Mark was very excited to play sports this spring. I asked which one to sign him up for.
He mulled it over for a moment, then said decisively, "Flag football."
"Not soccer?" I asked. I was surprised--he'd been talking about soccer a lot lately, and watching all the international games on TV.
"Nope," he answered. "Football."
So football it was.
The first practice was a little tough. The coach spent most of it yelling at Mark, who ran around the field confused, always three steps behind where he should be.
"He even yelled at me when I did things right," Mark said.
Mark's a negotiator--when you tell him to turn left, he wants to discuss why it's better to turn right. It surprised nobody but Mark that coaches don't take well to that.
"You have to do what he says," I told Mark. "He's been coaching a lot longer than you've been playing. He knows what he's doing--just listen to him."
Mark responded, "Hmph."
After a few more practices, he seemed to get a little better.
"You like football now?" I asked and Mark nodded.
"But I still like soccer better," he clarified.
I sighed. Somehow I knew the answer would be reversed if I'd asked him on a soccer field instead.
At the first game, Mark's enthusiasm went up again. Coach was passing out jerseys, and Mark grabbed at this jersey, beating out two other Adult Small size kids.
"Yes!" he shouted triumphantly. "I got number 10!"
I remembered my brother Tim talking about jersey numbers when he played football, and how he always picked his favorite players' numbers.
"Cool!" I said. "Who wears number 10?"
"My favorite player," Mark smiled. "Rooney."
I sighed. "Isn't Rooney a soccer player?"
"Yup," Mark said. "Manchester United RULES!" He put his jersey on, smoothed it out, and ran off, whooping.
So the good news is, he's a little more excited to play football now.
The bad news is, it's the wrong kind of football.
Mark's been on numerous sports teams over the years. He's played basketball, soccer, baseball, and even track. As a mom, I've spent numerous hours shivering in the cold night air, hungry, trying to read in the dark, watching Mark play basketball, soccer, baseball and track.
It's not my favorite thing to do, and truth be told, the long practices during dinner time make me grumpy. But Mark loves it. So I suck it up, spend lots of money on equipment he outgrows after one season and drive him everywhere he needs to be.
This winter, he wanted to run track, so I didn't sign him up for any other sports. I signed him up for flag football in the spring instead, and of course, that's when I found out track is now a spring sport, too. For a few minutes, I actually hoped (for my sake) Mark WOULDN'T make the track team, but of course he did (and I was glad, for his sake). So now he's running track after school and playing flag football at the same time. (And somehow doing his homework in between all that.)
I was just thankful it couldn't get any busier--until Mark came home and told me, "Oh, school soccer team tryouts are next week."
That's when I almost started crying.
But I'm trying to take it a day at a time. Monday was the first night of football, and Mark was so excited. But he was excited in that middle-schooler boy way, where it comes off more as indifference than actual excitement.
"First day of practice!" I said, as we drove to the field. "This will be fun!"
"Uh...sure," Mark said, shrugging.
That was the last time he acknowledged me that night. As soon as we got on the field, he ran away. I watched the other kids appear, grab their belts and flags, and run off.
I signaled to Mark to come get his flags, but he just looked the other way. I waited patiently until he came to my side of the field, and pointed toward the bag with the belts in it, but he waved me off.
"Not now, Mom," he said, through gritted teeth.
So I shrugged and went back to my book. A few minutes later, the game stopped because Mark had to go get his flags.
Next up was running and catching. I watched Mark fumble a few balls, and reminded him to cradle the ball, like I show him when we practice together. He didn't even bother to answer, just stared straight ahead, no doubt wishing me to the cornfield.
I gave up and starting talking to one of the other moms. We laughed and joked during the whole practice.
"Mark's wishing I would just go away and stop talking to him," I told her.
She just laughed. "Yeah, because none of the other kids have moms here, either," she said sarcastically, nodding at all the nearby moms. "And those moms aren't telling them the same things."
I knew we were going to get along just fine.
She looked at her watch and wondered when Coach was going to end practice.
"Doesn't he notice we're the only ones left out here?" she said. She was right--I glanced around. All the other teams were gone.
We got our answer a few minutes later. At precisely 8 p.m., all the lights surrounding the field shut off. Apparently, practice was over.
"He can keep his flags," the other mom told me, nodding at Mark's belt. "Take them home and cut the belt down until it fits him. Then, burn the edges where you cut it, so it doesn't unravel."
"Thanks!" I answered. She'd given me all sorts of helpful advice already.
Mark ran over to the team bag and dumped his belt and flags in it.
"Bring them back," I told him. "They go home with you."
"No, they don't," he said. Before I could open my mouth again, he growled, "It's fine, Mom. I don't need them."
Ah, the joys of a mouthy tweener. I gave up, but the boy next to him didn't.
"Take 'em home, dude," he said. "Cut them down to size, then burn the edges. You keep 'em all season."
Mark stomped over to get his flags, grudgingly.
"Good practice," the coach told the boys. "Same time next week...We'll practice until--" he glanced around the dark field. "--until 7:50, I guess."
And so Mark finished his first football practice. He was tired and hungry, but happy. I was happy, too, but for a completely different reason--it was warm inside my car. I reminded myself to bring gloves to the next practice, and to spend less time trying to talk to my ungrateful young son.
It may be a loooooong season...
Mark has a new favorite past-time: playing catch in the backyard. He loves it so much he hurries through whatever chores he has without complaint just to squeeze in some time tossing the football. (He loves the actual football, too, a speedy little Nerf number that whistles as it flies through the air.)I love it because, well, he hurries through his chores without complaint. I also love it because it provides us time to goof around, be silly,and just talk about our day. Although talking about our day has its own landmines. That's when I discover whether my parenting skills are actually working, floundering, or falling on deaf ears. It's also when I learn I should set a better example.Last night I asked Mark about his friend, Kevin, and how he's doing."Good," Mark replied, tossing the ball. Standard boy answer, short and sweet. Shrrrrrrrreeeeeeeeeeeee! The ball whistled into my hands, and landed with a thump."Yeah?" I answered. I tossed it back to him. Shreeee!"Yup," Mark said. "Every day, I say to him, [affecting a high-pitched, obnoxious voice] 'Hiiiiiiiiiii, Kevin!' and he just says back, [in a normal voice] 'Hi Mark.'"Shreeeeee, thump."Why do you have to be so annoying?" I asked, after a moment. "Because it's FUN!" he shouted back. "You should try it!""I have," I answered. "I annoy my friends all the time." "Isn't it fun?" he asked, grinning widely."It is," I admitted. "A lot."Making me realize that if you want to do a little introspection or a self-character analysis, you don't need a mirror. You just need a little kid and a Nerf football.Shreeeeeeeee, thump.
Jimmy Buffett has this wonderful song where he sings, "I just want to live happily ever after, every now and then." I've always loved that song, and that sentiment--it's like, he's not demanding to be happy all the time, he's just hoping for those little moments of contentment, that feeling of happily ever after, if only ever so briefly.
I love those moments. I had one tonight--that moment when everything, for just one shining instant--was perfect in my world.
We went to dinner with Smed, Brandy and Johnny. There was a concert at the park, so we packed a picnic dinner and headed over. The band had already started, serenading us with big band melodies as we ate. Johnny, like any other self-respecting toddler, was more interested in the scenery than his dinner, so he hastened the end of the meal by ceremoniously tossing most of it off his tray. He let out a loud, guttural, grunting sound, and started shaking his tray, signaling that dinner time was OVER.
Brandy unbuckled him, and off he ran, Mommy and Daddy chasing after him. Mark stood and tossed his football to me, and I passed it back all wobbly. He thrust his hands in the air like, "What the heck??" and I just shrugged.
"I'm a writer, not a quarterback," I apologized, but he just rolled his eyes.
We tossed the ball back and forth, the sun hidden behind the massive trees, and setting behind him. The light was fading, the music filling the park, the boy completely engaged. He talked about his field trip that day, and coached me on throwing a football properly. He just looked so sweet and innocent--his face filthy from a busy day at camp; his favorite, too-big shorts falling off him; his Pokémon hat skewed slightly to the side. He grinned a big, happy grin, and from 10 feet away, I could still see the two glaring gaps waiting for his adult teeth to debut. He chastised me whenever I threw the ball short or bouncing away (which was a lot), but it didn't really matter. What mattered was that we were there, together, just hanging out, just...being.
That was it for me--I couldn't think of a better place to be, or a better person to be there with. That was my happily ever after.
