A couple weeks ago, Mark tried out for the school flag football team. I was super proud of him, partly because he made the team, but also because he tried out last year and didn't make it.
"I'm most proud that you tried again this year," I told him. "Some kids might be mad they didn't make it and give up. But you kept trying and you made it. I'm very proud of you for that."
Yesterday was the first game of the season. I don't know who was more nervous about it, Mark or me.
We both played it cool at home. But as I slipped into the stands at starting time, I was nervous for him.
The game started when a whistle blew and the two teams charged toward each other full-speed. Mark told me the school league was tougher than the league he played in last spring, and he was right.
I watched the kids run, their mouth guard strings flapping around. It cracked me up. The plastic piece looks like a stick hanging out front. It allows the boys to easily pull the guards out between plays, but during the game, it looked like the kids were eating lollipops during the game.
The day before, I'd asked Mark what position he was playing, and he said, "Probably bench."
"No way," I said. "You're quick--I'm sure you'll get some field time."
But I was wrong. Mark stood at the sidelines for most of the game, jittery, constantly moving up and down the sidelines as the ball and players moved. He tossed a football around, continuously checking his cleats and flags. He also spent a lot of time obsessively removing and replacing his mouth guard. I think the mouth guard saw more action during the game than Mark did.
Mark was a trouper, though. He yelled encouragement to his team on the field. He stood at the coach's side, asking questions. He tossed footballs to the referees, and water bottles to his sweaty teammates running off the field. But my heart broke with each minute that passed as he stood on the sidelines.
Finally, he got his chance. Coach gave him the signal, and Mark ran on field during the kickoff. He hunched down seriously, completely concentrating, and took off like a shot when the play started.
The play was over quickly, and Mark returned to sidelines. I silently cursed the coach, because I knew this game meant a lot to Mark.
Mark got to run another play during the game. I took a few pictures, but mostly I spent the time half-heartedly rooting for the team and trying not to obsess that Mark barely played. I didn't want to be that obnoxious yelly sports parent, and I didn't want to embarrass Mark. I just wanted to watch him play, see him run, and cheer him on. I wanted to be happy watching him be happy.
It wasn't to be. Mark was excited his team won, but disappointed he didn't contribute much to the victory.
I was disappointed, too, because I knew how much this meant to him. But I swallowed my own feelings--this wasn't about me.
"I know you wanted to play more," I told him. "It's just the first game. There are more chances--you keep going to practice, work hard, and be ready to go in when they need you. It's easier to pout and slack in practice because you didn't get to play in the game anyway, but Coach won't like that attitude. He's not gonna put in a bitter kid--he's gonna play someone who works hard all the time and never gives up."
Mark wasn't convinced. "I guess," he said glumly.
"I know it," I said. "You were great out there. I love how you cheered on your team, how you told them to watch out for players who weren't covered. You were really positive, and it helped the team."
"I talked to Coach, too," he said. "I told him which plays to run a couple times."
"See?" I said. "That helps! Maybe you weren't on the field the whole time, but you were definitely helping the team."
And with that, he smiled and hit the showers. I smiled, too, and then bit my lip. I wanted to scream with Mark how unfair it was he didn't get to play, but I knew that wouldn't help him. It wouldn't help for two of us to be angry and bitter. I couldn't poison what had so far been lots of fun for him.
He's learning about sportsmanship, I thought. About being a good sport, which really is the whole point of playing football.
If I want Mark to be a good sport, I have to teach by example. I have to be positive and uplifting, even though what I really want to do is scream "It's not fair!!!" at the coach.
I forget that sometimes lessons aren't just just for kids--sometimes they're for the parents, too. And this, definitely, was one of those times.
Mark was very excited to make the flag football team at school last week. He was a little less excited that football and jazz band practice were at the same time.
I knew which activity he'd skip if given the chance, so I offered a compromise.
"Go to the first half of jazz, then to football if you get out early," I told Mark.
"Then I have to take TWO bags," he grumbled. "My music bag and my football gear. I don't wanna waste my time lugging all those bags around."
I sighed. Sometimes arguing with Mark is like conversing with a foreigner--he knows I'm speaking, maybe even giving good advice, but all he hears is "Blah, blah, blah."
"You don't need your football stuff. Just practice in your school clothes," I said, pointing to the t-shirt, shorts and tennis shoes he was already wearing. He just snorted, and rolled his eyes at how lame I was for thinking he could play football in his school clothes. (The very same clothes he plays football in every day at lunch.)
After Mark left, the music teacher emailed, confirming that it was the first day of jazz practice, but that she'd only keep the kids about 15-20 minutes. I knew Mark would be excited, and relayed the message to him when he called me at lunch.
When I got home, I asked how football went. I expected to hear rave reviews, or at least a little excitement.
"It was okay," Mark shrugged. "I only got to go for 10 minutes."
I was surprised. I figured he'd get in a good 45 minute workout at least.
"The music teacher kept you the whole time?" I asked. Mark just grunted and went silent.
But the football talk picked up again around dinner.
"I need new cleats," Mark announced. "Mine are too tight."
"Wear them to practice first, then we'll see," I said.
"I wore them today," he said. "They don't fit."
I looked at him, confused, because I know he didn't take his football gear to school.
"I came home to get them," he explained. I was still confused.
Mark sighed like I was the most clueless person around. "I came home to get my cleats and PE clothes," he said. "Then I went to football. And I got ripped off, because I only got to practice for like, 10 minutes."
I did the math in my head--it's a 10 minute walk to school, or 8 minutes if you're a 13-year-old boy running. So 8 minutes home, 10 minutes to dump his backpack and search for his socks, cleats, PE clothes, and mouthpiece, then change into them. Two minutes to pet the cat, three minutes to down a glass of water from running, and one minute to tie the cleats he left untied when he put them on. Then, 8 more minutes running back to school (on cement, in cleats, trying not to slip)--for a grand total of 32 minutes. Which, added to the 20 minutes of jazz practice, did indeed give him only 8 minutes of football.
"You--" I started, but then I just stopped. I knew if I kept talking, this would become my fault (I made him go to jazz), his music teacher's fault (she made him stay in jazz) or maybe even Fernando the cat's fault (why does he have to be soooo cute and irresistible?). It would be everybody's fault but Mark's, who personally wasted all his practice time running back and forth.
Instead, I took the high road (which, in our house, actually is the road less traveled). "Bummer," I said, and Mark nodded sourly in agreement.
"Oh well," I said, changing the subject. "At least you'll get another chance tomorrow."
He nodded. Then I sighed, and hoped the kid is better at football than he is at time management. Because today, as far as that goes, he definitely dropped the (foot)ball.
Last weekend, I had a virtually free Saturday--something that never happens.
I just had a couple errands to run before my day was truly free. I told Mark, who didn't understand the importance until I spelled it out for him.
"Let's get this stuff done by 10," I said. "Then we can do whatever we want all day."
"OK," he answered. "Let me eat breakfast first."
I glanced at the clock--8 a.m., plenty of time for him to mess up and then clean the kitchen.
"OK," I said.
He was still noodling around the kitchen at 9 a.m. I gently nudged him, reminding him we were leaving in an hour.
"OK," he called out. "Let me get dressed."
I took a shower at 9:30. I reminded him again (not so gently, this time) the bus was leaving soon. He laughed at me and my silly time frames.
When I got out, he was not dressed (surprise). Instead, he was in the kitchen cooking up a second breakfast (bigger surprise).
"I'm leaving without you," I huffed. "Did I mention that one of the errands is an ice cream tasting?"
"Wait--WHAT?" he asked, throwing down the spatula and turning off the stove burner. "Seriously?"
"YES," I answered. I'd told him very clearly the errands included a trip to the local farm stand, which was hosting an ice cream tasting.
That motivated him. He cleaned up the kitchen in record time. He also remembered he needed to put his clothes in the dryer.
And that he had to go to the bathroom. And that he had to pick up his room. And play with his cats. And shoot a couple baskets. And tell me about a new TV show. And--
"ENOUGH!" I finally yelled. "It is 11 a.m., and I AM LEAVING." I couldn't sit around watching him waste my free Saturday any longer.
"OK," Mark said, grabbing up his flip-flops. He stood outside the front door, waiting for me. "Well, aren't you coming?" he asked.
I stomped past him, fuming. Lucky for him he's quick, so he made it into the car before I drove away.
We finally made it to the farm stand by noon. Mark was thrilled when the lady told him he could sample any and all of the gourmet flavors. He opted first for the coffee ice cream, gladly accepting the tiny taster cup.
"Oh, no," the lady said as she scooped out the sample. "This one is melting. We'll have to replace it."
She winked at Mark, and handed him the whole cup. Mark looked at me gleefully, as happy as...well, a kid with a full cup of free ice cream.
In between bites, he sampled the other flavors. I thought he'd stop after five or six, but he never slowed down.
After we purchased a few pints, I herded Mark to the car.
"Let's get these home before they melt," I said.
He rubbed his belly contentedly. "That was soooooo good," he said. "I'm just bummed I couldn't try the lemon-lime basil. That one sounded awesome."
"That's why I wanted to be here at 10," I told him.
"Next time, we should come earlier," he said. "We need to get here before all the good flavors are gone."
I'd been backing the car up, but I literally jammed it into park and glared at Mark.
"What?" he said, honestly confused.
"Did you just tell me to GET HERE EARLIER?" I asked (in a maybe-somewhat-okay, very yelly-screamy voice). "After you goofed away the whole morning??"
"I--" he started, but my steely gaze stopped him cold. I finally turned away, but only because I thought I might melt the ice cream with my red-hot stare.
"I'm just sayin'," Mark answered, but it was in a much quieter voice. He was afraid I'd invite him to walk home and reflect upon his comments.
"I will get here earlier next time," I told him. "With or without you."
And then we drove away, only one of us truly understanding the irony of the whole conversation.
I am a sound sleeper--I sleep through earthquakes, thunder storms, you name it. Once my head hits the pillow, I'm out until that damned alarm clock goes off the next morning.
I'm also a restless sleeper--my mom was always amazed that even while sleeping, my little pinky finger would twitch. I'd tell her, "Mom, I never stop moving when I'm awake--why would I stop just because I'm asleep?" She just shakes her head and laughs at me.
But...seems my kid is an even MORE active, deep sleeper than I am. I entered his room the other day, and this is what I found:
Yup, that's his head, wedged in between the bed and the wall. I'm not sure how he ended up backwards, upside down and stuck like that, but it made me shake my head, just like my mom does with me.
Nice to know my kid's following in my footsteps in at least one thing...
Last week I had the carpets cleaned in our house. Mark was a great helper, moving furniture and various decor out to the garage.
He also wanted to help put the stuff back, but this is where we ran into the problem.
Turns out, his desire to help was stronger than his muscles.
Mark was the very definition of persistence in motion. He pushed that couch, and he pulled that couch--he literally threw himself into that thing, grunting and struggling and trying to get it back in place.
He tried his best, but the couch totally beat him.
I finally chased him off before he could hurt himself.
"Gimme one more chance," he pleaded. I just shook my head, not wanting to point out that this wasn't even the real couch, it was just the loveseat.
"You'll move furniture some day," I told him. "You'll be big and strong for the rest of your life. But until then...I got this."
Finally, he stepped aside and let me move the couches.
And even though he wasn't much help, I didn't mind. Because for a few short minutes, he didn't seem like he was growing so fast. He didn't seem on the cusp of adulthood, like he does so often these days. He'll be taller than me and full of muscles soon enough--but until then, this was a wonderful reminder that no matter how tough he talks, or acts, he's still my sweet young boy.
At least for now...
Over Labor Day weekend, I drove to Monterey with Edra and Monica to visit our friend Vicki. I started writing about our whole weekend--how we went to a Greek fest, the aquarium, the county fair. I planned to describe the various places we drank wine (there were a lot!), and all the otters we saw.
But then, I looked at our pictures. And I realized this one photo summed up our weekend better than any of my words could:
Because, yeah, that was our weekend in a nutshell. Lots of acting silly, and cracking up. It's us doing what we do best, and most often, when we're all together--laughing.
Can't wait till the next long weekend...
Mark and I had the best summer ever this year. We went on vacations big and small (family wedding in St. Croix, family camping trip in Santa Barbara), and while that was part of what made summer fun, it wasn't just that. The greatness came from being together without responsibilities--there was no homework to nag about or school activities to juggle. Instead, Mark and I just hung out together, laughed and enjoyed ourselves immensely.
We spent a lot of time with our family and friends at concerts in the park or the farmer's market. We went to movies and museums. We stayed up late, lazed around the house on more than one Saturday, and spent Sundays riding our bikes or at the movies. There was nothing BIG (capital letters) that happened this summer, but somehow, all the small things added up to a pretty great few months.
I was sad to see that all end yesterday, but not as sad as Mark was.
"I can't believe summer's over," he lamented at bedtime.
"I know," I said. "I love summer."
"But you don't even get it off!" he answered. "You had to work all summer!"
"I know," I said again. "And I still had a blast."
Mark just snorted. I was debating which was worse--not having the summer off at all, or having it off and having it end. If Mark was any judge, it was definitely the latter.
And so, I knew to tread lightly when I woke him up this morning. I used a happy, sing-song voice, I approached the kid slowly, and I didn't make any sudden moves.
"Good morning," I sang cheerfully, opening his windows. "It's the first day of school!"
Mark just grunted and rolled over.
"No!!!" he mumbled. "Not yet!"
Eventually, he did get up, got fed, and got dressed. He even posed for his yearly first day of school photo, where he holds up the number of fingers corresponding to his new grade.
"What am I gonna do in 11th and 12th grade?" he asked, staring at his hands. "I won't have enough fingers!"
I laughed and told him to put up eight fingers. Then I stopped laughing and told him to stop flashing gang signs with those same eight fingers. (Mark loves to push my buttons more than he likes being photographed!)
I asked him to smile, then begged, cajoled, threatened, and finally gave up. Facebook was full of smiling kids on their first days of school, but Mark refused to be one of them.
"Why would I smile?" he asked. "I'm not HAPPY about going back to school!"
And so this is what I got...maybe not the most photogenic pic, but definitely the most honest.
Good luck, my big eighth grader! And don't mind me sniffling in the corner, I just can't believe that this is your last first day at the K-8 grade school. I can't believe that next year you start HIGH SCHOOL. Ack!
Trust me, you won't be the only on hiding under the covers and refusing to acknowledge the start of school next year...
