In Pursuit of the Perfect Picture. Or Even a Half-Way Decent One.

Some of you might have guessed, correctly, that I’m not at my most comfortable in front of a crowd. My gut-wrenching, visceral reaction to public speaking …. the fact I break out in a sweat at the thought of doing karaoke …. Obviously, performing, or even putting myself in a situation where a group of people MIGHT SEE ME, makes me twitchy. And not in a good way. If I’m with a group, it’s OK. But to be by myself, and know people are watching me, gives me hives. I have no idea why, and in fact, tell myself repeatedly that it’s silly. SILLY to feel that way. But, there it is. People watching me; the risk that I might make an ass out of myself in front of a crowd; frankly, it makes me blotchy in the chest.

We went to Kellen’s basketball game yesterday, and I was determined to get some good photos of him playing. A few things, however, were working against me. First, all the seats are on one side of the gym, and Kellen’s team was shooting in the goal at the other end for the entire game. (For some bizarre reason, they don’t switch goals at half-time in this league.) So 99 percent of the action I wanted was at the other end of the court. Plus, it’s an indoor gym, with fluorescent lighting, so there’s not really enough light to take action shots. I use my mamba-jamba telephoto lens in order to get close enough to the action, but the pics usually turn out grainy and underexposed. I try to offset these crappy photo-taking conditions by simply taking about a billion pictures. I figure if I stack the odds, eventually I’ll get lucky and get at least one or two good ones, right?

But alas, yesterday, I was having no luck whatsoever because again, all the action was on the wrong end of the court. So, despite the fact I hate to stand out in a crowd, hate to ever think I am the center of attention, I walked over to the vacant side of the gym to take pictures. So, there are the boys playing on the court. On one lonely side of the gym is me, standing by myself, valiantly peering through my lens hoping for a clear picture, and on the other side of the gym, directly across from me, are all the parents and grandparents and siblings and concession stand workers and anyone else who came to watch the game.

I’m not so sure my strategy worked. I’ve seen some beautiful photography on the blogs I follow, and love when people share their wonderful photos. But these? Not so wonderful.

I got some blurry photos:






I got quite a few of the back of his head:






Sometimes the pole was in focus, that's always lovely:




A few times, I was almost sure it would be a good shot, only to have some other kid step in front of Kellen at the exact moment I clicked the shutter button:



Some more blurry shots:






And probably the best blurry shot of the day:




Now, a normal person would start to get discouraged. A normal person would simply accept the cold hard truth that indoor action photography is better left to those professional photographers with their professional photography equipment. A normal person would just admit defeat, and sit down with her family to enjoy the game.

But I’m not a normal persona, am I? No, by golly, I’m a M.O.M. ! Which means, despite the fact all my pictures are turning out crappy, and I feel completely self-conscious standing by myself on the other side of the gym, I persevere.

I continue to peer through my lens, zooming, un-zooming, focusing, clicking ….. always, always following Kellen with my eyes, through my camera lens, hopeful, confident that eventually I will get just One. Good. Shot. I’m so single-minded ….. so dedicated ….. so focused on my goal …..

There goes a holler from the crowd!

I’m so busy looking through my lens I don’t see what has happened ….. what action did I miss?? Did Kellen do something amazing??? Why the sudden intake of breath from the crowd????

Sam, one of the boys on our team, had thrown a perfect arc, towards the basket, but unfortunately overshot the goal ………………… and the ball came down…………..

And landed right on the top of my head.

BOIIINNNNNGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGG!

Bounced. Right. Off. The. Top. Of. My. Head. Like you see in cartoons, people!

One of those “he couldn’t do that again in a million years” kind of shots!

And I realized, a nano-second too late, that the collective noises I heard from the crowd, the gasps, the intake of breath …. Was the fact that every one of them had a direct view of me getting hit in the head with the ball.

Yes, well, that’s inconspicuous, isn’t it?

It’s a little hard to blend in, when the referee blows his whistle to stop the game and rushes over to make sure you’re ok.

And everyone is watching, certain that you’ve just gotten a concussion.

The only thing that made it better? That really, truly helped me shake it off and get everyone to forget it had happened? When approximately 82 people after the game rushed over to offer me aspirin, and an ice pack. Because for somebody who just wants to pretend that it never happened, that made me feel even BETTER!

So I just perfected my bright smile, and laughed, and said, repeatedly, “No, I’m not hurt as much as I am embarrassed!” And just kept cringing inside.

And you know what’s really pathetic? Here are the first three thoughts that went through my head … in order:

1. Thank you Jesus that ball hit me on top of the head and not my camera because if it had broken my camera and my mamba-jamba telephoto lens I would have thrown myself on the ground crying and it would have been an ugly, ugly scene.

2. Please, please don’t let anyone have been taping that because I really don’t want to wind up on America’s Funniest Videos.

3. That actually didn’t hurt at all. Just how hard is my head, anyway????


Sadly, my best photo of the entire day was of Kellen sitting on the bench. I think I’ll leave the indoor action photography to the pros from now on.

It's all about having fun.

PS at the beginning --- can I just tell you guys that the comments regarding the previous entry have been cracking me UP for the past two days?? You guys should all sign in every single time because honestly, I have been laughing and laughing at with you. Thanks so much for posting --- you've made my entire week!!

Now, back to our regularly scheduled kvetching:

So, you might remember last year when Kellen played his first season of recreational basketball. You might remember that he played against giant freak mutant boys like this (now remember, Kellen is TALL for his age):




And that despite my long and honorable history of not having a competitive bone in my body, I wound up at his games with face paint and a big foam finger, screaming my lungs out, and pounding my clunky yet fashionable Nine West boots on the bleachers, every single Saturday. Truly, not some of my finer moments.

About a month ago, they were having signups for the new season of rec ball. I asked Kellen if he wanted to play again, and his comment was, “No, that coach yelled too much.” See? A chip off the old block. We are just not competitive. And there’s nothing wrong with that.

Then, I returned home one evening and got the following message off the answering machine:

“Hi, this is Coach H from Kellen’s basketball team. I just wanted to make sure you knew sign ups are going on this weekend and I’d love to have Kellen on my team again.”

Oh, wasn’t that nice? Listening to the message, I was starting to think that Kellen could learn to live with a little constructive criticism …. After all, maybe we both need to toughen up, and instead of being embarrassed of my deeply buried competitive streak, perhaps I should nurture it and fan the flames to life. Then, just then, the Coach dropped this little bombshell:

“But, when you go down to the rec center to sign up, do NOT take Kellen with you. Fill out the paperwork, and on the spot where they ask for his height, take six inches off what he really is and write that down. That way, they’ll hopefully assign us TALL kids to fill up the rest of the spots, if they think everyone on our team is short. See you at practice!”

OK, wait. Did he just say what I think he just said?

Did he just ask me to LIE on a 3rd grade recreation basketball application, and take six inches off my son’s height?????? Seriously????

Um, yeah. *That’s* who I want as a role model for my son.

So instead, we went down to a local church and signed Kellen up for a program called Upward. If you’ve never heard of it, it’s a Christian-based sports organization that offers (depending on the church) basketball, soccer, flag football, and cheerleading. The emphasis is on bible study first, sportsmanship second, teamwork third, and learning the fundamentals of basketball fourth. It’s supposed to be about fun and learning, not competition and winning. In theory, I agree. Wholeheartedly.

In reality, I’m thinking maybe Kellen needs to spend a little less time memorizing Bible verses and a little more time practicing on a court. I submit the following evidence:



OK, how can anyone this knock-kneed run at all?




"Reaching? REACHING? No, I wouldn’t call this reaching! I would call this ….. creative defense!"




"Damn gravity. Gets me every time."




Kellen, honey, while I appreciate the spontaneity of whatever dance this is you’re doing at your end of the court, it appears the ball action is taking place at the OTHER end. Perhaps you should try turning around????




Ah, look. NOW he’s getting the hang of it!!


Honestly, he’s enjoying it quite a bit and actually scored his first basket of the season today. Plus, his team won their game and the snack-mom brought Fruit Gushers, so all told, an incredibly successful day.

But I must confess, I’m missing my foam finger just a tiny bit.

RUNNING THE GAMUT

Day 56 OT

GUILT FOR LYING: The emotion I felt driving Kellen to his basketball game Tuesday evening when he asked if I knew what team they were “versing” (his word, not mine) and I told him no, actually, I don’t.

RELIEF: The emotion I felt when he saw the giant mutant blue team walk through the doors (ducking their heads so as not to bump them on the door frame) and he didn’t immediately burst into tears or wet himself.

BIGGER RELIEF: The emotion I felt when the first quarter team lined up and Kellen was NOT guarding the giantest of giant mutant boys, #13. Here’s a visual shot from the last game, in case you missed it:




EMBARRASSMENT: The emotion I felt when Blaine looked over at me during Kellen’s first quarter of play, my fists clenched, and reminded me, “It’s just a game, honey.”

HOPEFULNESS: The emotion I felt when half-time rolled around and our team was actually ahead by four points.

ANXIETY: The emotion I felt when the teams lined up for the third quarter, and Kellen *WAS* guarding giant mutant boy #13.

GRATITUDE: The emotion I felt when the quarter ended and giant mutant boy had not squashed my son flat as a pancake.

EXCITEMENT: The emotion I felt as the minutes ticked down and it looked like our team might win the game.

EMPATHY: The emotion I felt for the little (well, comparatively speaking, anyway) boy on the other team who double dribbled three times in a row and lost the ball each time in the fourth quarter.

EXHILERATION: The emotion I felt when the final buzzer went off and we had WON!!!

SHAME: The emotion I felt when I realized that MY adult inner happy dance was at the expense of the young boys on the blue team, who were now standing to the side, trying manfully not to cry, just like our boys were doing last week when *they* lost.

LIMP WITH RELIEF: The emotion I felt when I realized the game was really and truly over and I could quit holding my breath.

DREAD: The emotion I felt when the coach reminded us that now we are tied with the blue team for first place and will most likely play them again in the championship game. Here we go again!

No wonder I was exhausted by the time we got home that night!

They’re seven, for Pete’s sake. Blaine asked me, “If it’s this bad in elementary school, how are you going to be when he’s playing for a high school championship?” and I replied, “I’m writing a sick-note that day to excuse him from the game…. I just can’t take the pressure.”

I am not a competitive person! We refused to play Pictionary with our neighbors in North Dakota twenty years ago because the wife would continually jab the pencil in my direction and yell “In your FACE!” whenever she drew a better stick figure. I don’t need that kind of tension in my life ---- yet there I sat in the stands, sweaty and anxious, for a 7-yr old basketball game. Soccer didn’t do this to me; neither did baseball. What is it about that round, orange ball that mocks me …. Calling my name …. Heckling me???

Thankfully, I will be out of town and unable to attend Kellen’s game on Saturday. I think a little breather, a little time away from the sport that taunts me so, might be just the thing. Lord knows my cortisol level could use a break.

OH, MY. I’M TURNING INTO ONE OF *THEM*

Day 31 OT

Thanks so much to all of you (many of you teachers yourselves!) who wrote in the guestbook to let me know you would rather run through Hell wearing gasoline-soaked underpants than listen to children read at school. I have to say, I’m feeling much better about myself, knowing I’m in such good company!

Now, we turn our attention to an equally drastic matter: The fact I appear to be turning into one of those obnoxious sports parents.

Let me just say, in my own defense, the words “sports” and “Kristie” have never been used in the same sentence. I’ve never played team sports, or any kind of solo sport, unless you count cross-stitching. The most athletic thing I did in high school was sing in the Glee Club. Well, that’s not completely true. I was a member of the Drill Team (those girls in the short skirts who march with the band at halftime and carry pom-poms) but definitely not the most coordinated one.

Once, when we were lined up doing our high kicks (which were not very high for me because my legs were too chubby .... sadly, there goes my Rockettes career) I got my shoe caught in my best friend Susie’s skirt and essentially de-pantsed her in the front of the entire school. She wasn’t so happy about that. And once I got Jimmy Paisley’s trombone slide caught in my pom--pom and vaulted it into the crowd at a football game. That probably wasn’t the high point of my Dance Squad career, either.

My point is that outside of catching a fabulous shoe sale at Nine West, I’ve never really known the thrill of athletic conquest for myself. Reached out and grabbed the golden ring, as it were, or tasted the spoils of the victor. Nope, a rousing game of Cranium is about as vigorous as it gets for me.

Luckily, our kids take after Blaine and have a smidge more athletic ambition than I did. So far, they’ve partaken of soccer, t-ball, baseball, dance, and gymnastics. They’ve not been particularly fabulous at any of it, but at least they are coordinated enough that they don’t embarrass themselves like I probably would have when I was young. And I have always been the parent who sits on the sidelines, cheering and rooting them on, but clapping for the other team as well. I really do hate poor winners as much as I hate poor losers, so it’s been easy for me to stress the fun of the game, as opposed to the importance of winning over losing. Plus, up to this point, sports for my kids has been all about the snack at the end of the game. And honestly, is that such a terrible way to live your life?

Then, Kellen started playing basketball this season. What I know about basketball could fit in a thimble. But that’s ok because Kellen already has a coach and he doesn’t need me hollering at him. I show up, I clap and cheer whenever anyone on our team makes a basket and don’t get worked up about anything else. I mean, it’s just a game, after all.

Until the game this Saturday, when my unbeknownst-to-me, long-lost, deep-buried competitive nature reared its ugly head.

It started out as a normal day, much like any other. We arrived at the gym a few minutes early and got to watch the game before ours play out. Then, just as Kellen’s team was warming up, we saw the opposing team walk through the door. My first thought was, “What is a high school team doing here in a 7 and 8 yr old league?” If you know Kellen, you know he is tall for his age. Not freakishly tall, but a good half a head taller than most of his classmates. He’s 7, and is still one of the tallest on his 7-8 yr old team. But, check out the kid he was assigned to guard:




All I can say is that 8 yr old's parents must be going BROKE buying Wheaties for the boy!

Needless to say, at the end of the first quarter, the score was 10-1 …. and not in our favor. But since I’m not competitive by nature, that was ok. Just remember, it’s all about having fun. Fun and snacks. Then, something amazing happened. Our team, shorter and smaller though they were, began to find chinks in the armor of the mutant giant team. By halftime, the score was 18-10, and our boys weren't backing down at all. Hey …. this was starting to get interesting.

The third quarter, the crowd around me was rallying our team and we managed to gain on them even more, only trailing by six points when the fourth quarter began. And point by point, basket by basket, we began to close the gap, while the clocked ticked away in the quarter.

Before I realized what had happened, I was on my feet with the rest of the parents, “Woof, woof!”-ing every time we scored and pumping my fist in the air, actually working up a bit of a sweat with my whooping and hollering. When we sank the basket that tied the game in the final seconds, I was jumping up and down on the metal bleachers and making quite an impressive racket with the heels of my favorite boots (I told you, Nine West has nothing on me!) and screaming like we had just scored Olympic gold. Brayden looked over at me, with a horrified look on her face and simply said, “Mom, what are you doing?” I hadn’t shown that much emotion since Rupert won a million dollars on Survivor.

When the final buzzer went off and the other team realized we had tied them (the only game this season they haven’t won, apparently) the lady behind me was shouting, “Uh, huh, now THAT’S what I’m talking about!!!” and I was gesticulating wildly in the stands, supplying my own “You go girl, tell it like it is!” and knocking people about the head with my victory dance.

Truly, me discovering my untapped athletic competitive nature in this fashion, was ugly. But I had tasted the fruit of rivalry, of coming from behind and thwarting a competitor, and I liked it. I was already planning where I could purchase orange and black face paint for next week’s game, and maybe buy one of those hats with the can-holders and straws on the side, when Kellen ran up to me and said the one thing that could pull me back to reality: “Mom, look! The snack lady brought my favorite flavor of Power-Ade, woohoo!”

Ok, whew. Thanks for bringing me back down to earth, kid, and for reminding me that all that matters is having fun. Well, that and the snack.

**************************************************
QUOTE OF THE DAY:

I was driving the kids to a birthday party on Saturday which was being held at a bowling alley we had never been to. Kendrie was worried I didn’t know the way, despite my reassurances that I knew where the alley was and that we wouldn’t be late. She kept saying, “But are you sure you know where it is?” and finally Kellen replied, “Of course she knows. She’s a mom, she knows everything.” (Because this is what I tell them all the time) to which Kendrie replied, “Uh-uh. I bet she doesn’t know how to spell supercalifragilisticexpialidocious.” At which point I turned around and spelled it for her. Whether I got it right or not, who knows? The important thing is that *she* doesn’t know how to spell it either and I still have my bluff in on her!