Coaches as role models

by Jillian @ http://blueshelled.com . May 28, 2011 . 3:46AM

Down at the little baseball diamond, the parents of little league players sit through most weather conditions on steel bleachers that are excruciatingly hot in the summer, freezing cold on those fall and spring evenings and when it rains? They can collect puddles with the best buckets made. We frequently trade stories of our kids, knowing glances, laughs as we yell something to our child and they turn around and glare at us and comments regarding basic social chitchat such as the weather. We are aware when a stranger is in our midst because we have parent-dar that zones in on the abnormal so that we can protect our children.

One morning, during a boiling little league extravaganza that watched us being blown away inning after inning, my stranger-dar went off. An elderly African-American gentleman was sitting and watching the game and he’d make little comments regarding stance and how the children were holding the bat. I smiled to myself as it occurred to me that he was a former coach watching the game and that none of these were his grandchildren. He was there for love of the game.

As I listened to his comments, men came up to him, one after another, with looks on their faces such as one might give a celebrity. Slack-jawed, excited, awed and amazed. “Do you remember me?” They addressed him with such reverence and each of them took the time to sit with him, reminisce, and then tell him how much he meant to them and what they were doing now. Some pointed out their own children in their brightly colored uniforms and, with smiles, let him know that their kids didn’t make the same baseball mistakes they did. No, sir.

What I saw was pure respect for this man. A man who’d coached little league for over 20 years, he’d tell me at another game. Some of his former players are doctors and lawyers and a few played in college. When the game was slow, he’d shake his head and look at me with an impish grin, “Don’t they know a hit is as good as a walk? What are they waiting for?” I laughed and agreed. At this stage in little league, there are few pitches worth hitting, but when they are there, I sure wish they’d go after them, too. The games are an hour and a half long and the parents are there diligently. Show us some action!

He still comes to the ballpark because he loves the games, he loves the kids and when he’s there, people treat him like a celebrity. He made a difference! Not a small difference, a huge difference. For 20 years he was a coach to some special kids who got to have him as a teacher, a role model, a friend, a counselor, a surrogate parent and a cheerleader. He wiped tears, encouraged them, taught them fundamentals and sportsmanship and left a lasting impression on these people that they haven’t forgotten.

They treat him with awe and they respect him. How many of us have adults that we revered as such when we were growing up? That we treat with such honor when we see them? He has at least 3 come up to him every game and he treats every one of them like they are the only one who has ever done it. He still makes them feel special.

I feel special just to be able to watch what he does and how he’s affected them.

How are you making a positive impact on the lives of children around you? Will they revere and respect you in 20 years? If not, what can you do to change it?

Pen Review: Cross Edge

by Jillian @ http://blueshelled.com . May 27, 2011 . 12:20AM

It’s funny to me, and probably to her as well, but my friend April developed a cult-like following after this post. I would be remiss if I never talked about her again, especially in the context of another special part of our lives that she and I share: We love school supplies. In fact, if you want to make either of us happy, give us a good pen. There was a trivia night that the host brought a pen and we each took turns that night writing with the pen and determining that yes, it was a good pen and that perhaps we should decide who was taking home the pen that night. Relax, we leave pens sometimes, too, but that? That was a good pen. It was only a stick pen, but it’s what’s inside that counts.

I’m a pen-junkie. There is no way around it and there is no other word for it. Pen-aholic? Regardless, I love a good pen. My friends good-naturedly rib me about hoarding the good pens and being finicky about having them returned to me when I’ve lent them out to others. To say a good pen is important to me is like saying cheese is important to a hamburger. I can already describe to you what my ideal pen is like: medium heavy, slightly curved, ball-point (ALWAYS), with a fine/medium tip and never smudges. If it’s pretty, that’s a bonus, but it’s got to write well or all the prettiness in the world doesn’t save the pen from being half-heartedly given away with the wish it was better.

When I pulled the Cross pen out of it’s beautiful brown box my immediate thought was “this one is going to be too heavy.” As I looked at it, I was confused. I tried to click it. It’s not a clicky-pen. I tried to roll the bottom. It’s not a rollie-pen. No, the Cross Edge in Titanium is a sheath of a pen that pulls out. Like a light saber. It even has some neat decorations at the top that make it look like a sophisticated light saber and I felt powerful just opening it.

I started humming the Star Wars theme and looked at the specs. Oh dear. It’s a black gel pen (refills come in several colors) and a roller ball. Now, we know how I feel about both of these and they don’t fall under ideal, but the pen glides when I write with it, it doesn’t smudge, it doesn’t stick and it’s not too heavy. Also, when I’m talking with a client, I can quietly close my light saber, I mean my pen, without attracting too much notice, to avoid getting pen marks on my hand while I softly roll it from side to side. Yesterday, I thought I’d misplaced the pen and I went into a panic.

In three days time this pen has become indispensable to me. Sheer perfection, Cross. Well-done. I want more, which is greedy considering I got this one for free because I’m a Bzzagent and am reviewing it. Father’s Day is coming and…well, do you really need an excuse to buy pens? I know I don’t and neither does April. I’d buy her one, but then I’d just take it from her. I love her, but a good writing pen is worth gold in these parts.

If you’d like one, since I’m a Bzzagent, Cross has a great deal where they will give you guys a special offer if you type the code SHOPCROSS into the promotional box when checking out of their online site. You get 20% off as well as free shipping, which is super nice. Pens for everyone! Spread the word.

Book Review: Things We Didn’t Say by Kristina Riggle

by Jillian @ http://blueshelled.com . May 25, 2011 . 8:45PM

Some people lead lives full of problems. In Things We Didn’t Say by Kristina Riggle, 26-year-old Casey has a mess of them. She’s engaged to Michael, a man 10-years her senior, who has three children with an ex-wife who is a non-recovering alcoholic with multiple mental disorders. Casey’s secrets come back to haunt her when Michael’s middle child, Dylan, disappears after being dropped off at school one day and his oldest child, Angel, finds Casey’s journal and reads it.

It’s infrequent that there are no sympathetic characters in a novel, but I feel like Ms. Riggle may have wanted it this way. The novel is often gritty and you can truly relate to Casey’s need to get away from the overbearing Michael who has not an ounce of empathy in his self-absorbed body. While Casey is the youngest adult in the novel, she’s often the most accepting and tolerant and I found myself wanting to leave this novel to get away from her situation. While they search for Dylan, Casey is forced to deal with Michael’s ex-wife, who is vilified in her need for her children and her oppositional use of them to get Michael back into her life. Casey, herself, seems at odds with her care for the children and her wanting of them to get away from her so she could have Michael to herself and this novel takes the wicked mother/exhausted-wicked stepmother idea to the edge of what it can possibly be without leaving reality.

Overall, this is not your beach read and it can be mentally exhausting at times. However, for those that are looking for a realistic portrayal of a difficult situation made more difficult by a crisis, this is going to hit all of the emotional buttons. My only catch was that the ending felt inauthentic to me, but the character wasn’t mine to choose her path.

Disclaimer: I received this book for free in order to review it! Thanks for letting me share my thoughts.

A tisket a tasket

by Jillian @ http://blueshelled.com . May 17, 2011 . 8:04PM

Every now and then, when I feel a lot of stress or pressure, I find myself reciting old nursery rhymes in my head. Mother Goose was a favorite when I was a child and I may not be able to remember entire stories, but a phrase here and there will pop up like a jack in the box during particularly frustrating moments of the day. At a red light. When someone cuts in front of me in line. When I need to use the restroom and someone is taking their sweet time in there.

As a child, I never realized how important those little routines were to me, although the adults around me must have, being that I likely threw a fit when I didn’t have my routines on a daily basis. As a child, you only know that you want what you want and you don’t always know why. Sometimes I feel that way as an adult as well. I want what I want and I don’t know why.

Routine is still important to my well-being and I still find myself using my routine as a measure of comfort. The days that I step off of my routine I find myself feeling out of sorts and irritable and “jack and jill” and “humpty dumpty” may start running through my head as I pull in deep breaths and try to clear my mind. Today is one of those days. Exercise has become part of my daily routine and I never thought I’d say that. Today, however, I woke up still exhausted. It happens about one or two days a month that I wake up still tired enough to go straight back to bed. I’m guessing it’s a chemical flux and that it’s my body’s way of telling me to take a day to relax.

Regardless of what I want on those days, I have no choice. I’m so fatigued that my routine is out the window. I’m used to it on my chronic pain/migraine days, but on the sheer fatigue days, I cannot resolve myself because I want what I want when I want it. Spoiled and childish, to be sure, but it’s my ROUTINE. It’s what calms me. And today, I can’t have it.

Loss and coping

by Jillian @ http://blueshelled.com . May 2, 2011 . 6:16PM

As he walked through the door with the largest pink flower I’d ever seen, he grinned and talked about how he’d found it on the ground and wasn’t it beautiful? It truly was. Fragrant and bulbous and clearly picked from the yard of one our neighbors. He’d taken to doing this lately and though he’d been grilled about this action and reprimanded, his reasons for doing it were altruistic and it hurt my heart to yell at him once again.

Often, he’d walk up to me and proffer the flowers for his “amazing, wonderful mama,” but lately the flowers had been for our turtle, Petey. He’d recently discovered that flowers were a delicacy for Petey and the more fragrant the flower the more Petey would tear into it with relish. Petey tended towards a grumpy nature and would rarely open his eyes for anything more than what appeared to be a piratey “Argh” when he was prodded, so to see him come out of his shell, literally, to eat that flower with gusto was a sight for AJ to behold. We’d stand around Petey’s pen and watch him eat and imagine that the flowers put him in a better mood.

Last night, though, I’d been at my friend Bryan’s house until late. When I came home, I immediately checked in on Petey, as I do frequently throughout the day. I noticed that he was splayed in a fashion that was unnatural to him and picked him up to check on him. When he didn’t open his eyes to glare at me, it occurred to me that something was terribly wrong. His little limbs didn’t move and prodding him didn’t change his posture. Petey was gone.

Lately he’d been lethargic and I’d attributed it to the changing seasons. I’d taken him outside a couple of days earlier for some sunshine and even that time in the sun and shade hadn’t perked him up. His shell had become flimsy and, after looking at some information online, it became apparent to me that he’d had a disease that we hadn’t caught. Because AJ was sleeping, and Petey couldn’t stay in the cage like that, he was laid to rest in the creek behind the house. I didn’t want AJ to wake up without his turtle and not know why, so I woke him up and gently told him the news. He checked on Petey often and had I not told him, he would have been startled to not find him.

He was confused, but I thought he understood what I was telling him. I was wrong.

Oh, my sweet boy. My sensitive child.

When he took Sophie for a walk this afternoon and brought home that pink flower with the biggest grin he could muster, I never once considered Petey. He walked up to the fireplace mantle, where we kept Petey’s cage, looked at me and arched his eyebrow slightly.

“Mom, where did you put Petey?”

Oh no.

I explained to him that I’d told him last night that Petey had passed away. The most terrible look crossed his face and I will not forget his words. “But, what will I do with this flower now? I brought it home for him to eat. He loves flowers.”

I was at a loss, but told him to put it in a bowl and put it on Petey’s spot on the mantle. He did and silently went to the couch where he looked at it for a moment and his face crumbled. He was upset that he didn’t get to say goodbye so we went down to the creek and he placed the flower in it and said his goodbyes. He’s understandably confused about why turtles have to die and what happens to turtles when they die and whether or not he will see his turtle friend again.

Ultimately, I think the main question we face when we lose someone we love is did we love them enough? Did they feel our love? Did they know what they meant to us? In this case, did this turtle know he was a beloved turtle to a 10-year old boy who loved his grumpy little face enough to face punishment for stealing the neighbors flowers on a regular basis so that turtle could have a delicious treat? Because, after all, we make sacrifices for those we love. Make no mistake, that turtle was loved. But did he know it?

It may seem a little ridiculous to wonder if a turtle felt loved or not, but it doesn’t feel ridiculous to me nor does it feel ridiculous to AJ. Everyday, Petey was part of our day and he made our lives better. Many people I know are grieving right now and I see the questions in their face as to whether or not the person or thing they are grieving felt their love or knew what was given for that relationship.

We all want to feel loved. I wonder if any of us know the true extent of how much we really are adored? If this turtle was enough to break an adult and a child, how much more so are we to those around us?

RIP little one