What IS that noise? I look out the family room window. A light snow has fallen overnight, and the grass has a fine coating of glistening white. Not what you would call baseball weather. Yet there he is, 11 year old Sheridan, pitching his heart out, the ball hitting the shed door, over and over. Thunk! It’s months until the playing season will begin, but that matters not a whit to Sher. If he’s going to be a pitcher then, by gum, he’s going to practice. Every single day.
|Toddler Sheridan--Skeeball Mania Begins|
|Sheridan @ Grace|
A certain number of things come easily to me, and so, those are the things I do. The rest, I avoid like the plague if at all possible: bicycle riding, parallel parking. Speaking Spanish. Card games. When I hear “practice makes perfect” I shrug, reassure myself that nobody’s perfect, and go back to my fairly unskilled and unfocused life. My lack of self-discipline stands in sharp contrast to my dedicated and hard-working son. When, several years back, Sheridan valiantly attempted to teach me piano, I sabotaged my own efforts by stinting on practice time. Clearly I didn’t, I don’t, want to excel badly enough to put in the required hours. Better to limit myself to what I think are my natural strengths. Better not to try so hard.
Sher never, ever criticizes me—he’s far too nice for that. But I’m sure I am an alien species to him, someone who is unwilling to practice, even when practice would lead to success. I’m grateful for his patience with his lazy mom. Maybe someday I’ll be inspired as well, and learn something new the hard way—with practice.
Meanwhile I settle. I settle when, like Sheridan, I could soar.