The Loser Who Won In A Garden

My son Diego thinks he is a rock star.  Being one of the oldest children at our school has fed his rock stardom, and at six years old the kid jams a mean air guitar to his preschool audience.

So it was no surprise that he was convinced our school was going to win something big at the Fairchild Tropical Garden Challenge.  It was also no surprise that he convinced me to drive him and his brother to the awards ceremony held on a rainy Tuesday afternoon in Miami.  The Fairchild Challenge is a yearlong project where each school plans, plants, maintains and uses a garden as a learning tool.  There is more to it than that, and if you are interested, you can visit them here.  Our school goes up to kindergarten, and being the eldest ones, Diego’s class led our gardening efforts.  They came up with their own country: Kind-er-landia.  It had a flag and they even had a national anthem to the tune of “we will we will rock you” which Diego helped create.

A group of us head to the awards ceremony with the spirit of rock stardom in all of us.  I too am convinced we were going to win.  After all, didn’t my prodigious son help create an anthem?  Hadn’t I invested hours both as a parent and as a teacher to that garden?  The entire school participated - we even had eighteen month olds watering the flowers. How cute is that?

We get there and the place is PACKED with hundreds of kids.  We find a space near the stairs leading to the stage.  The award ceremony starts and we get ready to inherit our rightful place on that stage except our name is not called.  I start noticing that though some individual awards are age-based, the ones Diego qualifies for are school based.  And the schools present are bigger than ours and they are ELEMENTARY schools.  That is, their eldest students are fifth graders competing with our eldest class of kindergarteners.  I am taking this personally. Who the heck do these 5^th graders think they are anyway? 

It finally dawns on me that we don’t have a chance, and after close to an hour of seeing other schools win, doubt finally enters Diego. 

“Mami, what if we don’t win?” he asks me.

“I don’t know son,” I answer.

This is my cue to scramble for some wise life lesson that my son will soon be painfully learning.  This would be his first major disappointment and I want to be ready.  I think: we learn more from failures than from victory; the joy is in the journey not the destination; the important thing is to compete and have fun.  New lessons to him – stale to me.  A consolation pizza party sounds much better.

And then comes a category that is basically the “thanks for trying really hard but you didn’t get the big prize” category.  Sixteen schools would be recognized for their effort.  It was an “A for effort” award.  In my arrogant, annoying, sometimes cruel mind I label it “the loser award.”  And of course, we are one of the schools called.

Deer in headlight Diego

The announcer says only two representatives per school are allowed on stage and Diego’s hand immediately, without hesitation, goes up.  His teacher has no choice but to let him go with an equally eager friend.  They get up there, two kindergarteners with a deer in headlight look amongst a sea of “graders” holding their glass-framed diploma.  He comes back to our group, regains control of his nerves and returns to rock stardom.  He won’t let go of the award. I bet every picture taken has Diego in it.  He is emphatically proud.

The kind word for what I feel is compassion but really I feel pity.  Here is my poor kid feeling so proud of an award that just means he participated, not that he won.  In my mind that does not make him a winner.  I don’t say anything and let him bask in the victory that at least in his own mind, exists. 

The awards ceremony ends and our name is not called again. By now it is late.  It is past dinnertime and almost bedtime. As we are getting ready to leave, a rainstorm blows through Miami. “Great.” I think, “Why on earth did we come all the way here? To lose and now to get soaked?”

Not letting go of award

Our car is parked pretty far away - we need to run through the garden to get to it.  How more miserable can this be?  We begin to run and the rain starts to get stronger.  The laughter that comes from Diego and his buddies running around this garden on a torrential storm is divine.  It comes from inside and fills me with joy.  It is pure, and innocent, and contagious.  It is so monumentally moving that I almost cry.

I realize that today I was the only loser.  Diego really is a winner.  He never stopped believing in his potential, he got up on stage to get his award, and now he was rejoicing in the rain with his brother and friends.  He really is a confident rock star.    He lives in the moment and does not doubt his achievement with the garden just as he doesn’t doubt his running in the rain.  He simply revels in it.

On the other hand, I was there complaining about getting wet, disappointed with what I labeled as a loss.  I belittled my son’s achievement because it didn’t match my expectation of what should’ve happened.  I lack humility.  He got up there, said thank you, and is celebrating in a natural, wonderful way.  I struggle with the ability to accept a compliment, a praise, or an award.  I lack the graciousness of just getting up there and enjoying the moment instead of judging it.

My son was my teacher today.  I learned I did not have to protect his ego nor coddle his upset.  He didn’t have any.  Instead he taught me how to handle mine.   In the rain I stop, I let go of judgment, listen to the squealing laughter and laugh myself. I sing and jump and splash in a puddle with them because we are happy. Because just by being present at that moment,  by letting myself be taught by a six year old, I am a rock star too.

Mami rock star in the rain

The Fast Lane On The Right

In the fast lane on the right

I quit my triathlon team about once a week.  Sometimes twice.  I have perfectly reasonable reasons to do so.  I work, I have children, I now have a blog and triathlon training takes a serious amount of time and commitment.   I have the words I will tell my coach and this is it: I am tired, I am cranky, my kids deserve better, I quit.  Except that this all happens between my ears, in my mind.  My husband will sometimes hear it but pays no attention to it.  He “hears” it but does not listen – after all, of the hundreds of times I have told him I am quitting it hasn’t happened yet.  Chances are that it won’t happen this time either.


Triathlons means I need to train in three sports: swim, bike and run.  For swim practice my team meets on Mondays and Fridays at a public pool nearby.  We are divided into lanes, and contrary to driving, the faster you are the further to the right you go.  So the fastest lane is on the right side of the pool.  I am not sure this is universal in swimming but that is how it works for us.  Somehow or another I have made it to the right lane.  I wasn’t there before – it was one of my teammates that almost literally threw me into it.  And to make matters worse, I don’t keep up with the rest of my “lane mates”.  These are fast swimmers with nicknames such as “Iron Beto”, “kicktastic Julie”, and Mickey who doesn’t even need an intimidating nickname.  She just rocks.  In true team spirit though, they push me to go faster than I have ever gone before.

Yellow cap in the middle of the pool

Every Monday, or so it seems, if I am not quitting the team I am at least getting out of the fast lane.  I go determined to move over to the left at least one lane.  I have perfectly reasonable reasons to do so: I didn’t sleep well, my cat woke me up, I did my long swim over the weekend, I don’t want to start the week feeling tired. And again, all this happens between my ears.  When I get to the pool usually right on time at 5:59am I am told “Cris, lane 1”.  I sigh. And I dutifully walk to the right lane and jump in.

My mind is a terrible neighborhood to walk around by myself.  It can take me in all kinds of directions and distort whatever I see. I think reality, much like beauty, is in the eye of the beholder.  What is “real” is tainted by who sees it.  What I find appalling someone might find normal.  I thought it was appalling to eat at a table with your hands, and then I learned living in Morocco to use only my right hand when I ate exquisite meals sitting down at a fancy restaurant.  I have learned that many of the things I judge I end up doing.  I judge a parent yelling at a child, and then turn around and yell at mine.  I used to say I would never use a TV as an electronic babysitter and guess what my kids are doing right now?  I see God’s sense of humor.

I used to judge a lot more before.  I’ve grown up a little.   I used to be afraid that you didn’t think I was smart enough so I would put someone down to make me feel smarter.  Or funnier. Or wiser. You get the picture.  I didn’t realize I was doing this.  I was judging out of fear.

Triathlon training helps keep me humble.  I only compete against myself as most of my team is faster than I am in all three sports.  So when I quit my team in my head I have to look at myself.  What is it that I am afraid of?  Not keeping up? Being late for school? Feeling tired in the afternoon? Losing my patience with the boys at dinnertime? Dropping one of the many balls I juggle? 

But as soon as I get out of my head, as soon as I show up at that swimming pool on Monday morning I am gratefully no longer alone.  Something comes over me and I just focus at the task at hand and swim on Mondays, bike on Tuesdays, run on Wednesdays and so forth every day of the week.   Once I chit chat with another human being at an ungodly early hour who is probably on the same boat as I am, I no longer regret not quitting.  I realize that I am where I need to be.

I need to push myself and sometimes fail. I need to know that if too many strong swimmers show up one morning, I am the first one to be bumped to the left.  But if I get to the pool and am indeed sent to the fast lane on the right, I go there.  And if someone else judges me because I am too slow to be on the fast lane it may just be that they are too scared to try to get there themselves.

Tri2One at the pool

And so it is with life.  Woody Allen said “90% of life is just showing up.”  I am not a huge fan but I am beginning to think he was right on this one.  I just need to physically make it to where I have to be.  I have to let go of the fears, of the insecurities, of the tiredness or laziness and just go.   Because really … there is no doubt I AM going to drop the ball once in a while regardless of what I do.  It would be unrealistic and indeed arrogant to think otherwise.  So why not just show up?  That sounds easy enough.  This morning I showed up at the pool and decided to continue training.   If too many balls come down at once then I can revisit and quit again … next week.