneficial values through youth sports. They are more concerned with encouraging their children's success.

I like to tell people that our son Charlie is "dabbling" when they ask me what sport he likes best. He's taken tennis lessons. He hits golf balls on the range with his daddy. He went to soccer camp one summer, lacrosse and flag football camp the next. He plays baseball in the spring and basketball in the winter.

Sadly, it seems our "dabbling" approach is unacceptable to many parents. Some believe my child should already have picked his specific sport - you know, the one he's going to do for the rest of his life and turn into a highly lucrative career that will allow my husband and me to retire early to an oasis on the beach somewhere.

Charlie started to do some pitching last fall. It was one of the most nerve-wracking experiences of his life. No . . . not for him. For his parents. While our son was on the mound enjoying the opportunity to be involved in every play of an inning, Adam and I were on the bleachers pulling our hair out with anxiety.

Obviously, we wanted our son to be successful. We wanted him to perform well and contribute to his team. We were also slightly fearful. What if someone hits a line drive right back to Charlie's face? I witnessed that during a softball game in my own days of youth sports and I assure you it wasn't pretty. Yet, as my husband and I watched our child pitch, our overwhelming emotion wasn't fear or a desire for Charlie to pitch so well his team emerged victorious. Our concern centered on our child's overall well-being. The outcome of the game didn't matter. It never will. It's a game. The future didn't matter either. We have no aspirations for Charlie's future in sports. At eight years of age, our son is barely four feet tall and weighs only fifty pounds. We understand how difficult it is to become a world class athlete, especially with stats like those. Still, I will never forget the magnitude of emotions that shook my soul the first time I sat in the stands and watched my son go to work on a little league pitcher's mound. My need for him to do his best, not THE best but HIS best, was a desperate one. I longed for him to feel good about his effort and ability in a way I find difficult to explain.

Charlie was a fine little pitcher during the fall baseball season. He was even better in the spring. In fact, he was so much better that he was asked to try out for a summer all-star team. I was against it on account of the daily practices, the faraway tournaments, and the Atlanta humidity. My husband felt we had to give Charlie the choice. I relented, Charlie tried out, made the team, and our foray into the seriousness of youth sports in America officially began.

I could tell you about the undeniable increase in intensity I felt around me during my son's all-star games. I could tell you about the parents who cheered blatantly against opposing teams instead of simply cheering for their own teams. I could even tell you about the fist fight between fathers that likely would have occured had not a large umpire stepped in to stop it. I think the most important thing I can tell you, however, is that after a month of all-star baseball, I saw a shift in Charlie's mindset. When the spring season ended, our son had only positive feelings about baseball. He loved the game and believed he was good at it. After his all-star team lost EVERY game they played, Charlie no longer had such confidence in his baseball abilities. That's a true shame.

People offered all kinds of reasons for the winless record of Charlie's all-star team - reasons that involved parents lying about birth dates and ignoring rules about practice limits. Some of the kids on the other teams were twice the size of Charlie and one looked like he might have driven himself to the game, so hey, who knows . . . maybe there are parents out there who place such significance on little league baseball that they would rather win than demonstrate basic human decency. Honestly, I just think there are plenty of kids in the metro Atlanta area who have more athletic talent than my kid. And that's okay.

Charlie wanted to play baseball again this fall, so I suppose the all-star season didn't damage his attitude about youth sports in a permanent way. For me, the worst part of the experience wasn't that it opened my eyes to the importance many well-meaning parents have placed on youth sports today. The worst part was that it allowed the American mentality residing within me to rear its ugly head in recognizable fashion. It showed me that no matter how much emphasis I place on my child having fun and being a good teammate and demonstrating sportsmanship and doing his best, I can't help but want his best . . . to be good enough. How else do you explain the fact that while my child was on the pitcher's mound, I was silently praying for him to strike out the kid at the batter's box, even when, deep down, I knew the batter's mother was likely on the other side of the bleachers praying for her child to hit the ball out of the park. Clearly, the other mom must have been praying a whole lot louder.

Or maybe her son takes private hitting lessons three times a week.

She said it matter-of-factly and the words themselves held no meaning. Still, they rocked my world.

I stepped into the shower with her, as I did many nights, and positioned myself in the corner so as not to take too much of the hot water. That had been an issue during these showers. She still preferred baths, where she could have all the hot water to herself.  But we had eaten dinner out, and on the way home, I informed my daughter it would be a shower night, for the sake of time. I moved my head under the stream of water as quickly as possible, then back out again, and reached for the shampoo on the shelf.

"Mom, I've already washed my hair and my body so I just need to use some conditioner and I'll be good to go."

The words had no significance. They weren't important words. They weren't even interesting words. If I'd heard the sentence come out of someone else's mouth, it would have had no impact. The words meant nothing other than the fact that my daughter was informing me she had removed the grime of the day. Yet, they made my head spin. They made my stomach twist into an uncomfortable knot. You see, it wasn't the words she said.

It was the echo of myself I heard so distinctly as she said them.

A smile crossed my face for the briefest of moments as I realized my daughter had said something I would say in exactly the way I would say it. It was like listening to a self-recording. The voice, the intonation, the phrase; all so familiar. I felt an overwhelming sense of pride and then . . . what? I couldn't put my finger on it, but my heart clenched inside my chest. My eyes filled and I turned to face the stream of water flowing from the shower head, letting it wash away the tears.

I wanted a daughter. The first go-round I wanted a son and God blessed me with Charlie. He was beautiful and perfect - a dream come true in every way. When I was pregnant for the second time, I wanted a girl. I didn't tell anyone I felt that way because, really, who doesn't just want a healthy baby with ten little fingers and ten tiny toes (and preferably no colic). But in the dark silence, just before I went to sleep each night, I prayed for a girl.

Please God. Please give me a daughter.

God answered that prayer with Libby.

She has been so different from what I expected. So different from her brother, the only other baby I've ever loved with a passion so complete and magnificent it still astounds me.

My son and I are alike in many ways, and those ways seem to grow as he does. We are perfectionists, type A's. We want to do everything well, even things we've never tried before. We like routine. We need to know what's coming next. We like a challenge and take pleasure in striving to meet goals. We can have fun and be silly, but by nature, we are serious much of the time. We don't enjoy chaos and we don't mind sitting in silence.

I'm pleased Charlie inherited much of my personality. It suits him. It works. He's just who he is supposed to be. I believe that to my core. Sometimes he makes choices I would like to change, but rarely because they are bad choices. They are simply safe choices. The choices I would have made at his age.

My daughter isn't like me. She can have the lead in a school play. She can study abroad during college. She can hike through Europe and go on a mission trip to Africa and accept an internship in Manhattan.

My daughter isn't like me. She doesn't judge others. She doesn't envy others. She doesn't plan obsessively, clean incessantly, worry constantly.

My daughter isn't like me. She's more confident than I am. She's more outgoing. She's more spirited, more daring, more thoughtful, more loving, more helpful, more hopeful, more affectionate, more beautiful, more . . .

She's just more.

I don't want Libby to be like me. She's not supposed to be like me. She's supposed to be different. She's supposed to be better.

I guess most mothers project expectations on our children. That's part of our job, after all. We expect our kids to do the things we know they're capable of doing. We expect them to learn to use the bathroom on their own and chew with their mouths closed and ride a two-wheeled bicycle. Before we know it, we expect them to complete homework on time and study for science tests and take the trash out on Friday mornings. Mothers work every day to make sure we're doing our part to help our children meet our expectations and reach their potential because we believe those are our roles as parents. Yet, I can't help but wonder . . . are we really trying to help our children become the best they can be, or are we trying to turn them into everything we wish we were?

I don't want Libby to be like me. Yet, she is. I see myself in her face, her body, her actions, her voice. Genes are strong, my friends. I know this because when I look at a picture of me at the age of five, it looks exactly like a picture of my son at the age of five. I know this because I have the same need for botox in the same spot on my forehead my father needs it. I know this because I made the mistake of wearing shorts while doing yoga not long ago, and when I was in the downward dog position, I saw my mother's knees.

Beyond the genetics, there's the influence factor. I'm blessed to be a stay-at-home mom and I will be forever grateful for that fact. My daughter has spent a large portion of nearly every day of her life in my presence. My influence simply cannot be denied. Of course Libby walks like me and talks like me and, sometimes, acts like me. God made her mine. He chose me to be her mother.

Libby has met every expectation my husband and I have had for her. She rolled over on time and sat up on schedule. She crawled at six months, walked at nine, and started telling us all her opinions not long after her first birthday. She sleeps in a big girl bed, holds a pencil correctly, and reads like the wind.

Still, I suppose my job has always involved more than encouraging my children to meet expectations. I have to lead by example. I have to demonstrate and model and instruct and lecture and demand and train until my children have become the best they can be. And while I do all of that, I have to remember who is ultimately in control. God created my children and He is the one who will shape their lives and direct their paths. No matter what those paths may be, I have to love my children unconditionally while reminding them that my love for them is nothing compared to God's love for them. Then, after all the training and relinquishing control and unconditional loving, I have to pray. And I have to trust. And I have to believe that my children's best will, most likely, be completely different that I ever could have expected. They will go farther, reach higher, dream bigger. They will do everything I couldn't. In the end, Charlie and Libby might turn out to be a lot like me. But I know they will also be smarter, stronger, better. I know they will be . . . more.

She’s really cute. She has these big brown eyes that look up at you with that “I’m adorable and you should love me a lot” look. She’s small and round and energetic and thrilled to see you every time you go anywhere near her. She sleeps the majority of the time. She even sleeps through the night in a little metal crate I can’t believe she finds comfortable. She’s only gone to the bathroom in the house a handful of times, most of which were probably my fault because I was too busy doing what I wanted to do instead of grabbing the leash and running for the backyard. She’s soft and fluffy and she learned to fetch in about two minutes. She rolls over so you can rub her belly after a nap. She doesn’t know her tail is attached to her body, which makes for quite a funny game of chase. Her fur is a beautiful caramel color and she has these silly white paws. She’s hypoallergenic and non-shedding. She likes peanut butter . . . a lot. She likes to chew . . . everything. Her name is Macie and she’s really cute.





She’s also driving me absolutely crazy.



My friends offered all kinds of positive encouragement when I told them my husband and I planned to surprise our kids with a puppy for Christmas. I know most of them were rather shocked that their Type A friend with a hint of obsessive-compulsive disorder running through her veins was going to allow an animal to inhabit her home, but they didn’t do anything to squelch the idea. They told me I could definitely do it. They told me I would love having a pet. They told me it would be loads of fun. They said it would be a great learning experience for our entire family.



What in the world were they thinking?



Macie has been with us for five weeks now and honestly, I’m thinking if I was going to put our family through this kind of insanity, I should have just had another baby. Seriously friends, it’s one thing to become a slave to a miracle created out of love between you and your husband after drinking too much red wine. It’s an entirely different beast to become a slave to a ridiculously expensive ball of fur that will never learn to talk, use a toilet, or wipe her feet before coming through the front door. If you think I’m being dramatic, I have three words for you . . . get a puppy. A puppy is easily as much work as a newborn, and remember, puppies don’t wear diapers. So not only do you have to clean up poop, you have to clean it off the brand new linen tree skirt your mother made you for your anniversary.



If I’d had a baby, I would be able to stay inside when it’s forty degrees, windy, and raining sideways. I could spend my days snuggled up on the couch with a ten-pound gift from God attached to my chest making adorable little sucking noises and reminding me to treasure every precious minute of life. Instead, I’m spending all my time freezing in the woods behind my house waiting for a ten-pound canine walking in circles trying to decide exactly which patch of the earth is the best spot for her to leave her mark.



If I’d gone ahead and had a third child, I would be receiving lovely gifts in the mail every other day – smocked outfits and tiny onesies and beautiful picture frames. With a new puppy, all I’m receiving are outrageous bills from the vet, who’s had more one-on-one time with me in the last month than my husband.



A newborn would have given me a reprieve from the busyness of life, the power to say “no,” if you will. People stop expecting you to fill your plate with social events and activities and duties when you’ve just had a new baby. You can turn down the many requests for help and volunteering and baked goods for a few relaxing months after you’ve given birth. But a puppy? Please, pile on the requests people. I don’t have anything going on. I can’t leave the house for more than two hours and when I am home, I’m interrupted every fifteen minutes to take a dog outside to sniff every blade of grass in the backyard, but no worries. I have plenty of free time on my hands. What can I do for you?



Babies smell wonderful. Puppies smell like . . . small dogs.



Babies don’t have teeth. Puppies have lots of teeth . . . sharp ones. And they like to use them.



When you put a baby down, she stays in one spot. When you put a puppy down, she runs right to your favorite rug and begins chewing it to bits.



After you give a baby a bath, you get to wrap him up in a warm towel and bury your head in the silky folds of his neck. After you give a puppy a bath, you need a raincoat.



Oh, and did I mention not a single person has offered to bring me dinner.



Okay, you’re right. I am being a tad dramatic. I’m not experiencing sleep deprivation, my nipples aren’t sore, and I don’t have an ice pack in my underwear. But after a month with Macie, I do believe there is something called post-puppy depression. And folks, I’ve got it.



I should probably make a confession here. The truth is . . . I wanted a puppy. Or at least, I wanted my children to have a puppy. I’ve never had a dog. I’m not a dog person - I believe we established that in a previous post. Still, I wanted my children to experience life with a pet. I don’t want them to grow up to be like me – I want them to smile when they see a dog on the street, not turn around and walk the other way. I felt a puppy would serve to bring even more love into our home. I thought she would be another special family member to cherish. I hoped she would make our daughter stop asking me when I’m going to have another baby. I even had the notion that a puppy might be a good form of daily “let it go” therapy for my OCD issues. Hey, statistics show pet owners lead happier, healthier, longer lives – I’m all for happiness, health, and longevity. And of course, like all naïve mothers out there, I also believed a pet would help teach my children to be more responsible.



“It will be good for Charlie and Libby to see what it’s like to care for another living creature.”



Yes, I actually said that. Out loud.



What in the world was I thinking?



I’m fairly certain I don’t need medication for my post-puppy depression. I did see a sign last week in front of a strip mall that said “Puppy adoptions today!” and immediately wondered if anyone would notice if I slipped Macie in one of the cages with the other poor, sad, homeless, orphan dogs. I think someone would adopt her right away. Remember, she’s really cute. Unfortunately, we paid to have that microchip thing inserted underneath our puppy’s skin so we would never lose her. Not so sure that was our best move.



I’ve had numerous inquiries into our puppy adventure over the past few weeks. Everyone is eager to know how things are going with our new addition. My response is the same almost every time.



“It’s a big adjustment, but I know it will be fine.”



Despite many moments of buyer’s remorse, I do believe it’s going to be fine. I feel confident that pet ownership will get easier and our family will begin to find the blessings in it. Macie won’t always be a puppy. One day, she will be an adult dog who doesn’t need four bathroom breaks every hour. One day, she will be able to roam the house with our complete trust in her ability not to damage anything. One day, she will lie at our feet without trying to eat our toes. One day, she will not think of the leash as her worst enemy. And one day, my kitchen will return to its usual state of order and cleanliness and lose the chew toys and baby gates causing my recent heart palpitations.





For now, however, we have a puppy. She’s challenging. She’s exasperating. She’s prompted several “WHO DO WE KNOW WHO WANTS THIS DOG BECAUSE I CAN’T DO THIS FOR ONE MORE SECOND!” phone calls to my husband. She’s even been the cause of one near nervous breakdown when said husband informed me that Cavachons typically live fifteen to eighteen years. Eighteen years. Eighteen years? Are you telling me I’ll be taking this dog out in the rain and the cold and the Atlanta humidity in late August for the next two decades of my life?





Oh. My. Word.





But . . . it will be fine. I know it will be fine. We will adjust and one day soon, we will all be fine. Until then, we will remain optimistic, continue praying for patience, and stay focused on Macie’s positives, or at least the one positive I can find . . . the fact that despite her willingness to look me in the face and squat on my kitchen floor less than thirty seconds after I took her outside, she really is cute.

I hate New Year’s resolutions.

Okay, okay.

I guess hate is a bit intense right after the holidays.

The truth is . . . I don’t hate the actual resolutions people often make at the beginning of a new year. It’s wonderfully exciting to look back and think ahead. To consider where you’ve been, what you’ve done, who you were. To plan adjustments that might make yourself and your life a better version of what it once was. I’m all for a little constructive reevaluation from time to time. I believe there can be a great deal of value in purposefully taking stock and deciding if the people and activities that have commanded our focus over a twelve month period have been worth our time and effort.

I make resolutions at the end of December like everyone else. In fact, I have a list that would make Atlas Shrugged seem short. (Just Google "longest novels ever written” if you don’t know what I’m talking about.) I want to improve. I want to be different in a myriad of ways. I want to eat less sugar and more spinach. I want to talk less and listen more. I want to buy less and save more. I want to complain less and celebrate more. I want to judge less and love more. I want to be a more enthusiastic parent, a more attentive wife, a more loving daughter, a more thoughtful friend. I want to be less impatient, less worried, less demanding, less of a perfectionist. I want to make changes in my life. I need to make changes in my life. So, like I said, I make New Year’s resolutions right along with the rest of you. I don’t hate the resolutions. I simply hate my inability to keep them.

I wonder . . . what if all this appraising of life we do at the end of each calendar year is completely futile because of its very nature, because it involves the act of contemplating the past and anticipating the future, because it causes us to immerse ourselves in what has already been and design what is yet to be –the two things we have absolutely no control over.

I wonder . . . what if we didn’t look back. What if we didn’t look ahead. What if we concentrated only on the present. Right now. This moment.

I guess some of those resolutions on our lists wouldn’t make much sense if we realized today could be our last. I mean really, if I knew I wasn’t waking up tomorrow morning I certainly wouldn’t spend forty-five minutes of today in a pouring sweat in my workout room and I would definitely be eating brownies for breakfast, cookies for lunch, and cake for dinner. Today’s line-up of snacks would involve French fries, chips and salsa, and several slices of pizza . . . IF I knew I wasn’t waking up tomorrow.

But, are those the kinds of resolutions we need to keep? Sure, it’s important to exercise and eat right, but aren’t those resolutions pretty low on the list of what really matters in our lives. It’s the big resolutions I’m thinking about here. The ones that have to do with how we spend the seconds of each day and how we treat the people we love.

If we viewed this day as our last, we would keep every truly important resolution we’ve ever made. If we could put all our energies into this day, think how we’d be able to transform our thoughts, words, and actions. I could be exactly who I want to be if I didn’t allow what has happened in the past or what might happen in the future to consume a single one of my thoughts. I would be so full of love and celebration and gratitude and joy if I could just consider this day to be the precious gift that it is.

I’ve crumpled up my list of New Year’s resolutions and thrown it in the trash. I don’t need a list to remind me what I want to do and who I want to be in 2012. I just need to remember one short sentence, seventeen simple words.

Psalm 118:24 This is the day that the Lord has made; let us rejoice and be glad in it.

Forget the past.

Ignore the future.

Focus on the present. The gift of today.

That’s all I have to do. It’s my one and only New Year’s resolution. I will probably fail at least three-hundred and sixty-five times, but this year, I will try to remember that each day could be my last. And I will live . . . and love . . . accordingly.

Now, pass me another brownie.:)