You Win Some, You Lose Some

     My kids are a little on the competitive side. All of them. I don't know how this happened; I'm sure neither Aaron nor I had anything to do with it, genetically or otherwise. But it is what it is, and so we live with it and try to manage it to the best of our abilities. I could tell you that this particular character trait is a recent acquisition, but that would be a lie. They've had it since birth, it seems, and my life's mission is to mold them into kids that may like to win but can handle losing gracefully and even grow from it. They sure like the winning part, but we are still figuring out sometimes how to lose.
     Fortunately, they don't often put their disappointment on display in public; they get emotional, they withdraw a little, and Aaron and I see it in the car on the way home. They're all a little different: Emma fuels her losses with an increase in focus and intensity. She's by far the most aggressive of all my kids; she likes the weight room, thrives on hard work and never backs down from competition. Have you ever seen her get fouled on a lay-up and miss it? You can pretty much guarantee there's a retaliation foul coming. I have tried and tried to soften this particular response, but when your mom is your coach, that's tougher to do. This summer Coach Junkermeier is working on that and I've been delighted to see a new level of control creeping into her game.
     Depending on the situation, Carys goes full-on emotional when she loses. Like, meltdown central. I'm talking tears, slamming doors, the whole nine yards. She doesn't do this in front of people - we mostly see it when she's playing video games with Cooper or getting beat in pretty much everything else by her sister. I was really really worried that this might bleed over into school and organized sports, but the exciting thing is that I've seen no trace of it in individual competitions. She seems to be very calm when competing against herself for scores in gymnastics or times in her races. Maybe the emotion is connected more to sibling rivalry than anything, so my fingers are crossed on that one.
     And then there's Cooper. What can I say? Cooper hates losing so much that he doesn't even want to TRY sports that he might fail at. He's all about the things he has confidence in; he can lose at tennis and chess, because he feels like he's pretty good in those arenas and losing is just an opportunity to get better. But if he doesn't feel a level of confidence going in, he has almost zero interest in trying. He hates to feel weak, I think. We encourage him to try lots of things, but I suspect he's going to stick with the things he feels good at already.
     I have been pondering this competition thing my family has going a lot lately. I've gotten to watch softball and basketball and tennis and swimming and running all week and I have seen how my kids handled it each time they had successes and failures. I think we're getting better, I truly do - Carys missed a first place by .03 in a race and rather than melt down she just said, "Dang it! I can do better than that next time!" Emma played a varsity scrimmage at league for basketball and managed to play an entire game with no fouls. Cooper's team lost the big Coaches Vs. Players tennis competition, and while he was disappointed, he was looking forward to the next session so he could have another attempt. I'd say that's progress.
     Tonight I was scrolling through old photos and videos on my phone and I stumbled on a folder of video clips I found on my Mom's phone. My mother had her own way of managing my kids and their special eccentricities - she was brilliant. She and my dad played games with them all the time, and often had to deal with the competitive meltdowns when somebody lost. I had completely forgotten what she came up with to deal with it. Rather than focus on the negative behaviors of the "losers" my mom turned it around and forced the "winners" to do something ridiculous. She told them they had to make up a Victory Dance and made them perform in front of the whole group when they won. Suddenly winning maybe wasn't their favorite thing, as they became extremely self-conscious, and the "losers" so thoroughly enjoyed the performances that they forgot to be mad. Brilliant.
     One summer they rented a cabin for a weekend of camping and fishing. They played endless games of dominos and chinese checkers and chess and cards with my kids. Mom made every single winner get up and dance, even my Dad. The kids are hysterical with laughter at each other and themselves. And I get to hear my mother's voice, doing what she did best: teaching and playing and loving on my kids.

My Dad

I have always been my Daddy's girl, forever and for ever. I don't tell him enough, or ever, how deeply my attachment to him resides. I don't know if I need to; I think he knows. He was always always the good guy, the one who cuddled and laughed and played. I haven't forgotten a single childhood regular event: riding on his back all over the living room, wrestling and rough-housing until he finished with The Claw on my face and a massive tickling session. While Mom played word games with me all day long, it was Dad who read books to me every night. He played catch with me all summer in the yard, made me read the newspaper, taught me about current events and was always my biggest fan. 
     I admire my father's infinite patience, his easy smile, his compassion, his intelligence,  and his unwavering commitment to my Mother and our family. 
In the months since we lost my mom, my dependence on him seems to be multiplying. He's the only one to tell my stories to, the only one with my whole heart and history imprinted on his own. He knows how I feel about pretty much everything before I have to say it. 
     He would never tell anyone that he's as good a writer, or better, than I am. No one would guess that he's a walking Encyclopedia of everything from Andy Griffith to foreign policy. He knows something about almost everything, and says nothing unless you ask him. 
     Once, when I went over to see my Mom in the nursing home, after she had lost the ability to speak, I paused outside her door. It was open just a little. Dad was sitting in the chair next to her bed. He was holding her hand, she was just looking at him, silently. He was just looking right back, gazing quietly into her eyes. I stood there for a long minute, unwilling to interrupt this moment. One of the CNAs walking down the hall paused next to me and whispered,  "He sits like that, with her, a lot. Just looking at each other, no words. I hope somebody loves me like that someday." I had to leave; I walked outside, sat in my car and cried for twenty minutes. My dad loves me a powerful lot. He loved my Mom even more and I can't even describe in words what it felt like to be raised in a family like that. I am so lucky, and I know it. I don't take it for granted for a single second.
     The pictures from my childhood were largely taken by my mother; she hated being in them, so she always took them. I have dozens of favorites of me and my Dad. My favorite recent photo is this one, taken at a Pizza Hut about a week before my Mom's diagnosis. I see so much of me sometimes in Carys; she was remarkably close to my Mom, and she's got an affinity for my Dad and his cuddles that I recognize. In this picture, Carys is tucked neatly into his arm, but all I can see is me, feeling every bit as secure and happy as my Dad's embrace always makes me feel. Happy Father's Day, Dad. Love you.