Thankful & Grateful & Volleyball

In honor of November and Thanksgiving and family and everything Fall, my blog will continue, and I'll try to stay as thankful and positive as possible. No promises though.

The end of volleyball season is tough. In a few weeks, even our state champions will mourn it's over. They'll, of course, have their shiny, state rings, so there's that. My team, however, had no playoff appearance this year, but our record really isn't indicative of what we're capable of. All we can do now is prepare for next season.

I always meet with my girls one-on-one to discuss how they felt about the season, their goals for next season, how they will achieve those goals, and so on. I was especially proud of one young lady who rarely touched the court, but after a mid-season coming-to-Jesus talk, quickly became one of our most exciting players to watch. In our meeting last week, I reiterated how proud I was of how she ended her season, and we talked about how she overcame the doubts within concerning her abilities as a volleyball player. I reminded her God gives us all talents, but it's our responsibility to use those talents. And He's proud of her for using hers.

Near the end of the conversation, she thanked me for sticking with her and motivating her to be the best player she could be. But her next sentence stopped me in my tracks. She was worried I was so disappointed in our season that I might not come back and coach next year, and she would be devastated if that happened.

Wait, what? This girl is one of the most stoic people I've ever met, on and off the court. She has a great personality, but a hard exterior. She's guarded, and to be honest, I truly thought she could take me or leave me. And here she is boldly expressing her feelings toward me as her coach. Needless-to-say, the gates opened.

I've often doubted my profession. I've always dreamed of writing, but in that moment I heard my own words coming back to me. Maybe God did create me to write. Maybe that is one of my talents, but maybe he also wants me to coach. It's stressful, and it doesn't pay well, and a lot of people don't like you. After all, we'll never make everyone happy. We're only human. We will make mistakes, but for those kids who, maybe, just a little bit, learned from us, or felt loved by us, or found us as a motivating force, that's why we do it.

For the first time in a long time I felt at peace with my career.

Tonight I received a text from a student I taught in League City five years ago. She's a thriving student at Texas State, as well as a thriving political activist. We're on opposite ends of this Presidential race, but in the real world, people, that really doesn't matter. "When I'm a super successful lawyer, you'll be one of the first people I thank for helping all my dreams come true."

No, thank YOU for reminding me my dreams come true daily. I am blessed.

I Still Need My Mom

Two weeks ago I was drowning. We had sporting events to attend or coach nearly every night of the week, and my house was showing the neglect. Even our weekends were packed. Suddenly, I was in full-fledged panic mode.

Those closest to me know I thrive in an organized environment. When my house is in chaos, my life becomes chaos. I'm aware of this flaw in my personality; after all, I should be able to separate the two, right? But I was made this way, and years ago I accepted it as one of my unique qualities. Usually, I'm able to handle it all. Occasionally, it handles me.

So, two weeks ago I made an SOS call to my mom. I texted her so she wouldn't hear the desperation in my voice. The last thing I wanted was to disrupt any plans she might have in the Wonderful World of Retirement. Her response? "Call me." A mom knows, y'all.

The call was made on a Monday, and she was here by Wednesday. Before school was even dismissed, she had already washed the majority of our laundry and picked up much of the house. But it didn't end there. She cooked for us nightly, helped with the kids, attended our sporting events, and watched as Michael and I ran around hurriedly from one obligation to the other. There was very little time for visiting during the four days she was here.

And she never complained.

Two weeks ago I was drowning, and at 41-years-old, my mom saved me.

This post is dedicated to the beautiful lady sitting next to me, Carla "Grandma" Brookshire. And to all mothers. Your dedication and love for your families shines for all to see. May I be half the mother of the ones I so admire.

Love you all!

Purpose and Voice. Find Them.

I'm not in the mood to write (if you were at the volleyball game, you probably know why), but I'm doing it anyway. I'm also not going over my ten minutes. I took a sleeping pill (if you were at the volleyball game, you probably know why), and my hope is to be knocked out within the half hour. This could get interesting.

I've missed days in my #write31days challenge, and the urge to write gets stronger each day I neglect my task. I now have at least ten topics I'd love to write about, including my Women of Coaching series, but I'm so overwhelmed with ideas that it messes with me. I remember this feeling. And I know if I continue to avoid writing, the urges will continue. Or I'll find ways to dull the urges, and eventually give up. So, I'm not done.

It's extra important I write tonight. When we lose a volleyball match, it weighs heavily on me. When my children are being idiots, also something we've dealt with tonight, it weighs me down. When my Monday was a true Monday, and it somehow carried into Tuesday, my mind is heavy. When I'm putting on the pounds, I'm literally weighted down, and this one especially sucks.

Writing is my release.

I'm not great, but one of the best compliments I've received was from one of my volleyball players. She confided she enjoys reading my blogs because she can hear me in the words. Isn't that what all writer's want? Our voice coming through in a specific set of words. Anyone could have written those words, but she heard ME. We all want to be heard, and for some of us, written words are the avenue best suited.

A huge thanks to all of you who are continuously supporting and encouraging my writing. You make my days brighter.

By the way, I may or may not have gone over my minutes, but who's counting anyway?

See the Good, Be the Good

The Women of Coaching, Part 1

Throughout my career, I've been blessed to work with some amazing female coaches. Yes, I've worked with great coaches in general, but females in our profession are rare. It's especially tough to be a mom and a coach, but if the passion is within you and the calling is clear, you do it. Because without sports, there would be a void.

Shannon Lands came into my life in 2000, my first year of coaching, and to this day we stay in touch. Maybe it's only once a year at the Regional Golf Tournament, but each year we squeal like teenagers and hug as though it's been decades since our last encounter. Shannon mentored me in my first years in the profession, the hardest by far, and I'm forever indebted to her.

Shannon Massie came to Bonham a few years later, just as my other Shannon was leaving. Fate, no doubt. She was our head basketball coach, and I was one of her assistants. In high school, basketball was my LOVE. I was pretty good at it, too, but soon after college reality hit: I sucked as a basketball coach. I can teach any basketball skills a player needs, but when it comes to live action basketball play, I lose it. Shannon held my hand the entire year, and thankfully, that's the only year I've ever had to coach basketball.

Shannon and I were connected at the hip. Our families ate together often, our house, their house, favorite restaurants. We were even pregnant at the same time, due only a couple of months apart. I'll never forget the day Michael and I left Bonham. I cried a lot that day. We've drifted apart, a common theme in my life, as the coaching life is busy, but I have no doubt I could call her even now, and she'd be there for me.

Unless you've been in our shoes, you can't understand what it's like to be a female in this profession. The double standards? Too many to count. (Maybe a topic for another time.) But when you're lucky enough to not only have a great coach by your side, but also someone you call a friend, the job is a little easier. And definitely more fun!

See the Good, Be the Good

Be Unique

My oldest kid wears his shoes all day long. I mean ALL DAY LONG. As soon as he gets out of the shower at night, he puts on fresh socks and his shoes, even if bed time is only 10 minutes away. Only after he lays down, do the shoes go flying to the floor.

It drives me insane! Home is for relaxing, and how in the world can anyone relax with their shoes on? Fresh feet after after a nice, hot shower, and you want to taint them with shoes? My brain can't understand it. 

But a little girl approached me at school today and put everything in perspective. I have no idea if she wears shoes or not when she's home, but I do know her dad won't be there after school. She shared with me that the police came to his job and took him to jail again. I'm pretty sure at the age of six I had no idea what a jail was, and I definitely didn't worry about anyone I loved going there, or even going away, for that matter. Her sadness consumed the rest of my day. She's been on my mind constantly, and I pray her sadness goes away. Somehow.

There are bigger problems in this messy world than my kid wearing his shoes at abnormal times. And who's to say it's even weird! Maybe I'm the weird one for taking my shoes off the second I cross the threshold. And who cares anyway?! We're all unique with unique preferences, and that's what makes this messy world so beautiful and fun.

So the next time I'm stressing over something trivial, tell me to lighten up. I'm too old and life is too short to stress over the uniqueness of those around me just because I don't understand them. I'm sure there are a handful of attributes people don't understand about me, and I make no apologies for the person I am. I'm not perfect, but I will always stay true to who I am.

And so should my Austin. Wear those shoes anytime you want, sweet boy!

See the Good, Be the Good!

Mints

Isn't it crazy how one little thing can bring a rush of emotions and memories? That "thing" today was a pack of BreathSavers.

I walked into the Exxon fully prepared to pay for another pack of gum in the hopes of staying minty-fresh, but it suddenly struck me that I don't like chewing gum. It hurts my jaw, and after only five minutes, I'm ready to toss it. Today, however, I was struck by a novel idea: buy some mints. Genius! I need fresh breath, I hate gum, and here is an alternative.

I found the section of mints, and memories upon memories came rushing back. All it took was this little blue package:

My dad smoked for years (he quit cold turkey 30 or so years ago), and therefore, always carried BreathSavers to hide the smoker's breath (I assume.) We loved those mints, and he graciously shared with my sister, brother, and myself.

My parents divorced when I was in the 2nd grade, and after the divorce, my mom was given custody. She moved us three hours away, and I don't blame her for needing to be near her family and support system. Nevertheless, it was hard being suddenly so far away from my dad.

We visited him often, and this tiny pack of mints reminded me so much of the bright moments in a time that was probably otherwise dark (let's be honest...divorce is tough): the black Porshe, the Taco Bell in Temple, throwing up in Chuck E Cheese, walking to the store across 488 to rent movies and buy snacks, the 4-wheeler and mini-motorcycle, girlfriends, the Freestone County Fair, the mixed-tape, Swingin', Afrin, Hamburger Helper, the Ski tape, the golf cart, "Let her Frederick", Mr. Jack, Lucky, The Von Erichs, just to name a few. How did a tiny pack of mints bring out all of this?!

These words mean nothing to most of you, but to me they are my treasures, and I will forever hold them close. What items are nostalgic to you? I would sincerely love to hear your stories.

See the Good, Be the Good!

Parenting Advice Needed

I got played. By a 9 and 13-year-old. I'm sure it's not the first, and I know it won't be the last, but it's the first time I have overwhelming concrete evidence in my possession. What to do with this evidence is the question at hand.

The facts: Austin earned his phone back yesterday after a one-week hiatus for being irresponsible, both with his phone and his grades. This morning as we were getting ready for church, Austin sauntered by Addison and said, "You look hideous." You can imagine how crushing these words were to a 9-year-old. When we confronted Austin, he became belligerent and angry, even though he admitted to saying it. Needless-to-say, the phone became ours again.

Fast-forward to this afternoon. Addison brings me a note she wrote to Austin apologizing for being a tattle-tale, and asked if I thought she should give it to him. I agreed it was a nice gesture, but that he made bad choices after the fact, which is why his phone was taken. I then watched as she took him the note, apologized, and embraced him in an affectionate hug. I must be doing something right! My kids are the sweetest things ever!

Oh, but wait.

Addison later brings me a note asking if I will please give Austin his phone back. She felt really guilty for blowing up the situation in the first place. We decide he can have the phone back in exchange for some extra household chores, which he completes with delight.

All is right in the world. Lessons learned all over the freaking place!

And then my world came crashing down. As I was putting away laundry, I found this in Addison's room (Austin's handwriting):

Long story short, the entire ruse was planned and executed in minute detail. And I fell for it. I fell hard. What do I now do with the incriminating evidence? Do I confront the co-conspirators, do I save the evidence for later, or do I move on, using this as a learning experiencing? What did I learn? My kids are liars and extremely creative. They are also award-worthy actors. I honestly don't know if I should be mad or proud.

Advice welcome!

And now I'm going to watch the Presidential Debate and relish in the fact that my little, evil, creative geniuses are minor issues compared to the crap I'm about to watch.

See the Good, Be the Good!

There's a First Time for Everything

Never in my coaching career have I been told, after the match was over, that I could have been given a yellow card because my assistant coach looked at the official disrespectfully. I'm still shocked the conversation even happened. Let me set the scene.

We're down in the second set 21-24.  A free ball is headed back to our side, so my hitters pull off the net.  Suddenly the whistle blows, and we immediately celebrate the point thinking the other team must have made the mistake, since we haven't even touched the ball, yet. Nope, she calls my Middle in the net. We're all confused, and even give the official the benefit of the doubt that maybe my hitter's hair hit the net when she pulled off, which is perfectly legal. She literally said my 5'9" middle's butt hit the net when she turned.  The bottom of the net hits, at the very least, the middle of her back, so this is almost humanly impossible. Long story short, we lose the set 21-25 on a very bad call. Unfortunately, that happens sometimes.

It was a hard-fought loss in 5 sets, 25-18, 21-25, 25-27, 25-17, 15-17.

Fast-forward to the end of the night, after the JV game. The official who had been up during the varsity match called myself and my assistant over for a private conversation. She never would look at him, but proceeded to tell me that between the 2nd and 3rd sets she should have given me a yellow card because my assistant coach looked at her disrespectfully while switching sides. He started walking to the other side, stopped and looked at her, started shaking his head, and then continued walking. He never said a word.

Soapbox time: volleyball is the only sport, to my knowledge, where the coach is completely powerless when it comes to the officials. We aren't even allowed to talk to them during a match unless it's through our floor captains. In football and basketball, the coaches can scream and yell at an official, and unless they personally attack them, they are perfectly within their rights. But my assistant coach can't disappointingly look at an official who makes a set-ending terrible call (which she admitted she shouldn't have called) without me being threatened with a yellow card? Unbelievable!

Here's the bottom line: I never complain about officials. They are not going to call a perfect game, just like we're not going to play a perfect game, and I'm not going to coach a perfect game. I get along with almost every official I meet before and after a match. Do things get tense during a match? Of course! I wouldn't be doing my job if I didn't fight for my girls when obviously bad calls were made. And I can honestly say I don't even argue the iffy calls. But it never carries over beyond the match. I've never in my life scratched an official. If we're doing OUR job, no official will make enough bad calls to cost us the match. But I have never in my life been so disrespected by an official as to be threatened with a yellow card after the match was over, and never for giving a "look". If they could give yellow and red cards for looks, I would have been kicked out of every volleyball match I've ever coached!

I love officials, and I respect their role to the game. We couldn't play sports without them. I even understand why coaches can't talk to officials during volleyball matches (it's a momentum thing.) But I'm indignant about this situation. And I believe I have every right to be.

Rant over. Tomorrow's a new day!

I'm an Impostor

I've literally tried to start this blog three times. You know that too-tired-to-think-straight feeling? I'm there. Here's hoping for the best! #day5 #write31days

I read an interesting article today about a clinical disorder I believe I have: Impostor Syndrome. Yes, it's a real thing. It affects many writers, and women are more at-risk than men. At the most basic level, people with this disorder have a fear they will be "unmasked" as the fraud they truly are, that their accomplishments in life are not as important as others believe them to be. This is especially detrimental to writers and could even explain why many are traditionally procrastinators.

Writers have a constant fear of not being good enough or that a piece could have been better. Eventually, the fear of not meeting deadlines wins over the fear of bad writing, and, therefore, the writing eventually gets done.

In my case, there are no deadlines. I'm simply doing this for me. If I get through these 31 days, it'll be a damn miracle. Forgive the Eeyore tone. I'm spent.

See the Good...Be the Good,

Kelly


http://www.theatlantic.com/business/archive/2014/02/why-writers-are-the-worst-procrastinators/283773/

Making Memories

Windows down, music blaring, the cool air prickling my skin, and I'm suddenly thrust back in time to the drag in Fairfield, Texas, on an October Saturday night. As we take a left and hit the back roads, the Fall smells engulf my senses. Burning leaves waft through the open sunroof, and I'm instantly a giddy teenager all over again. I know every word to every song screaming through the speakers, and as my sidekick and I belt out the catchy tune, I'm reminiscent of that cute guy waving in the white Dodge. We see a cop, and I quickly turn down the radio in order to avoid detection. We laugh. We sing. We are.

The funny thing is I'm experiencing this moment now with my 9-year-old, and as much as I treasure the wonderful memories of growing up in Fairfield, my appreciation of being in this moment almost becomes too much. Our eyes meet, and Addison says to me, "You're a lot of fun, Mom!" Just making memories, baby girl. Making wonderful memories.

See the Good, Be the Good,

Kelly   

Words are Forever. Literally.

It's been an interesting day, to say the least. I refuse to get into that, but a lesson remains: in the digital world we live in, nothing can EVER be taken back.

We recently forced this idea down our 7th grader's throat when he was being irresponsible with his texting and social media. The issue was brought to our attention, and we immediately obtained his phone. It had been cleared of any damaging evidence. Shocker. AR missed one key element - the evidence was alive and well on the other kid's phone. Come on, son!

Thankfully, his situation was more "boys being boys."  (Let's not even get into the verbal exchanges that included language, and animals, I still can't believe came out of my sweet, baby boy's mouth.) But the old adage "think before you speak" has never meant more than it does now in our technology-driven world. Think before you speak, post, text, Tweet, and the list goes on and on. Words matter.

I know what you're all thinking. "Maybe she should take her own advice." Hello and hallelujer! I agree. And I vow to do just that.

Side note: writing for only 10 minutes is really, really hard. So much more I want to say. So much more editing to do. Must stick to the rules.

See the Good, Be the Good,

Kelly

Stop Using This Hashtag Now

When the hashtag phenomenon exploded on the scene, I immediately fell in love. Witty, funny, intelligent statements in 30 characters, give or take. You would assume the lack of punctuation would bother my "English Teacher" style. Never! I believe in artistic liberties, and hashtags are one form of that.

However, there is one hashtag I refuse to use, and my skin crawls anytime I see it. You'll accuse me of being over-sensitive or dramatic, (I prefer the term "passionate"), but the truth is it's just plain rude.

#my_______isbetterthanyours

#mymomisbetterthanyours

#myjobisbetterthanyours

#mykidsarebetterthanyours

What's up with our society's need to constantly compare ourselves to others in the first place? I just don't get it.

Secondly, you might be right. Maybe someone in your life is better than my someone, but is that my fault?

My ten minutes are up (#write31days), but let me leave you with this...

The #my______isbetterthanyours is an insensitive hashtag. It's absolutely amazing that you have wonderful people in your life, but not everyone is so lucky. And I'm not saying we shouldn't brag on those we love. But a sweet #weloveourgrandmother is just as effective, if not more so, than #ourgrandmotherisbetterthanyours. 

Let's ditch the comparisons! #mytwocents

#write31days

As usual, I'm late. I found this fun writing challenge, and of course it began yesterday, but who cares.

Here's the basics:  write 10 minutes a day, uninhibited, unedited (yea, right), and completely off the cuff. Those of you who truly know me, know I love to write. And I was recently caught off guard when someone who hardly knows me at all asked if I'm still writing. Someone noticed.

Why am I not writing much these days? Good question, and the answer is pretty basic. I'm scared. Straight-up fear keeps me from writing. My need for everything to be perfect means if I write, then I have to do it to the very best of my ability no matter how long it may take. When I typically write a blog, the consumption of time is anywhere between 1 to 2 DAYS. It has to be as perfect as possible. And we all know I have so much free time during volleyball/football season.

And then there's the fear of acceptance, and of being vulnerable. Admitting that I'm scared to write makes me feel incredibly exposed. What if people don't like what I have to say? What if they make fun of me behind my back? What if being a writer isn't cool? (Because, you know, my goal in life is to be as cool as possible.) While that's definitely a joke, it's still true that I have a need for acceptance. I think all people do, but some are better at acknowledging the varying degrees of acceptance than others of us.

The biggest fear of all? What if you see the real me. Not this perception of only the good parts of my life, but the real me. For example, I like to cuss. I don't do it on my job or in front of my own kids (usually), but so many times in my writing I cuss, and then I edit it out. My friends will tell you I cuss. Thankfully, it's something I can turn off and on as needed; however, the saying "I love Jesus but I cuss a little" was specifically created for me.

And as my time draws to an end, let me leave you with this: my writing over the next 31 days may or may not interest you. Do not feel obligated to read. But I desperately need your encouragement. I have a lot at stake here:  my son. My main motivation for doing this is Austin. He believes in me and my writing more than anyone in this world, and I want to show him I can do this. I want him to see what it takes to fulfill your dreams in this world.  You see, he will be a successful director one day, and it breaks my heart when he asks why I'm not pursuing my writing dreams, because I know what he's truly asking is "Can it even be done?" I must prove to him that anything is possible with determination and perseverance.

I may never have a writing career, but I have to show him I gave it a shot. This is step one.

(As I read back over this, it sounds like pure crap, but I'm posting it anyway.)