North Star Writers Group

I love to watch golf. For a woman who’s constantly on the go, there’s something very soothing about the whole thing. The announcers’ voices. The cadenced claps. Guys in pressed golf shirts walking miles while someone else carries their bags.

Notice I said watching – not playing – golf is relaxing. When I play, there’s no little white ball soaring peacefully overhead, and landing in the middle of a perfectly manicured fairway. A swerving one, heading right for a tree trunk in a forest, maybe, but very few fairways.

Yesterday, I watched Tiger Woods add another major championship trophy to his mantle, and I thought to myself, I wonder if I could be the Tiger Woods of working motherhood. Always on top of my game. Performing in such a way that my coworkers could only hope to catch up. Keeping my cool in the direst of sand-trap-like circumstances.

It is, indeed, a dream. Tiger gets ahead and rarely has to look back. As for me, just when I think I’ve done something great – like managed to schedule my 13-month-old for the perfect swim class, I run into a friend whose only comment is, “You’ve waited this long? Little Paige started swim class at five months.”

Foiled!

Tiger also strives for perfection – and constant improvement. He practices in the rain. Watches tapes of his swing. Of course I should do the same. When my son’s in bed, I could be reading “Mr. Brown Can Moo, Can You?” to myself, speaking into the handheld tape recorder I use when I interview people. I should be playing it back and picking out areas that aren’t quite perfect.

I can hear myself now. “Oh my. Listen to the way my verbal horse goes ‘Klop Klop.’” I’m sure Dr. Seuss is rolling over in his grave – not to mention my lightning splat. It could really use some work. With time, and careful study, I could be more of a Tiger-like mommy.

I should also be more of a Tiger at work. After every tournament, Tiger has to give a press conference, in which various reporters grill him over every drive, every putt, every emotion, and every competitor. His memory must be sharp as a tack. I figure the only way for me to be as sharp would be to pretend that at the end of every day, I’ll go through the same drill.

This would certainly force me to do several things. First, pay attention in meetings, so that when I’m asked, I can say with the utmost of conviction, “Lisa said she would handle that.” Instead, I tend to scramble to get things done, swearing the whole time that someone else had volunteered.

Of course, my coworkers have likely caught onto this. If I were more Tiger-like, they would know I’d remember every word, every whisper, every small item volunteered. To email the meeting notes. To talk with the next person up the ladder about what the team needs. To schedule the next meeting.

I’m sure this trap-like memory could reduce my workload by half.

Second, having to answer 100 questions about my performance that day would surely serve as a motivator. You’d never hear Tiger saying, “Well, on the fifth hole, I had to go online for 10 minutes to research my son’s asthma medication.” Or, “At hole 13, Sergio Garcia, who sits a few cubicle aisles over from me, had a meltdown and I helped him.”

Tiger, on the other hand, would ask his trusty caddy Steve Williams to deal with researching the problems first. He’d read Stevie’s information, use it, and then somehow turn it into a birdie. Once I find my Stevie, I’ll be unstoppable.

When Tiger was five, he wrote down his goals. Dreams, if you will. And all his life, he worked his rear off to make them come true.

As for me, being more like Tiger will probably remain a dream. After all, I’m more like a Kitten. Rolling in an unraveled ball of yarn. I might need help getting out of the chaos I’ve created, but the trick – one I’m not so sure Tiger himself has mastered – is having fun in the middle of all of it.

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This is Column # CD057. Request permission to publish here.