I always remember seeing television commercials of so-called “sports mothers,” with their faces aglow and smiles beaming as they dropped their children off at games or practices.
With makeup in place and hair in a neat style, they stood with pride as their children ran onto the field. It was as if wind magically illuminated them to be the superheroines they were at that moment. Sports Mom…proud, determined and “together.”
I had these visions inside my head this week as I entered the world of school sports. With my eldest son James on the pee wee football team and my daughter Elsie joining the little girls cheerleading squad, I was sure my organizational skills and quick decision-making would make this first dive into the sports world a breeze. I mean, I put together newspapers on hectic deadlines. How hard could it be?
But when things actually got started, I felt like I was one of those gladiators walking into the Roman Coliseum about to be fed to the lions. I was in unfamiliar territory. And to this day, I have no idea what I am doing or what I am going to do to adapt to this whole sports lifestyle.
Entering the scene of practices, I was confused and ready to get into the fetal position. There were mothers surrounding me, veteran mothers, who knew how this scene worked very well. With eagle-like eyes and hard facial expressions, they would duck and dive among the crowd. Tossing football helmets and securing cheerleaders’ hair bows. They reminded me of soldiers heading into battle – alert, focused and ready to take an enemy out at a moment’s notice.
And then there I was…proud that I was able to find a parking spot. I was unprepared and afraid. Holding my head high, I attempted to secure James’ football helmet. Seconds later, I received a look of disappointment and shame from my son when I had to ask for help because I somehow managed to snake his mouth guard over his ear while the chin strap remained unbuckled.
I hid alone in the bathroom with Elsie on the verge of tears because I kept tying her hair bow upside down. Finally, a nine-year-old girl took pity on me and assisted. Our eyes meeting said it all…Help me.
In the moments that followed I learned many things. Football players don’t smile so you might as well stop taking so many pictures, begging them to.
I can’t include the word “baby” when speaking publicly to my children anymore. Don’t scream too loud when I hear their names…it’s not always a good thing. One Gatorade and a pack of crackers does not make an after-practice snack (and I will never bring a wheel barrel-shaped drink again). Don’t ask if they are OK if it looks like they might have gotten hurt, and in fact, don’t even approach them unless an ambulance has been called to assist.
And I have to be good at taking orders. For the past three days, I have been told where to be, what time to arrive, what attire to have ready and what food I need to bring.
I don’t mind, but it’s overwhelming. I mean, my kids were lucky to have matching socks this morning (well, Elsie didn’t luck out one day).
But as I sit on the bleachers with sweat rolling down my face because the mother next to me is screaming so loud at her kid that her veins are popping out, I couldn’t be prouder. It does my heart good to see James smiling among his teammates. My hearts glows when I see Elsie yelling a cheer with a huge smile.
I played basketball in high school, but I had no idea what my mother went through to make sure I was where I was supposed to be with what I needed. I appreciate it now that I am that mother.
I can remember looking up at my mother from the court and thinking how tired she looks. But like most kids, I didn’t give it a second thought as I got back in the game.
My Momma was her own player in the game of parenthood. There are no time-outs, fouls come and go, but no one’s blowing a whistle. You just pick up the ball and get back in the game.
