The Scrimmage of Life

Tomorrow night my oldest son, eight, will have his first football scrimmage. He's in the 3rd grade and will be going up against the 4th grade team.

I pondered the unfairness of this and became indignant about it as I frequently do when the odds are stacked against my children. (Normally I might make a natural metaphor here about mama bears, but thank you Sarah Palin for ruining that one for me.)

I remark about it to my husband, something like, "Why don't they split the team and scrimmage each other? Why are they scrimmaging 4th graders? It's not fair."

His response was, "Why not? Someone is always smaller."

I struggle, as all parents struggle, with wanting to make a child's path smooth -- no bumps, no twists and turns, like the perfect freeway across America where there is always an off-ramp when you're hungry or have to go to the bathroom, and where the street lights always come on at dusk. Safe and boring. That's how I want it to be for my children.

I know, it's ridiculous.

It's especially ridiculous because I value the bruises I've gotten on the road, though maybe not the moment I was getting them. I've learned many great lessons from putting my foot in my mouth, from bad dates and bad relationships, from stupid, shot-sighted decisions. I've seen wonderful sights when I've taken wrong turns. 

Once I tore a bunch of soft tissue in my ankle while kickboxing (yes, really) and found myself surrounded by six firemen and emergency responders who looked like they'd fallen out of the center of a fundraising calendar where all the men are half dressed. I wouldn't trade away that horrible experience even though I sometimes still have trouble with that ankle.

I understand challenge, loss, fear. I understand about digging deep. I'm not afraid of a fight.  And sometimes I'm keen on doing it when I feel like justice needs to be served.  I'll tackle Goliath to save David if he needs saving.

So, why do I not want these beautiful lessons for my own sons?  I guess because they hurt and I know that not everyone overcomes their hurt. Sometimes we are hurt beyond measure, beyond repair.  We cannot fix the broken things inside us.  Falling down and skinning yourself is one thing, but getting your soul crushed is something else.

As I wait in line to pick up my second child, my first reminds me of tomorrow's scrimmage. He tells me who he thinks he will be lining up against tomorrow -- a neighbor friend from across the street. He seems unconcerned about it, thinking more about another boy on his team.

"I feel bad for this kid named Jeremy who is next to me on the line. He's going up against a kid named Roacher who weighs about 117 pounds and Jeremy weighs like 57 pounds. He's gonna be flattened in about two seconds. Yeah, he's going down."

I worry my sons won't know how to dig deep. I worry they will be too fearful to find their courage.  I worry they will get a wound that won't heal.  I worry they won't win a fight they think is worth fighting and it will make them not want to try again.  I worry they will give up.

And so I remind him that when the game whistle blows he is to be fierce, as fierce as he can muster because I can't tell him how his mother takes a simple first scrimmage game and turns it into some sort of mental breakdown as I sit there in a row of other parents who are probably having their own version of mental breakdowns. (Or not, maybe I'm the only freak.) 

And I can't tell him that all this reminds me how he's growing up so fast and it's only going to get worse from here on out.  Because all he knows is he's gonna go wrestle around with other boys looking all cool in their football gear and later tell me all about how awesome he was on the field

So I think about that instead -- how tough he looks in his gear with his broad shoulders. He's tall, a good head taller than most kids his age. I think about his verve, the way he tells me a story, embellishing as if I were not there to see it with my own eyes. I think about how I will sit in the stands and make a fool of myself cheering for him and the rest of his team. Because I can control all that.

I can't keep them from falling, but I can pick them up when they do and kiss the wounds, the tears, reason with them and be their champion. I vow to myself to be excellent at that if nothing else and hope that excellent will be good enough when they really need it.

Too Much Truth

On the drive to work the boys sat in the back of the car. Tristan shyly asked, "Mom, do you want to take belly dancing lessons?"

I looked in the rear view mirror, but couldn't see him. "Noooo... why?"

He didn't answer.

"Do you think I should?"

"Yes."

Julius had to chime in with, "Mom, I don't mean to offend you, but I really think you would NOT look good in a belly dancer outfit. I mean, I'm sorry, but really."

Tristan was kind enough to defend me.  "I think she would look good in a belly dancer outfit."

Oh, what a fabulous boy who is still young enough to think his mother is the most beautiful woman in the world.

I told my older, less-wise son, "Listen, sometimes there is such a thing as too much truth. Use your truth wisely, Luke."

The things I have to put up with around here.

Caterpiller Season: Another Stirring Saga in Maternal Ineptitude

In our backyard we have a large catalpa tree. It's been there as long as I can remember and I've owned this home for nearly 25 years. The tree was here when I bought the house. It stands tall outside in our backyard and sometimes I stand at the back door and just stare at it because I love the way its sweeping branches make a shade canopy over that part of the yard.

In the summertime the catalpa worms emerge wearing their little stripey black suits, very dapper gents who start out tiny and grow monstrously huge with voracious appetites. They eat the heart-shaped leaves of the tree and become fat. Excellent fish bait if you can stand skewering them.  I cannot, especially when my children consider them playmates.

Every day the boys go out with a bowl and catch as many worms as they can and watch them crawl around. They create habitats for them, little obstacle courses of sticks and leaves and plastic toys. Sometimes Tristan would put the fattest ones on a tiny little toy skateboard and say, "Mom, do you know why Catty needs a skateboard? Because she is SO FAT!"

For a week or two each summer they do this and Tristan especially gets very attached to them. He's named them "Catty" and cries every night when he has to take Catty back to the tree where she lives.  He wails, "But Catty LOVES ME! Catty will be LONELY! Something will get CATTY!!!" It's a horrible and pathetic lament, heartbreaking.  I keep thinking one day he will get over it, but it always starts again the next day.

Tonight he came in from his quest to the catalpa tree to collect Catty. He was bawling his head off. I was cooking dinner. "What is is, sweetie?"

He hugged my leg and sobbed into my blue jeans. "Catty is GONE! There are no more Catties!"  Apparently the end of the catalpa season has come or all the worms have wandered their way up to the top where the food was better. No matter, the end result was the same. Tristan could not put Catty in the plastic bowl that he has carried with him every day since school let out.

"Hey, you know what, this is okay. You know why?"

He looked up hopefully after wiping his eyes on my pants. "Why?"

"Well, Catty's probably gone to college or something. That's what happens -- you grow up and go to college. You'll do that one of these days when you are a big, big boy! So, try not to worry about it.  All the Catties will be back next summer."

I continued to stir the food on the stove and he wandered outside. About five minutes later Julius came in and stood next to me and asked in a quiet voice, "Hey, Mom? Why is Tristan outside screaming and crying, 'Catty's gone to college!'"

From across the room Rob says, "Way to go, Mom."

"Er, well, he was crying so I told him Catty went to college." I shrugged, slightly embarrassed.

Julius rolled his eyes. "Great. Well, he's screaming his head off. Everyone in the neighborhood will hear him." And then he turned and went back outside.

Tristan came in later and was still lamenting that Catty had gone to college and she would be lonely and scared all by herself. I was quick to reassure him, "Oh no, she's not lonely and scared. She's off with her friends having a Catty party!"

He stared at me in horror and then shrieked, "CATTY IS HAVING A CATTY PARTY WITHOUT MEEEEEEEE!" And then he ran off to have a nervous breakdown somewhere in private.

From across the room Rob says, "Way to go, Mom."

I sighed. Really, there was no way to win on this. What do you do about a child who cries all the time over something the locals use as The Best Fishbait Ever?

That night at bedtime, I tucked Tristan in with his favorite blanket and SnuggleBunny, a big stuffed rabbit that was as long as he was and wider. He spooned with SnuggleBunny while I covered him and tucked him in.

"I'm so sad, Mommy, Catty is having a party without me at college." He sobbed limply into SnuggleBunny's neck.

I didn't know what to say, so I decided to tell The Truth, because the truth always sets you free.  You can't go wrong with the truth.

"Honey, I think maybe Catty turned into a moth."

He raised his head and looked up at me with big, wet eyes and then... screamed. "AAAAH, CATTY IS A MOTH! NOOOO MOMMY NOOOOOO! I DON'T WANT CATTY TO BE A MOTH!"

Jeez. I think I might have actually banged my head against the bed frame in frustration. Can you need anti-depressants at four? I have no idea.

"Listen, no, seriously -- Moths are super cool. You LOVE moths! You can catch Catty as a moth!" Nevermind that he has killed every moth he's ever caught because he loves them to death and they meet a bitter, flopping, broken end tossed out the front door because I can't stand to watch it anymore.

"Catty will fly away as soon as I open my hand!"

I stared at him sadly thinking how true that is for so many things. Maybe Tristan's real problem is that he's a lot like his mother.

"Okay, time to dry it up. Look, here is Snoopy. He's sad and needs you to cheer him up. Do that and it will make you feel better. Catty will be back. You'll see him again, I promise. Catty always comes back, every summer. And you know what? Never in Catty's life will there ever be another boy who let her ride around on a skateboard. So, that's why I know Catty thinks YOU are the most special boy she has ever met."

He sniffed and said, "Really?"

I nodded, "Really. Super double triple really."

He burrowed into SnuggleBunny and closed his eyes. I pulled the covers up under his chin and turned out the light.