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Mom-dern Vignettes

hopefully hilarious life outtakes and mom fails

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Tunnel Vision

Approaching the luminescent tunnel, I falter at the entrance. The darkness. The light. The vulnerability. The close presence of the body next to me. I watch the tunnel lapse into darkness, as the far end gently radiates traceable evidence of light. The glow pulses, in matching heartbeat, growing larger, brighter. Waves of single inconsequential bulbs twinkling, undulating in mass toward the two of us. Inviting us to its experience. I step onto the conveyor walkway and begin my naturally brazen stride. A hand discretely grasps mine, stopping my feet. And I stand. Corrected. Coerced, to simply slow down and give myself to the breaking light.

For six years, this person has been woven into my fast paced life. Seen but unseen. Loved for what they are, not who. A constant apparition bending to the will of others in sacrifice of itself. A juxtaposition of a being craving to reveal itself, all while living suppressed until the most impactful moments. Today, he has pulled back a glorious section of his shade.

His hand is wrapped in mine, as we glide with the crawling belt. Part of me is screaming, for the leisure of traveling two miles per hour, surrounded by twinkling light, feels perverse. Wasteful.

Malcolm planned our first trip in solitude to the Smithsonian Natural History Museum ending at the National Art Gallery. At each exhibit, I wrestled with my natural inclination for speed in order hit every display, but he was there to quiet me. And in quiet I remained, while he jabbered on, on revealing hidden gems of himself and restricting us to the only interesting sections of the museums: rocks, bugs, and Van Gogh. He forced me to pause, and not only glance at, but find the camouflaged bugs, note their coloring and later compare them to an artist’s shadings at the art gallery. It was this hidden little man, who stopped at each exhibit, read, inquired, supposed, listened, and saw the beauty and value that forced me to ask myself: Have I become so callous, that I am missing the beauty? Why so fast?

Time is such a precious commodity when you are a parent. Time for activities. Time for homework. Time for dinner. Time for school. Time for work. Time to workout. Time for lust. Time for quiet. Time to clean. Time to potty train. Time to correct. Time for Kid 1, 2, or 3. There used to be so much time… to just contemplate. Where has all that time gone? And why I am forcing others to relinquish their precious time?

On our sixth ride through the tunnel of light, I look down at our intertwined fingers, a rare and extraordinary gesture from my middle son. Rubbing my thumb on the back of his hand, calm and fulfilled, it hits me.  I yell at Malcolm on the daily to hurry up, come on, not now, because I am just trying to get to the next thing on the list, and his poignant, meandering thoughtfulness gets squashed in my wake. I must take the time, to go slow with him, for time is all he wants.

And why not slow down to see the world like him? For it truly is, that much more  beautiful.

1

Dinner at the OK Corral

My thumbs hook loosely in my belt loops, legs slightly bent with my knees outward, as I mosey up to the corral.  Eyes swoop across the scene intensely, scanning the cold chestnut wood table, the white IKEA dinner plates, multicolored face wipers, drinks, utensils, three tiny outlaws prepared for battle in their designated cells, my fellow lawman poised for another defeat, and God forgive me… food.

With each step forward I mutter inaudibly to myself, thick western accent. Tonight, I will not be manipulated into saying how many bites they have to eat of each article of nutrition. STEP. Tonight, I will not give five-minute warnings.  You do not eat, You do not eat. No Bloody extra time!  STEP. Tonight, I will not beg and bribe with dessert. STEP.  Tonight, I will not threaten irrationally their future diminished ability to grow. STEP. Tonight, I will not turn into my parents and remind them of the starving children around the world. 

Reaching my place of order, my hands firmly grasp the corners as I slide into place, and  utter one last… Tonight, I will not allow them to get under my skin and force me lose my temper. 

Coolly my partner gives a nod. We got this! Tonight, we enjoy dinner!

“Alright,” I broker cheerfully and possibly, slightly irritating, “Let’s get passing those plates! Malcolm, how about a gravy burger?”

“Noooooo,” he drawls out, shaking his head and silently contorting his face at Wheels. The mutiny begins.

“Ok great! Here you go. One. Wheels?”

“Yes, please.  Just one,” he replies in a tone reminiscent of witnessing the slow death of his favorite stuffed animal through the tortuous pulling of a snagged string, until all is lost.

“Ok. Great!,” my voice higher, squeakier, “Just one. Fantastic. Here you go.” His head has lowered to the table in despair. I ignore and my lips go dry from the plastered smile. “Let’s get those tatters and green beans passing. Alrighty. Here’s Stewie’s! Please pass it down, but DON’T help him.”

The unspoken and known law of dinner: Don’t touch Stewie’s plate, fork, or spoon; otherwise, refusal is immediate.

The daily debriefing about school, friends, work commences. My lips are moving, head nodding, but I am not consciously hearing the replies. All my senses have been hijacked  for one purpose. An obsession I am trying desperately break, but these past years have only trained, created, nurtured this inescapable addiction to WHO is eating and WHO is NOT!

My peripheral angels betray me and spotlight their progress.  Stewie is chowing. Whew. Wheels is eating, kind of.  His fork is moving, his knife is almost sawing but he can’t take his eyes off of Malcolm.

Re-positioning toward David, who is answering one of my inquiries, I see Malcolm hasn’t touched his plate.  As usual.  Making goofy faces and talking Minion or Boss Baby quietly to Wheels, who can’t stop laughing, has become his sole aspiration. I feel a hot flash rising from the base of my spine. The child never eats until the rest of us are finished and then we all have to wait, and wait.

Chill, chill.  They are kids.  It is no big deal. Enjoy their company.

“I done. I, I feeeneshed,” Stewie declares, pushing his plate away as Wheels’ arm springs back dropping Stewie’s fork.

“What did you do?” I interrogate, panicky, “Did you touch him?”

“I was helping,” Wheels replies shrugging innocently, but the Smize in his eyes and brief flick to Malcolm reveals his intent to detonate Stewie.

My head shakes, and my shoulder tense.  I feel the inner roar rising…

“I no need, I no want help,” Stewie says with a gesture equating to a snap. “No thank you,” he finishes catching my eye.

David places his hand on my arm and mouths Almost there.  He’s right.  It’s almost over.  Another dinner, almost done. Twenty-five minutes of shear tension, resulting in two out of three kids plates, half to fully eaten, with no banishments is not bad. David finishes and I jump up triumphantly, “Let’s clean up!  Bring those plates over!”

With that, the proverbial bullets begin to fly!

Malcolm looses his grip and pounces on his untouched, cold plate, fully covering its contents screaming, “NO, NO,  I am so hungry no!!!! You can’t do it. NO, it’s not fair. How can… NOOOO!”  He dramatically melts from his chair to the floor.  Rolling, screaming, begging. Stewie walks up to him, assuming he is playing and drives both knees into the middle of Malcolm’s back. Angry, he tosses Stewie aside. Now both are crying, but hugging, saying sorry. Wheels defends his brother denouncing, “Mom, really should just work on making food you like.”

Having succumb to too many shots from all angles so quickly, David ushers the boys upstairs, and I know all are about to get an earful. All I can do is clear, for the exhaustion of preparing and enduring dinner is more than I can handle this Friday.

Retreating, I reclaim a moment to myself and call my mom for wisdom.

“Ma, this is really important.  When did you and dad start enjoying dinner with us kids?”

“Oh,” she hesitated, “I’d say when everyone moved out.”

 

2

Forget Me Not

Pealing into the drop off zone, my heart speeding faster than the spinning wheels, my eyes scanned for Wheels. Surging to stop outside the Swim Center, my foot hit the ground the same second I threw the car in park. The headlights flooded the steamed glass windows, making in difficult to see his little body posted up in a typical metal chair to the side of the receptionist. But even through the denseness of the fog, I could see his shoulders heaving uncontrollably and his head down on the round gray table, face covered, pressed in his hands.

Publicly broken.

My hand reached for the cold handle and I paused a millisecond to prepare. This was about to get worse.

Swinging open, my face was slammed with the stickiness of the pool, just harsh enough to scold, as the receptionist’s eyes met mine and flicked to Wheels, deepening my humiliation.

“Sweetie? Honey? I am here,” croaked from my lips.

“OH MOMMY!” he screamed in a truly scared, childish tone not utilized since entering school. He didn’t jump up, crushing me.  But slowly rose from his chair, took two steps forward and stopped.  His face was blotched pink and red, but his eyes were dark from rubbing. I put my hand on his shoulder and whispered “I’m sorry baby.”

And with those words, his fearful wound burst exposing the rawness of emotions. He wrapped his arms tight and low around my waist.  Squeezing, as the fresh tears streaked his pale skin, eroding the previous red evidence of pain and depositing new.  I just held him as people passed, staring, judging, while he sobbed. Loudly mind you, Wheels is always all in, all the time.  Especially when hurting.  Something to watch.

And then he said it. In between heaving sobs at midlevel roar, “Mommy? Mommy, how could you forget me? I was so scared. How could you forget me?”

The weight of his arms around my waist shrunk my soul.  Holding my ground, yet still lessened. My smallness was noted by him, the people witnessing, myself. I could only think of one thing to do. I buried my nose into his soft, blonde hair and breathed him in. An action I did everyday when he was an infant, toddler even, to escape my tiredness or fearfulness of screwing him up. I breathed him in, to be reminded of his preciousness and escape the week.

All week, I had fallen into isolation. I spent the week void of other adult contact.  I spent the week running for others, planning for others, playing for others, cooking for others, cleaning for others. I spent the week making promises to myself, for myself, and breaking them for others.  I spent the week so consumed with whats next, I woke each morning around 3 AM, restless. And by midweek, if I had a moment, I did nothing but stare out my front window and watch the cars go by. Curious as to where they were going so quickly, so importantly. Did they see me as they passed? I didn’t really see them either, so, we’re even.

And even when all my boys were home, and as the madness and noise swirled in chaos around me, I would glance out that window and wonder. If I left, just for a day or two, could I get some sleep? Some peace? Could I watch TV all day and rest?  I am so tired.

A guilty knot grew in my throat, hard and full of wallowing self-pity. I breathed him in one more time, deep, so his innocence filled my gaps, desperate to make me feel stronger.  The only tear I would allow stained his hair and once again he begged, “Mommy, how could you forget me?”

Pulling back, dropping to a knee, I held his face, “Baby, I didn’t forget you. I dropped you off, and went home to eat.   I just… I hadn’t eaten all day. I was hungry… I know I had never left before, I… I didn’t know practice changed… I just, wanted to eat… I am sorry, I would never forget you.”

Hugging again, my mind wholeheartedly affirmed I would never forget you, but I have to stop forgetting me too.

 

0

Raw Emotion

In a worn red stadium seat, inside a mid-size arena, my hands rung with utter impatience and concern. My sons, Wheels, 8, and Malcolm, my 6 year old in the middle, sat between my English husband and their Kentucky bred Momma. Of the four of us, I was the only one who knew what was to come. The neon spotlights illuminated the bright white square at center floor, yet untouched. The black ropes glistened with fresh polish as the padded posts rose powerfully from each corner, prepared for their impending assault.

“Mom? Mom!? Is that what I think… MOM!?” squealed Malcolm, each word elevating to a higher pitch and frightening delight.

“What is it? Dude, what is,” Wheels so innocently queried.

“Yes sweetie, yes… It’s a wrastlin’ ring,” I sputtered in perfect Kentucky drawl.

Malcolm erupted in hoots, matching the seasoned onlookers yell for yell. Wheels stared puzzled at the ring, slowly drew himself into his hoodie, allowing only a vision slit to assess the situation safely, from inside.

Holy Crap! Jesus Sam, what were you thinking? You are so going to pay for this! One is going to practice what he sees on Stewie and the other will have nightmares for weeks.

The videos began recapping the previous week’s drama with Smackdown, and I felt an inner twerk.  A spark rumbling at the base of my voice box. A silent choke, preparing its extrication. I held it down, along with visions of familiar basements packed with faces unseen for 20 years and once again, became completely immersed in this new drama; for Raw was #undersiege by Smackdown and it was, the most important thing I’d heard all day.

I glanced to my right and noticed the boys felt the same. Malcolm stood speechless, his small body shifting foot to foot, hands in prayer with murmurs of Why? Why would they do that? Wheels face was at least slightly exposed, his fingers twizzling his bottom lip anxiously. I knew the story-lines would be his weakness.  Can’t drag that kid away from books or TV.

A warm up wrestling match entered the ring, providing the opportunity to reiterate the notions of fake, professionals, practice, theater, and entertainment.  Malcolm heard, but with each intricate flip-fighting sequence of Cedric, his jumping and shrieking blocked out half. Wheels, with his delicate soul and kind spirit, listened intently, wincing at each slap. Worried the wrestlers were actually in pain.   I encouraged him to watch their feet when they hit… he figured it out and was more at ease.

“Thirty seconds until Raw goes live!” boomed the slick announcer.

Malcolm lost it, counting down with the flashing numbers. 10, 9, 8, my pulse quickened, 7, 6, flashes of light, bumpin’ music, 5, 4, I could feel the natural inclination to rise to my feet and go nuts, 2, 1! But I didn’t. I kept it cool for Wheels and let my husband and Malcolm do their thing.

The lights downed, Medal music pounded our chests, and out struts Raw General Manager Kurt Angle. Playing cool, I explained to the boys who he was and how I used to watch him along with The Undertaker, Stone Cold, Goldberg, Sting, Ric Flair, and The Rock when I was a teenager (I left out the WWE/WCW rivalry for it makes no difference now). David locked eyes with me and mouthed Who are you?

I rolled my eyes, turning back to Wheels. I got this.  I am knowledgeable.  I am playing into Wheels’ love for story details and he can deal with Malcolm’s…

The lights suddenly extinguished on Angle, the glow of purple filled the arena and Welcome to the Queendom blared from every crevasse… meaning only one magnanimous fact… Stephanie McMahon was here!!!!

Cool, evaporated, and I unleashed a barrage of “There she is… AHH” and “Bow Down People” and “You better be worried, Kurt” like nobody else in our row. While she berated Angle, I laughed wickedly and told Wheels to “suck it up, its live TV! Live a little, my boy!” My 16 year old self had emerged for all to see and frankly, it felt good!

With threats accomplished, Stephanie traipsed, elegant and confident, upstage in her leather pants, high heels, and Peggy Bundy size ponytail. I looked to both my sons and breathlessly declared, “We should totally do this again!” Wheels nodded with shocked smiles while Malcolm agreed, “Yes MOMMA!  The knee-pads make you happy!”

Oh It’s True, It’s Damn True! 

 

 

 

 

0

The Rule of Law

splink… scchoooooo tunk. A blonde toddler head, with a glued wound on its forehead, springs up at the front of his giant, Tonka dump trunk. Two pale blue eyes flashing fury. His thin lips openly terse, showing clenched teeth. With inaudible babble and his cheeks puffed red, he climbs to his feet.

“No, No, NO! No rocks in dump truck!” he says with the fierceness of a teacher trying to keep control of their unruly underlings, and failing. He plants both his hands on the either side of the yellow truck, leans in, over, mean mugging, never breaking eye contact and deliberately whispers, “no rocks, in, dump truck.”

Slowly, he kneels at the front and slides beyond sight, continuing to place rocks in the tiniest dump truck I have ever seen, mumbling, “they too big, too big.”

I know!!!!  Use the gigantic dump truck! It’s more FUN!

Playing with Stewie, or any two year old, is a lesson in government oversight. Your invited in to observe the genius of their play, yet, they are always there to correct your actions in case your play is, in anyway, an overstep of their inherent parameters:

You can play with Percy, but not Toby and only on the bridge because Toby is not allowed to move.  Technically, you can’t touch Toby but looking is fine. Yes, you can “choo choo” but not too loud because then I can’t hear my chugging.  Don’t touch, or fix, the tracks without my say, for they are meant to be wrecked. 

Actually, since you can’t play as stipulated, your presence may better be served here, in the corner. With the stuffed animals.  No touching, or pretending they can talk or snuggle. Fine, if you can’t abide by my laws, punishment is inevitable.  Yes… I will give you, my least, favorite toy. YOU, are condemned to tiny blocks. Don’t tell me about their pictures and I warn you, if you build, I will knock it down. 

Oh no, no, no, you can’t leave. I don’t want to be alone!!  And if you do, I will bring all my toys to you one by one, to show you what you still, can’t have.  And, I will do you the honor of leaving them, so you don’t forget.

These are precious times. Precious years. These laws are daily reminders that he wants me around, and I want to be there. Am lucky to be.

But if I am bound to his laws, I will exercise my rights. I will protest his rigidity, one rock at a time.  Why?

splink… scchoooooo tunk

Because I love the flash of those eyes.

 

1

missing Home

I am
Home.
amongst the forest of
our childhood.
sitting at the base of the tree
at the base of our hill,
inhaling
the
past and present
brings me whole
again.

My sons charge
slipping on the dry, barren slate bed
defending our mountain
slashing at predators,
intruders
with their
practical sword-walking sticks.
their laughter rises
with the trees
mingling, mixing,
cunningly
deceiving my perception,
as to whether the
happiness ringing out is
theirs
or ours
absorbed, preserved
from decades
gone by.

gathering My soldiers,
and commanding
true freedom
awaits
at the top of the Mountain,
we rush the hill.

steepness soon stifles
bravery,
and encouragement
a necessity.
the same roots
we used to lunge for,
they do.
the same slate crevasse
we overcame,
they maneuver around.
the same encouragement
whispered
to usher this little sister,
she gives to them.

as hard, burnt umber ground
succumbs
to green moss
and lush ferns,
we stand
firm, at the summit.
silence except for
breaths.
this was our happiness.
no pain, no worries, no fear,
no anger.
just us and woods.
Connected.

the forest’s constancy
provides hope,
proof
of brotherly love
in silent challenging
escapades.
Surveying the treetops,
and the boy’s proud smiles,
my heart throbs,
aches,
muscling
the loneliness
of the forest
into my heart.

For nothing
can
relinquish
the crushing
sensation
of truly missing your
Home.

0

Summer Fatigue

The week before school starts, and I had finally had it. Songs like Smack My Bitch Up, Crazy Train, Get Low, and Still D.R.E. are silently on cranial repeat to counter balance the swirl of madness throughout my house. Desperate not to yield to the desire of a third day of take out, I am at the stove creating a fast, uninspired dinner to please the kids, of which they won’t eat anyway. Weeks ago, my nerves shriveled, died, and fell like ashes to the floor only to be licked up by Bert because, she’s nasty. Therefore, with nothing to ignite my discipline fire, the wild men have been released, unchecked, and turned my house into Jumanji.

Perhaps our lives were too busy this summer.  Perhaps there was just plain too much togetherness.

With my husband between jobs, we had the “rare opportunity to really have a fun, family summer. Everday! Let’s not squander this chance!” We grabbed summer and traveled it abroad, traveled it to the south, eclipsed it, tracked it, museumed it, camped it, scienced it, pooled it, and all togethered it.  All seven of us (with dogs).

It has been fun, but that’s over.

Summer may have broke us. Wheels has developed a strange tendency to fall, everywhere.  Boom, tripped over his feet. Boom, tripped over a dog toy. Boom, tripped over a crack. Boom, tripped over the same crack. My husband transformed into a restless beast; relaxation made him irritable and he has taken to reading HR books to ready his mind for reentry, while being helpful by organizing things. Stewie’s paranoia peaked because everyone wants his school bus, and he wields it with vicious strength.  Bert became wary of Mardi because NO ONE, can be that nice right!? Right. Me? I live in the bitter world of rap and secretly sneak into my closet to dance like I’m in a rap video.

But the true toll of summer falls on Malcolm, my son in the middle.

Stirring my strange dinner mixture and hitting the disc changer in my mind, I begin to Regulate as Malcolm walks up.  Nervously, shifting my weight between feet and puffing my chest out, I watch my six year old drag the wooden stool to the opposite side of my island stove, and climb. The hairs quiver on my neck and arms, and my palms clam. His light blue eyes stare, searching, he knows I am weaker now than before.

Oh God it is coming…I have to finish this quick…

“Mom, I have a question.”

His voice washes over. I freeze and barely release a reluctant, “Ok honey, what is …” when it begins.

“Well I was just wondering, remember when in Kentucky, and the woods, and the sun, and those um, um, um,” head twisting, zombie eyes rolling inside their sockets, and an index finger outlining circles in the air, “glasses and the burning sun could hurt our eyes and people looking at it.  Why did, I don’t know it just reminded me of not being smart. President, you know, why people don’t wear glasses…it reminded me of when we were in Turks and Caicos and Cookie Monster and the stove… that can’t happen…” with the look of Duh across his face.

Nodding, I take the food off the heat and place it on the counter behind.  With deep breaths and a fast attempt to give him the slip, I bolt down the alley way of counter tops only to be cut off by Malcolm, now on the floor and still talking. His volume has risen and I feel myself walking backwards nodding harder, harder, harder until I am nothing but a Mommy Bobble Head.  Trapped in the granite elbow, I can feel my arms slowly rising into a defensive position in front of my chest, and my knee naturally following as the tirade of puzzling words, words, words continues to spew all over me. My sweet, quiet, thoughtful Malcolm has turned into a bad date. I see him coming and hope he isn’t coming for me!

As thunderous cry for help begins to surge from my lungs, he stops.

“Mom. Don’t you think mom? That is not right. Right?” Turns on his heel and leaves without an answer.

I’m exhausted. He is finding his voice. But the transition from exposure to opinion has been eye popping at best.

I just hope we can all recover and return to normal life.

Separately.

 

0

Nightmare on Doodle Street

Smoke circled my head as elbows flew, tracing the skillet. Stirring. Stirring, round and round until the spaghetti sauce collapsed into submission and began to simmer to doneness. I felt uneasy, all evening.  The air was dense and each child was unusually amiable. Listening, doing what I asked, no need to yell or evil eye them to achieve a purpose.  The hairs on the back of my neck rose slightly. Something was coming.

The sound of my black industrial fan whined from overuse, keeping me cool from the intense outdoor inferno known as summer. All day, we each had dripped with sweat unable to escape the heat, even indoors. Our dogs, Bert and Mardi, permanently laid in front, windblown and calm.

I paced to the sink, eager to keep busy until whatever was going to hit the fan, hit.

The room darkened from our nightly thunderstorm and the crescendo began, as the skies opened with a roar.

Wheels took off with a water gun protecting all from the lightning, followed by his energy equal Bert.  Sprinting from corner to corner shooting the thunder amidst high-pitched barks. Focusing on my bowls and soap, Malcolm, my son in the middle,  became stoic reaching for his Viking helmet and sword. He posted up in the hallway, determined to battle only if lightning came to him.  His loyal subject, Mardi, lumbered beside, staring with complete devotion, moaning in agreement.

As the battle waged and the voices grew more ferocious, my hands moved feverishly to complete dinner before Stewie joined the foray.

With a scream rivaling most battle cries, I closed my eyes for I knew, it was too late. Stewie, armed with blue blankie, ran from brother to brother babbling instructions provided by his commanders. Tiny tennis shoes screeching to narrowly miss corners of tables and walls completed the orchestral climax.

Spraying the stray bubbles down the sides of the sink, I was almost done.  My intervention imminent. Prepared to join and protect my boys from the bodily harm associated with the sudden madness of too good of a day!  One more task… get the noodle water on.

I grabbed my pot, filled it with water, slammed it on the flickering fire, and turned to a silent house.

Not a single bark. No yells.  Just the slow rumble of a dying storm.  Something was off. Everything was off. I moved with caution to the dining room where Wheels, Stewie, and Bert were all nose pressed to the windows, discussing whether victory was theirs.

I pattered to the hallway. No Malcolm. No Mardi. This was it. They were the victims.

Eyes up. I saw the front room was dark with only the primary color glow of Paw Patrol illuminating the shadows. My legs took me to the edge and with a peek, I glimpsed an outline moving vigorously on the couch. My eyes adjusted and feel upon the innocent horror writhing in the darkness.

Malcolm lay on the couch, belly down, arms lifeless at his side, head turned to the TV, entranced, oblivious. Mardi was hunched on his back in a full death grip, humping away and hair flying.

“Noooooo! MARDI, NO!”

“Maaaoom, don’t yell! She is shivering because she is cold. Duh,” Malcolm muttered.

With a swipe of my hand, not only did she back off, but Mardi left me with a very interesting conversation distinguishing the difference between shivering, and domination.

Hey, it could have been worse.

 

 

 

 

1

The Olympic Fail

Let’s not kid ourselves. In today’s world of über kiddom, parents are training Olympians. Kids start training at four in their parent’s desired sport of choice, and by six are doing three to four days a week of practices and private lessons. Forced to pursue their parent’s dream and pay for college with their finely tuned talent and lost childhood.

Who wouldn’t love to see their child be amazing in something? The world’s best!  A thrilling reverie, however unlikely.

My husband and I stood at the pool’s edge, anxious excited.  Our competitive juices pumping. For the past four years, and laboring through an assortment of other sports first, our cumulative efforts to guide Wheels into swimming were about to pay off as he chose to tryout for a year round swim team.  Four years of general how not to drown swim lessons, learning the strokes, encouraging him with swimming is a lifelong sport and consciously reminding, Sports are for fun! Do your best and we will be proud, had slowly turned his disdain to love.   We were ready to watch him, at 8, grow in the first sport he’s enjoyed.

As the swimmers before him dove in, we noticed the fluidity of their strokes. The poise in their breathing. The steady velocity of their kicks. Up to this point, we restrained ourselves from over coaching and infusing Wheels with his parents’ rabid desire to win. But quickly after watching the others, nervousness cropped up.

We are not sitters. So standing poolside arms crossed, with crazy intense eyes, seemed most appropriate when attempting to make your child feel at ease.

Wheels stepped onto the block and took position. My husband leaned in whispering, “He just needs to show he has potential.  He’s ready. He’s got this.”

The coach bellowed GO! and Wheels plunged, full cannonball belly-flop dive with arms correctly together over his head, but were the last body parts to enter the water. Surfacing in the same spot, he began butterfly. Arms flying, flailing really. No rhythm, no kick, just a frantic splash-filled effort to not sink. Up, down, up, down his arms gesticulated as a flying fish who just can’t seem to catch air. I have never seen anything like it. It looked like a seizure.

Nearly 30 frantic fly strokes in, he finally swam halfway down the lane where my husband I stood. Just as he reached us, he was over taken by the seven year old girl next in line.

“Oh holy mother of God,” I muttered, “We failed him.”

Without connecting dumbfounded eyes, my husband pinched his as though having a migraine, and sighed “Yep!”

For years, we had been concerned about injecting our competitive natures into the boys too young.  Our desire to be the best has served us well. It allowed me to attend a wonderful college and be one of the top goalkeepers in the country, all while my husband swam his way around the world in the Commonwealth Games and Olympic Trials.  We were pushed hard by those around us, internalizing both good and bad from the experiences.

While dating, we found out quickly we could never be on the same team in Pictionary (that was cookie, not a pizza!). I have been known to toss Goblet because in 11 years of marriage I have yet to defeat him, just as he refuses to play Connect Four and Backgammon with me. To this day, we have different partners during Hand and Foot and I will refuse play, if I do not sit to his immediate right because he fiddles so long with his cards I can never determine if I have enough time to get a snack!

Yes! We are competitive. But that instinct has provided us with all the gifts we possess. For our kids, we hoped to develop this once they reached double digits.

But according to this tryout, we waited too long.  With these kids, there was no way, no matter how much he wanted it, that Wheels was going to make the team.

After the final length he pulled himself out of the water, eyes wide, knowing. Dripping he sulked to us wringing his goggles and asked, “Mom, Dad.  I don’t think I made the team.  Do you?”

I put my arm around him and looked him in the eye, “No baby. You didn’t. So now what do you want to do?”

“Well, I would like real lessons so I can make it next year.”

Looking up at my husband, I felt more pride than if he made the team. He was determined. And that is the most dignified and valuable quality of being competitive.

 

 

 

*Note*

To our great surprise, the coach emailed us impressed with his effort and asked Wheels to join the team.  The boy teared up and accepted.

We are still conflicted.

 

 

 

 

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