Healthy Activity -- or Crazed Competition?

I never have to wait around for very long, or dig very deep, to find something to be either baffled or outraged about when it comes to modern parenting. Yesterday’s crazy-making dose came in the form of a New York Times article about sports for babies.

Yes, I meant to write “babies.”

The article opens with a quote from a woman named Doreen Bolhuis, whose company, Gymtrix, sells DVDs of activity programs for kids as young as 6 months. There’s something about the idea of promoting organized physical activity for babies and toddlers that, to me, straddles the line between “good idea!” and “how crazy, exactly, have we become?” The good idea part is simple: if a parent buys a set of videos and watches them with her 10-month-old baby, and it prompts them to roll around on the floor and play and tumble, but it doesn’t replace other, non-video forms of physical play, isn’t that a good thing? Of course it is. But the “how crazy” part creeps in when parents buy these videos as a super-early start in the world of sports for kids: seeing a straight line connecting baby tumbling videos, pee-wee soccer, competitive lacrosse at age 8, football at 10, high-school glory on one field or court or another, and of course a college scholarship. Here’s a quote from Ms. Bolhuis:

We hear all the time from families that have been with us, ‘Our kids are superstars when they’re in middle school and they get into sports.’

Another company selling baby-centered sports DVDs, also mentioned in the article, is Baby Goes Pro. I watched a bit of promotional video on the website, during which I think I threw up in my mouth a little. This groundbreaking series, the founders enthuse, don’t simply promote physical activity (and provide a break in mom’s day so she can “wash the dishes,” and yes, they say this). They also depict “technically correct” sports skills. It’s all very cool and colorful, lots of rainbow-hued golf balls piling up, say, but then the pint-sized viewers (some of whom can’t stand up yet, presumably) are treated to sights such as a professional golfer demonstrating the proper swing, or a close-up of a baseball batter mid-swing, or a soccer goalie executing the perfect save. All in primary colors, and with musical interludes with a cartoon monkey, M.K. (You have to have a cartoon mascot, after all!)

The founders, two women, chat amiably, as if they’re guests on The View, about how awesome it for parents and kids to have fun with sports and physical activity (with which I wholeheartedly agree) but how, it’s just amazing that watching these videos promotes proper use of sports equipment, and teaches real skills that (it’s not said but it’s strongly implied) will give your child a leg up in competitive sports as he grows. (It is called “Baby Goes Pro,” after all, not “Baby Has Some Fun Goofing Around With a Wiffle Bat and Some Plastic Golf Balls.”)

They actually say — I’m not making this up — that if your kid has watched these videos, and then goes to play golf at age four, he’ll instinctively know how to properly pick up and use the club. Here’s a direct quote:

If you have a three or four year old who’s been watching the video, and he goes to the golf course, he’ll know how to grip a golf club,” says one woman. “And that’s confidence!” enthuses her partner.

Really? That’s confidence? I’m not sure I’d call it that. Delusion is maybe more apt. Or even better: the path to the absolute opposite of what you hope to achieve. Because I’m thinking, the four-year-old who can correctly hold a nine-iron will either be Tiger Woods (and we see how often someone like that comes along), or will be the kid who gives up sports at 13 because he just can’t take the pressure anymore.

What’s sticking in my craw today is how these videos and programs latch on to what is actually a good idea — getting kids and parents enthused about physical activity — and twist it into yet another way for parents to be anxious and competitive, and pass those feelings on to their children.

What do you think?

Work it, kiddo!

I have this very strong, distinct memory of my mother, probably not too long after she gave birth to my little brother, watching Jack LaLanne on TV and following along. I’m not sure why I was home (I was in second grade when my brother made the scene), but there I was with her, in our Totally 70s Den (braided rug, dark paneling, orange drapes on the sliding glass doors, Colonial furniture including a dark-wood-frame couch whose cushion fabric featured some sort of bird theme.) It was fun, kicking up my legs and touching my toes and doing whatever else LaLanne urged his viewers to do, but it was also cool to be doing it with my mom.

My mom’s always been big into exercise, and I (and my sister; our brother didn’t catch that gene, somehow) follow in her footsteps. Part of it is a complete inability to “diet,” so I have to work out vigorously to keep on an even keel with weight. But more important, working out is my drug of choice, my mood lifter, and having kids has made exercise absolutely non-negotiable. The algorithm is devastatingly simple: Mama hasn’t worked out in a couple of days? Stay away. Mom just got back from an invigorating run or a trip to the gym? Happiness ensues!

I’d of course love it if my sons followed in my sneaker-clad footsteps. (Having a dad who also values exercise — my husband was a personal trainer when I met him, and has an advanced degree in exercise science — should help). And I promote it. We have little races home from the bus stop, and trips to the playground sometimes involve running up and down the big(ish) hill in our local park, or jogging around the baseball diamond.

Last year, when I had to let my gym membership lapse (our bad financial year…) I switched to outdoor runs, and borrowed Pilates and yoga DVDs from the library for at-home workouts. Often, the boys were hanging around me (literally, sometimes) while I worked out. Like magic, before long, they’d join in.

A couple of observations: James, my little guy, is VERY flexible. (When he was a baby, not an infant any longer but not yet a full-fledged toddler, I used to literally fold him in half in my arms, toes to head, and call him Yoga Baby. He still likes it, if I can slow him down long enough to even get a grip on him). And Daniel? Like his dad, he’s game for activity, but he’s not, let’s say, super coordinated. (Also like his dad, that’s one of his particularly lovable charms).

This morning, I was in my regular Wednesday – Friday Pilates class at my gym, taught — inspiringly, in my opinion — by a late-middle-aged, 4’9”, not quite perfect instructor. Susie is a hoot, for sure. She also teaches yoga, and today, she was in the midst of reminding us to make every movement count. It’s easy, she said, when you’re accustomed to a move, to just sort of toss it out there, rather than really think about where you are, how your body is moving. Be mindful, she said. Think.

So I started thinking. A few weeks ago, the boys had gotten themselves into a typically crazed state, a combination of cabin fever (winter is so long, isn’t it?), and sibling rivalry. I was about to yell, or give someone a time out, or at least enforce a separate-room policy for a few minutes to give us all a measure of peace. But then I had an inspiration.

“Stop!” I said, as forcefully as I could. “Let’s do some yoga!”

And right there, in our former-dining-room, now-piano-room, right in front of the bay window facing the front of the house, the three of us practiced deep, cleansing breaths. We stretched our arms up high, then lowered our bodies, ragdoll-like, toward the floor. We did a little sun salutation, a little tree pose.

What the boys got from our yoga break? A diversion from their frenzy, and in the end a giggle. What I got? The measure of peace I was after, a reprieve from possibly yelling. And a sweet, precious, mindful moment, looking into the eyes of my sons as we all tried to balance on one foot without collapsing into laughter.

Sometimes you don’t have to run hard to get the boost you’re after from exercise. Surely, that’s something Jack LaLanne could still tell you. Or my mom.