Sweet dreams

Great achievers and children have one thing in common: the capacity to see the greatness in themselves. I had it once. I dreamed of becoming a notable scholar and a world class athlete, and living in a fabulous beach house. I did come really close to accomplishing some of my dreams. Okay, so it's an apartment, and it's a couple of miles from the shores of Lake Michigan, but I'm not finished dreaming yet.

My husband has it, too. What else can explain his confidence in being able to start life over as a law school student? Behind the quiet, secure exterior, I suspect he is simmering with big dreams I have barely had a glance at. I can understand the desire to keep secret ambitions under wraps. Dreaming takes daring, it takes chutzpah. Dreams that are so seductive, so thrilling, and so desirable in our minds, sound so silly and shallow once they are uttered out loud.
Once that dream has escaped the confines of the imagination, it loses it's luster. Sharing that fantasy anchors it in the real world. Suddenly, you're faced with the challenge to "put up or shut up". What are you going to actually do to make it happen? What concrete steps will you follow to live your dream?

My husband didn't back down when the time came. He gave his reveries substance, and breathes life into them every day. He can't fantasize away the hard realities of succeeding in law school while emotionally and financially supporting a family in a strange land.

And neither can I.

Once my husband shared his dream with me, it became my own: all of the glitz and glamour, and the sweat and stress. This is the real heart of life as a law school widow. I'm an integral part of my husband's enterprise. And as difficult as it has been, I wouldn't have it any other way.

I envy my children. Their dreams are so exciting and beautiful. Children's fantasies are known as "magical thinking". Until around age ten, they dream without limitations, without a sense of reality to diminish their imagination. My son has it. In his world, he's the smartest, toughest, and most athletic kid in second grade. He's not completely delusional, though. Just last week he gently chastised me for my own delusions.

"Mom," he said in that slightly impatient but pleased tone, "I'm not as smart as you think." Ha! I thought to myself, The jokes on you! You're far smarter than I would dare let you know I'm thinking!

There's smart and then there's smart. He has a incredibly keen and facile mind, but he still young enough to be blessed with magical thinking.

On Tuesday, I took him to his first Little League practice. My son has never played organized baseball, but several of his classmates are on the team, and the father of one of his friends is the coach. I thought this would be a good opportunity to socially engage with some of the boys in his class outside of school, but I almost immediately regretted it. The Monday after I signed him up, he skipped home from the bus, happy as usual, but informed me that the mean boys in his class were angry that he was going to be on their team. It didn't seem to phase him, but my heart sank.

We got off to a bad start on Tuesday. We got out a little late, which tends to happen when you are trying to herd three spacey little ones out the door, and then got hopelessly lost trying to find the playing fields. We arrived half an hour late, but my son hopped out of the car and ran straight onto the field, ready to go.

I watched with a tremendous sense of dread as my son missed ground ball after ground ball in the drills. Occasionally he'd catch one in his glove and toss it in the wrong direction or short of its intended target. The reality was that most of the seven and eight year old boys missed, and some completely missed the point of the drill. He wasn't the worst one out there. But I felt bad for him. A few of the kids I recognized from his class suddenly looked years older as they easily scooped up the ball, and sent it soaring with precision. Ugh. was all I could muster, thinking about the teasing he'd be subjected to by these weirdly athletic second graders.

The coached placed all of the boys around the field and pitched to one at a time, while the others practiced fielding. My son was in his own world out on the field. He pitched imaginary balls, fought off imaginary space aliens, and day dreamed exciting adventures out in right field. At least, that's how it looked to me.

I felt terribly guilty, too. For a physical education instructor, I am incredibly ignorant about baseball. I never played it as a kid, and never really had much interest in the sport. I could get away with that in San Antonio, a one-sport town, but here in Chicago, it's unforgivable. Look! I said to his cold and bored little sisters, pointing to third base. You're brother's on first base! An amused father sitting on the bleachers with us looked at me with pity. His seven year old son piped up, "That's third base!" I smiled sheepishly and thought,

My kid's doomed, and it's all my fault!

He was the last one up at bat. He swung and swung at everything that came in his general direction. And he missed. Three, four, five pitches lobbed past him. Once in a while he'd connect and the ball would wobble harmlessly past the foul line. I silently shook my head worried that my good intentions had guaranteed my sweet son a life of being hopelessly uncool. Sigh.

"Run this one out!" The coach mercifully called out.

Time slowed and I cringed with each pitch. It seemed like hours passed as my boy eagerly but ineffectively swung the bat at each ball. After a dozen or so attempts, the bat finally made contact with a pitch. It didn't exactly make a powerful "crack", and the ball dribbled more than soared, but my dreamer went flying toward first base. The short stop scooped up the ball and threw it to first base. The kid at first base lunged at it and missed. The ball bounced and rolled past him.

I unclenched my teeth and fist and started screaming, Run! Run! Run!

The kid at first base grabbed the ball and threw it towards second. The ball rose and fell in a stunted parabola landing feet away from the plate and rolled past the second baseman.

By now I was standing, yelling and cheering for my son. Run! Run! Run!

The second baseman scooped it up and threw it to third base. The ball went wide and the third baseman ran after it, grabbed it and threw it home. The catcher was in position halfway between third and home when the ball came sailing directly to him. My son tried to dodge him, but there was no escaping the tag. He ran off the field beaming.

I shook my head, as much at his dumb luck as my over enthusiasm. For goodness sake, I thought, it's only practice.

So, I asked nonchalantly as he came off the field, how was it?

"Great! Did you see me out there?" Yeah, I thought, I'm afraid I did. Outwardly, I told him he looked great and ran fast.

My children are natural dreamers. It's probably due to our severe limitations on their television and computer game time. My home is daily transformed into imaginary lands, and my kids into wizards, princesses, ballerinas, and mommies and daddies. When my daughter rehearses for her ballet recital she becomes a different person. She stands taller, moves slower and more gracefully. She is a prima ballerina, and no one can tell her differently.

I wonder what my toddler is dreaming about when she draws on the couch, or climbs onto the tables, or laughs maniacally as she pulls books off shelves.

Magical thinking means never having to think about the hard realities of pursuing a dream. The challenges, the obstacles, the risks of failures don't exist in a little kid's world.

I hope my children are internalizing the lessons their father is teaching by example: the late nights he spends hunched over books or tapping away at his laptop. I try to stress the benefits of diligence and good effort. I try to praise my son's processes more than his successes.

Weekly, his piano teacher is surprised and pleased by his quick progress. He is a natural musician with a tremendous ear for tones and rhythm. "Mom!" He boasts, "My teacher told me that I'm her best student and I learn everything faster than anyone else!"

That's because you practice so hard every day! I smile. When you work so hard, it makes everything seem easier!

At least that's what my husband is hoping. Anticipating challenges is very different from actually facing them, but he isn't dissuaded. He just plugs away night after night. And the kids are watching.

The nicest thing about magical thinking is never having to fail.

My parents skyped us yesterday. "How was your first day of baseball?" They asked my son. My jaw dropped when I heard his response:

"Great!" He brightened up at the memory. "I hit a home run, but they got me out inches from home!"

Dream on! I thought. And I really, really meant it.