You trained hard for the position. You endured nine months with a fat belly and aching back and read every child development book ever written. You accepted labor pains without complaint. When a 7-pound baby landed in your life, you dropped everything to accommodate the needs of that squealing, precious bundle of joy.
You washed, sterilized, and heated formula bottles until you felt like you had turned into a milk machine. You pushed a stroller dozens of miles. You dressed your little one hundreds of times. You changed thousands of soggy, stinky diapers. Resentful? Never. Grateful? Forever. Praise the Lord for modern conveniences like disposable diapers.
You debated the pacifier dilemma, gave in and bought a dozen.
You made mistakes. You left clean laundry in the washer until it got moldy. You misplaced a bottle under the bed until it turned green. You left the faucet running, the phone off the hook and the refrigerator door open. You did all the “don’ts.” You shouted, you screamed, you kicked, you cried. Behind closed doors you had your own meltdowns. But still carried on.
You reprimanded yourself incessantly. Yet you coped. You learned to live with eighteen years of constant interruption. When your child got hungry, you put down your pen. When your child grew bored, you put down your book. When your child got hurt, you dropped everything and rushed to the ER. Again.
You bravely boarded trains, planes, buses and metros with your squealing, wiggling, live piece of luggage.
You worked long hours, including weekends, and were always on call. You never got paid, nor praised. Yet you shared your child’s first smile, first words, first steps.
You became a maid, nurse, nanny, cook, chauffeur, counselor, coach, activity director, teacher … And number one detective finding favorite shoes, socks, T-shirts, and misplaced homework, books, and toys.
You felt indispensable, overworked, underpaid, unappreciated and forever grateful for your job.
Each morning as your tasks accumulated, you looked at your own mother with renewed admiration, thinking she was the greatest.
Every night when you finished chores, your child looked at you with same adoration, at least until the trying, teens.
You felt proud knowing that one day your children would raise their own kids. And you could retire with the honorable status of grandma.
Though your work often goes unrecognized today, the world will be grateful tomorrow.
You created the link between the past and the future.
Some women collect jewelry, shoes, home décor: my tastes are simple – I hoard books. Shelves line the hallways, living room, bedrooms, basement and attic. My house is so chock a block full of books stacked triple deep, I posted a warning for visitors. “Danger Falling Books!”
When my friend told me she was collecting books to donate towards a library in Somaliland, I set a goal to reduce my collection. Like a librarian, I went back into the stacks.
As I shuffled through the shelves, my children’s lives unfolded from “Good Night Moon,” to “The Runaway Bunny,” to the Bernstein Bears, the Boxcar Children, Babysitter Club, Sweet Valley Twins, and Thoroughbred series. And oh my, the childhood classics like Nancy Drew, Hardy Brothers, and Jack London. Who could imagine we would one day live in “Heidi” land?
I relived the memories of curling up on the bed with a tow headed boy tucked under my arm and dark haired girl under the other as we read, “The Pain and the Great One.” We recovered from ear infections, sore throats, and stomach bugs by rereading, “ Mrs. Bunny’s Get Well Soup” and “The Velveteen Rabbit.”
I can’t imagine a home without books. In my family, reading was a gift passed down from one generation to the next. My kids learned to love books by osmosis. They grew up reading under the bed covers, in the bathtub, and à table. During dinner, they sneaked peeks at their books hidden under the table to avoid their father’s scowling eyes.
Books marked the rites of passages. How could anyone my age ever forget Maya Angelou’s “I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings” and Jack Kerouac’s “On the Road?” Not to mention the works of Margaret Atwood, James Baldwin, Alice Walker, or Steinbeck, Hemingway, Fitzgerald and the wonderful classics from “To Kill A Mockingbird,” to “The Diary of Anne Frank” to “Huckleberry Finn.”
As I sorted, I rediscovered some favorite authors like Joyce Carol Oates, Toni Morrison, and Jane Hamilton. “Beloved” was so good and I had to read “The Book of Ruth” again too.
Other selections marked stages of our lives from raising kids cross culturally and bilingually to enduring teens to letting go. One shelf holds a collection of green Michelin travel guides for every region of France and canton of Switzerland. Another section houses writers’ tips a go-go with books on how to write humor, travel, sports, memoir, and fiction and develop action, dialogue, and character.
I used to be a sucker for self-help books guaranteed to cure everything from chronic fatigue to back pain to headaches, as well as every mystery disease that fell under the “syndrome” category for lack of a better, more believable term. Fitness guides like “Yoga for Dummies” and “Pilates for Beginners” come out of retirement at regular intervals.
One shelf holds a ridiculously large collection of every basketball biography ever written in hard back, no less. Others are filled with the family’s favorite mysteries, Agatha Christie, Jack Higgins, John Grisham, David Baldacci, and Tony Hillerman.
We also have a collection of French authors. Hardback comic books, an integral part of French culture, were big hits in our home where our children learned history through the Les Aventures de Tintin, the misadventures of Asterix & Obelix, and the gaffs of Gaston.
Certainly our son’s deadpan humor was also honed from the pages of Calvin & Hobbes and that crazy fat cat Garfield.
We accumulated more books than the local library. Parting with any created a major dilemma; each page held a treasured memory of a visit from family. Over the years, grandparents, siblings and friends brought oodles of books tucked in suitcase corners to help foster our children’s love of language and learning. Our home became a lending library for guests crisscrossing the Atlantic. Bring a book over; take a book back.
I’ll be the first to admit my obsession is out of hand; I haven’t gotten far pruning those bookshelves. Each time I peruse a title, I get caught back up in the action on the page.
Spring-cleaning shelves fell by the wayside; I set a new goal – reread all my favorites.
You might be getting tired of hearing my stories, so today I bring you the voice of my dear friend, Rachael Jefferson-Buchanan, a.k.a. Dancing Feet from Down Under. As head of the physical education department when I first arrived in Switzerland, Rachael taught me dance, aerobics, and yoga.
Like many women today caught in the fast track proving one’s worth in the workplace and home, this educator/writer/mom shares how she unshackled the cloak of superwoman and found peace in just being.
Being and becoming woman
A long time ago someone asked me who Rachael was and who she willed herself to be. I thought it strange that at the early stages of our relationship I was asked such deep, meaningful questions. They resonated deep inside of me and I have asked myself those same questions time and again across the last eight years or so.
I have been called ‘superwoman’ by friends and acquaintances wherever I go, and yet I never felt that I deserved such a title. I was, after all, merely doing what other women had done for centuries before me – juggling family, work and domestics. But there was something that drove me further and faster at every turn of life’s journey, taking me on detours and then guiding me to park up and stay a while. I did not realise at the time that this was my inner friend, my intuition, my unconscious voice, my mindful self who was longing to lead the way.
So I kept spinning those plates, took on a head of physical education post, raised two children – for the most part singlehandedly, completed an MA, moved from Switzerland to England, secured a new lecturing role, wrote a book for teachers, began a PhD, worked as an international educational consultant, moved from England to Australia to begin a lecturing-research post, and… and… and…
I look back on all these domestic and professional milestones and take a deep breath, releasing it with the realisation that these are akin to the very same trappings of ‘superwoman’ that I had been denying for so long.
It was time to drop some plates and watch them smash down to the ground to find out who Rachael was and who she willed herself to be…
I needed to become aware of why I was driven to over-perform in the workplace…
I needed to learn to wrestle with those deadline demons and pin them to the ground, holding them there until Rachael felt able to wrestle again…
I needed to recognise that my hamster wheel of busy-ness was making me dizzy and footsore…
And above all, I needed to put myself first for once… something that I have always found so difficult as a mother, daughter, sister and woman. But something inside my very core knew that these other roles would fall into place as long as I was centered and felt ‘safe’.
This journey, which I believe is one of mindfulness, has not been an easy one. There have been moments when I have been called selfish and moments when I have felt that I was. It is a relentless balancing act of ego versus selflessness. Indeed, each and every day – and sometimes each and every hour – I know I am still learning the ropes of being and becoming the woman I wish and will to be.
On a bad day, Rachael can be cantankerous and sloth-like, dropping those spinning plates and subsequently picking her way cautiously through the broken pieces to reach a clear space when she again feels ready to continue. But there is no longer any guilt about this – for this is Rachael; love me, ignore me or become irritated by me – I do not feel the need to change for you, only for me.
On a good day, Rachael can fly high on the success of her professional or domestic accomplishments, secure in the knowledge that these were for Rachael and not to prove anything to anyone else. Look on me then with envy or appreciation, and I will bear you no grudges nor talk loudly about my triumphs.
This Rachael is no superwoman, she is woman.
Embodied and mindful, she is a healthier model for her teenage daughters.
No more the dutiful wife.
No more the doormat for others to walk on as they please.
No more striving to be the perfect mum.
No more the workaholic.
This woman is instead engaged in a daily search of self-improvement and self-love.
This is a woman who can, finally, just be…. on a good day!
This book has been written as a resource to support generalist primary teachers and others who assist and lead in the teaching of primary physical education. It provides a range of creative, cross-curricular, holistic activities that serve as the building blocks of successful fundamental movement skills (FMS) experiences. I began to develop ideas for this book, by reviewing and reinventing old favourites such as ‘Simon Says’ and ‘What’s the Time Mr. Wolf’, and then combining these with new physical education activities of my own creation.
I subsequently explored ways of individualising the child’s activity experiences. The link between all the activities presented in the book is the explicit means by which they each aim to promote one FMS; whilst not excluding the development of other FMS, this allows the teacher of primary physical education to hone one FMS at a time. I hope, therefore, that this book will be a useful practical guide to the teaching of specific FMS through generic primary physical education activities that include elements of dance, gymnastics, games, outdoor and adventurous activities and athletics.
When you are recruited to play college basketball these days, the university welcomes you into the family. Though we never called it that during early infancy of the women’s game, we knew our college team had our back. A loyalty to Illinois State University basketball remains imprinted in my soul. Even though I did not personally know the victims of the tragic plane crash outside of Bloomington, my heart mourned for the lives lost – an ISU men’s basketball Associate Head Coach, Torrey Ward, a Deputy Director of Athletics, Aaron Leetch, and alumni Terry Stralow ’74 (co-owner of Pub II in Normal), Andy Butler ’96, and Jason Jones, M.S. ’93; and former student Scott Bittner.
“All seven men who were on board the plane, including pilot Thomas Hileman, were “Redbird guys,” said Athletics Director Larry Lyons ’86.
When I played in the late 70s, we had three women’s teams, a platoon of peeps to lean on in hard times. Coaches like Jill Hutchison, Linda Herman, and Melinda Fischer invested so much in me, not only as a player but also as a person, and Schnied (Kathy Schniedwind) taped me up for every battle in Horton Fieldhouse. Nor will I forget the teammates like Slate, Von, Char, Guppy, Apple, Woody and others or those who followed after me to leave their own mark like Bethie, Bos, and Vickie.
In addition to teammates, five friends called “the family” rented a townhouse together. We pulled all nighters to prepare for finals, wet our whistle at the ol’ Pub II watering hole and scarfed down Avanti’s pizzas.
Whenever I am back in the Chicago ‘burbs, we reunite. Our “cousins” another cohort of ISU alumni meet up annually. My ol’roomies from Dunn Barton Hall still wish me happy birthday every year.
Back then I had my own sorority – a gym full of sisters – including my own biological ones, also ISU grads. During my senior year my middle sister shared our house; my baby sister shared my Redbird locker.
When the news about that the fatal return flight from the Final Four celebration in Indianapolis reached Switzerland, I felt sick to my stomach.
After every tragedy we are reminded how fleeting life is. Our paths may only cross once, but the impact we have on others is everlasting.
In light of that, I wanted to give a shout out to my ISU family to thank you for your support, for keeping the ties across the miles, for having my back.
Everyone is vulnerable. Every. One. Every. Day. Always.
To those folks in the Bloomington-Normal area and the ISU community who grieve for their lost loved ones, I offer my deepest sympathy. It is not enough. No, I never met you, but I know where you come from and what you represent.
Ever the misfit, I struggled to find my niche as an athletic girl on the cusp of Title IX. Even in adulthood, I continued to wonder what I was supposed to be doing with my life. During March Madness when I checked scores and brackets long distance, it dawned on me. I am a coach.
Last year, I had opportunity of a lifetime to speak at the DIII Final Four at UWSP. For the first time since moving abroad, I experienced March Madness firsthand. I marveled at the evolution of the woman’s game and realized the impact the pioneers had in paving the way.
Some children know what they want to be from the time they are five-years-old; I was in my fifth decade before I figured it out. In kindergarten, my dad announced that he wanted to coach like his dad, Coach Mac. But when I was growing up coaching never crossed my mind; girls weren’t allowed to play ball, so how could a woman make a career out of coaching.
I used to think that I was born to play basketball, but when that dream ended abruptly it took me decades to grow into my real calling.
I went on to coach middle school, junior varsity, and varsity girls’ and boys’ teams. I called plays in English, German, and French and learned to swear in a dozen different languages. When the opportunity arose, I humbly assisted coaching a wheelchair basketball team in Germany. I was equally inspired teaching kids with Down Syndrome how to shoot hoops.
As I helped athletes cope with divorce, depression, disappointment, academic pressure and the death of loved ones, we held it together with jump shots, high fives and team huddles. We created a bond that one cannot fathom unless having been a part of a team.
During hard times, sometimes the only difference between hope and despair was knowing that someone believes in you.
Coaching at an international school in an international league, every year the team composite is unique – with African, American, French, German, English, Indian, Japanese, Philippine, Puerto Rican, Scottish, Spanish, Swedish, Turkish, and Uruguayan players– but the outcome remains the same. We put differences aside to become a tight knit group in pursuit of our goals. We shared our camaraderie, competitive drive and love of the game.
In a lifetime of seasons, coaches never really know how many lives they helped shape. Recently, one of my former players – who now runs marathons and the Wellness Program of entire city – honored me by calling me her mentor on the front page of the local newspaper.
Though I have won my share of championships, there is no greater testimony of success when working with kids, than seeing them as productive adults.
“It’s not about trophies,” Coach Mac said it best to the Chicago Tribune in 1985, “The important thing is how you develop your athletes, how you mold their hearts and minds. The real reward is being able to look at your athletes in later years and seeing how you’ve contributed to the development of their character, so that they can serve as leaders of their community.”
In college, I thought I would save the country, as a social worker instead I became an international coach guiding kids from ‘round the globe, to go out and save the world.
I never dreamed I’d see the day when one of the senior boys would stop me in the hall to say, “What’s up, Coach.”
I have arrived! Today even the guys address me with respect.
Why is it the older we get the less we feel like celebrating our birthdays? We knock ourselves out planning parties for babies who have no clue what is going on and then when we reach those senior age milestones when we really should be rejoicing at reaching another year, we downplay the idea trying pretend we are not aging, not a day over 40something.
When you feel like you have been granted 9 lives, birthdays feel like a blessing. The earliest birthday I recall is when my mom made me a bunny shaped cake covered in coconut. Growing up celebrating with my lil’ sis whose birthday is March 1st only doubled the fun. And who can forget those slumberless parties as teens when friends gathered in your basement giggling and offering earrings that turned your newly pierced ears green. Ah, part of the joy was picking out that perfect present at the brand new Northland Mall.
But what I associate most with my birthday is ball games because my birthday always fell during the height of basketball season. In the day before Instagram, I freeze framed those priceless moments in my mind when my folks came to my game carrying a cake and teammates gathered round in a corner of the gym to celebrate. Regardless of the outcome of the game, I felt like a winner.
What makes birthdays so meaningful is not really the fanfare, cards, or cake –although I do LOVE cake – it is knowing that family, friends, colleagues, teammates, and players want to commemorate the day you were born.
So how am I celebrating this birthday? I’ll be in a bus on a road trip to Zurich to coach my team in a Swiss basketball tournament. We will laugh and sing and share chocolate cake and Cutie Pies and I will feel like a kid again. We will enjoy being together, sharing the moment, knowing that we will never pass this way again.
From the surprise party my husband threw me in a Swiss wine cellar, to the unexpected cakes appearing in my classes, to the time my friend and her daughter decorated my homeroom, bringing cheesecake for breakfast, the birthday memories blur. The place and party may change but what remains the same is the date on the calendar, and the way the people around you fill your heart, the touching little ways they remind you they are happy that you are still around to celebrate.
Oh yeah, even though my back may be breaking, my knees aching, my legs quaking, I am dancing today!
You trained hard for the position. You endured nine months with a fat belly and aching back and read every child development book ever written. You accepted labor pains without complaint. When a 7-pound baby landed in your life, you dropped everything to accommodate the needs of that squealing, precious bundle of joy.
teens.
