Motivating Your Family Team
Moms, if you’re having difficulty getting Dad to come on board with disciplining or simply spending time with the
kids, this column is for you. Dads, if you’re bewildered about how to approach the whole fatherhood gig, listen up.
Apply sports knowledge to parenting, and you’re good to go.
Sports are more prevalent and popular in today’s society than perhaps at any other time in history. Children
begin to play on organized teams as early as age four. Professional athletes command tremendous, even
exorbitant, salaries. Children and adults have access to typical team sports like football, soccer, and baseball to
individualized ones, such as karate and archery and tennis.
To put it in today’s vernacular: Sportz rule!
What we need to do is put sports to work for us in everyday life. Instead of relegating them to Saturday and
Sunday when we—and by we, I mean men—watch endless hours of ESPN, we can learn valuable lessons from
football, basketball, baseball, auto racing—whatever floats your boat. (Hey, that reminds me, I forgot about
sailing. America’s Cup is a big deal to many.)
How is this helpful?
Because men get sports. If they could apply sports principles to their work life or raising kids, the majority of them
would be more willing to implement positive strategies. By relating the language and lessons learned from sports
to the family unit, they might see improvement through basic skills and strategies. Here we go.
First, personnel. As owner or general manager, Dad serves his coaches and players best by leading well. Mom
takes on the role of coach or manager, overseeing everything from equipment (laundry) to contracts
(paperwork). Kids get to do what they do best: play!
Second, uniforms. Create a family identity. When Reese was young he thought he owned Reese’s Peanut Butter
Cups. Similarly, he carrying equipment bags personalized with the Wilson logo. He didn’t find out it wasn’t our
Wilson logo until he was eight. Buy matching T-shirts that boast a clever saying. Wear them to a family reunion
or the State Fair to keep track of your preschoolers.
Third, practice. If we want to get better at what we do—whether it be playing golf or the violin, we need to devote
time to improving our skills. In the same way, each family needs to effectively train and discipline children. Watch
people whose families you admire to see how they do it. Ask them for advice. Then practice.
Fourth, terminology. Because men understand sports’ terms, they can apply them to parenting. Good
sportsmanship directly correlates to how we treat other family members when things don’t go our way. Kids seem
to come out knowing volumes about trash talk; we have to train this one out of ‘em. Home field advantage (aka
spending time at home with your kids) gives you an edge when they grow to be teens, which they all do.
Fifth, offense and defense.
Just like sports teams can only score when they have the ball, families do better when they constantly reinforce
positive behavior instead of harping on the bad. So, offense strives to influence kids in a positive way. Whether
teaching children to say no to drugs or to choose abstinence, parents exert a greater influence when their kids
trust them and feel close to them.
Offense includes talking about potentially bad consequences to poor choices or bad behavior. And though it’s
next to impossible to cover everything, parents can use examples from their own misdeeds to public issues—
steroid abuse—to teach kids before they’re every faced with the choice.
Defense deals with issues after the fact. When a child gets in trouble at school or disobeys rules at home,
parents discipline appropriately. For those things we can’t or don’t cover in advance, we have to respond as they
occur—staying as consistent as possible.
It might be time for your family to sit down for some contract negotiations. Discuss everything from salary
(allowance) to the disabled list (when Mom’s sick and can’t drive carpool). By covering home you can
successfully motivate your family team.
Moms and Dads Parent Differently
When the ladies of our church retreated—as in “hid in piney woods for a long weekend of revelry and general
silliness” not “ran far away with our tails tucked between our legs”—I chose carefully the words in which I would
ask my dear husband if he’d be up to the task of parenting alone in my absence.
“Honey, I’m outta here on the 17th. I’ve loaded the freezer with mini corn dogs and Bagel Bites®.”
Thankfully Bret focused so intently on whatever game he was watching at the time that he simply nodded and
waved me off with one hand. “Yeah, yeah.”
He’d live to regret those words.
Next, I started lining up all the planets in our solar system. No, wait, my job was harder than that. I actually had to
complete all the preliminary prep work to going out of town.
Let’s see, I’d be away from home two days; so, naturally, it would take me more than a week to get everything
ready.
Men don’t understand this about moms. When dads go out of town, they just go. They toss a razor, a toothbrush,
and deodorant in a carry on, charge up the laptop, and they’re good to go. Dads don’t waste Thought One on
what will happen with the kids while they’re gone. Why is that?
Are they so confident that Mom has things handled? Or are they so self-absorbed that they just don’t allow such
insignificant thoughts to camp in their overly-full brains? After all, they have much more important things to think
about—like who’s going to make the playoffs and whether the Dow will break 14,000.
My husband thinks on a linear basis. When he finishes one appointment, he checks his Palm Pilot and heads for
his scheduled lunch. He operates much the same way with the kids—pick one up from choir and head to baseball
with another. It wouldn’t bother him to have to run back by the house to get a bat bag or a bottle of water. I’d kick
myself for my lack of planning ahead which led to my wasting valuable time!
Parenting is extracurricular to men. They have a real job that gives them their identity. Conversely, women are
defined by motherhood and how good they are at doing it—even if they hold down jobs outside the home.
Women fill their brains with tons of “useless” information: kids’ birth dates, shot records, sleep schedules, and
allergies. I mean, it’s not like anybody could write down that kind of stuff to free up brain waves. No, we cram it all
in, along with the phone number for poison control and our four-year-old’s soccer practice schedule.
Though some of my over-planning, over-preparing, and overkill might have been caused by the perfectionism I’
ve been trying to eradicate from my life like these last ten pounds, mostly it’s a mommy vs. daddy brain-thing.
Therefore, I not only packed myself, I typed up schedules and rosters and waivers and instructions and
permission slips and directions to friends’ houses. I called a family meeting and went over everything in minute
detail.
Then, turning to my husband and shaking him gently, I said, “Honey, Honey, wake up. Do you have any
questions about any of the stuff I just went over?”
“No, Baby, we’re good.” He winked at the kids, conveying in that nanosecond: Just wait ‘til she’s out of the
driveway gang. It’ll be takeout, late nights, and all the Cokes® you want.
I shut my Going Out of Town notebook and closed my eyes for a brief moment. I’d finished with 12 minutes to
spare. The rest was up to Bret . . . and the kids. Though my heart fretted whether my helpers would remember to
do what they’d promised and my head swam with details, I knew I’d done everything I could. And it wasn’t easy.
If I’d wanted easy, I would have stayed home.
Mom Can’t Be Sick
I’m home sick today. Not homesick—which is not a fun thing to be either—but at home in bed, sick. It’s one of
those mysterious illnesses where the doctor says, “We’re seeing a lot of this kind of virus—fever, aches, sore
throat.” And then three dreaded words every mother hates to hear:
“Antibiotics won’t help.”
My mind reels. Unspoken rants bounce through my brain. What do you mean—antibiotics won’t help? That’s
what you always give me. Please, tell me you’re kidding.
“You’ll just have to get plenty of rest and drink lots of fluids.”
For this I pay $105.
I got the same diagnosis and prescription from my mother for free.
No offense, but in my book the doctor is there to dole out precious little pills to magically make me feel better. If
he doesn’t, then how has the visit been helpful? It’s done more harm than good. Let me explain. Because I
expected to get medicine to help me feel better, my mind and body were dependent on him dispensing
medication.
When I’m told I’ll be getting no antibiotics, my body goes into panic mode—much like the last ten minutes of a
James Bond movie. You know the one where James is trying to keep a nuclear reactor from going off and a
female Russian voice continually drones, “60 seconds and counting.” (Only the 60 seconds takes about 10
minutes.) During that time, alarms sound, warning lights flash, people, desperate to reach the exit, scramble over
one another in survival mode. “30 seconds and counting . . . ” My internal alarms have sounded—no antibiotics
incoming!
At the risk of sounding like I’m addicted, I need those drugs. I believe medicine will make be better. As a mom, I
have a lot of people counting on me. My children need cereal and Hot Pockets. Do you think milk just buys itself?
My husband needs shirts taken to the cleaners. I’m out of clean underwear. The world doesn’t stop just because
I get sick. Though I wish it would, it doesn’t.
It’s hard for any mother to be sick. Though it’s not quite as consequential as, say, George W. Bush or Tony Blair
coming down with the flu, the government of a household goes completely out of whack when the mom gets sick.
Projects don’t get done in a timely manner. Kids don’t have what they need to wear for school. Plus, have you
ever noticed that the time Mom gets really sick, with something like Asian flu or pneumonia, that’s the day all
three kids will need to have projects done for school. Not just any project, but ones requiring cooking, and
grocery shopping, and a beautiful presentation of the food. This turn of events means Mom, a blend of grace
and steel, manages to pull herself from the warmth of her covers and direct the cooking show. The product will
be superb. The kids will be grateful. Mom will have “done it” again. She isn’t called Mom for nothing.
Unfortunately, this superhuman feat won’t please Dad. He’ll be lurking in some dark corner, watching, waiting.
And at just the right moment, when Mom has collapsed onto the sofa, exhausted, her recovery pushed back two
days, he’ll say, “Honey, you’re not going to get any better if you keep getting up and doing stuff around the
house.”
Gee, I wish I’d thought of that.
This time around, I abide by my doctor’s seemingly ridiculous diagnosis of a virus. I take Tylenol and Advil every
four hours. I gargle with salt water. I drink lots of juice and ginger ale. I watch far too many DVDs, until my back is
sore from inactivity. On some level I even enjoy my little mini-vacation from housework.
But I can’t believe the thought that keeps running through my mind: I can’t wait to feel better so I can get out of
this bed and do something.
Trying on Swimsuits Tops List of Most Embarrassing Annual Events
Dropping from its long-held position of second place, the mammogram has moved into third place as the most
painful or embarrassing of annual events for women over 40.
Still in first is the dreaded gynecological exam. Apparently, having to sit in a freezing cold room for an hour
wearing nothing but a large paper towel until your doctor examines your female parts still terrifies more women.
Understandably so.
But mammography has made progress recently. No more feeling like your breast is flash-frozen, then run over by
a tractor. Thanks to the machine’s special padding, your breast stays warm while being run over by a tractor.
Women everywhere who’ve reached a certain age applaud these small, yet significant technological
advancements.
In the meantime, what has edged into second place?
Trying on swimsuits.
This loathsome chore endured by women all across our great nation—yea, throughout the world—now ranks
right behind the pap smear. Normal, everyday women must endure this regular shredding of their self-esteem. A
woman can walk into a department store, confident and cheerful. After five minutes of trying on swimsuits, she’s a
crumbling heap requiring an assurance transfusion.
Eager to help, store employees offer suit after suit over the door, gushing, “This one would look great.” Really,
except for the fact that it showcases my worst features: my jiggly arms, my thighs, my calves, my feet, even the
turkey waddle on my neck. It tries to camouflage my rear, my pooch and my sagging chest, but fails miserably.
Why can’t designers create a swimsuit poncho?
I’ve never understood the dichotomy. Even as men’s trunks get longer and longer (most extend past their
knees), women’s swimsuits become skimpier, revealing more.
The recent improvements in the mammogram department got me to thinking. What would it take to make the
swimsuit buying experience less painful and embarrassing? If mammogram patients now feel comfortable and
contented, certainly retail chains can add a few special touches to improve the ritual of trying on and purchasing
swimsuits. Take notes, retailers. Here are my ideas:
Add candlelight—or, at the very least, install dimmer switches. This way we mid-life moms don’t have to view our
pallid skin and cellulite thighs under fluorescent lights.
Play peppy music. As my head bobs to The Go-Go’s or Beach Boys, I’m thinking less about the girth of my gut or
the size of my thighs. Grocery store chains employ this strategy to keep me shopping longer.
Install special “skinny” mirrors. Fun houses at the State Fair boast mirrors that distort our natural images, making
us look like Humpty Dumpty or sport Jay Leno chins. Why can’t retailers install skinny mirrors to make women
look 5-10 pounds lighter? At the very worst, stores might need to post signs warning: Objects in mirror are larger
than they may appear.
Mount fans to blow air. This long-time secret of actresses and models makes anyone look like they’re driving 30
MPH in a Mercedes convertible.
Display past installments of Star Magazine’s annual Stars without Makeup or Cellulite Fright issues. Somehow,
seeing beauties such as Cameron Diaz, Whitney Houston or Teri Hatcher caught unprepared and make-up free
offers me encouragement regarding my own aging face and body. It’s hard to say why ogling Gwyneth Paltrow’s
cottage cheese thighs gives me a boost.
I usually wait until I’m thinner (So it’s only two or three pounds. What’s it to ya?) and tanner (which, unfortunately,
if it happens is usually the third week of July), before I get up enough courage to shop for swimsuits. By that time
last year, there was precious little left in the store. I found only three bikini bottoms, two mismatched tops that
were too small anyway, a one-piece that could have housed my family on a camping trip, and a cover-up with a
rip in it. Not much to work with.
If we’re forced to try on and purchase swimsuits in April and May, we mid-life moms should demand better trying
on conditions from retailers. Who knows? Swimsuit-trying on might slip to Number 4 on the most painful or
embarrassing life experiences—right behind telling our mother-in-law we’re spending Christmas with our parents
or having our preschooler find the Mother’s Day card he made us tossed in the trash can.
Reality Motherhood sample columns
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