Play Ball!

“Where’s my jersey?”

“Hurry, we are gonna be late!”

 “Mom, what if enough players don’t show up?”

It’s first game jitters.  I’m used to it.  It happens every new season for every sport.  But this time it’s different.  This team is completely new to us, so we don’t know anything about the players, or what position people like to play, or even anyone’s name!  And for the first time, both of my boys are playing on the same team.  It’s an exciting day!

The kids are a little nervous, and anxious so we head out early.

As I expected, all their worries slip away as soon as they step foot on that familiar ground, the soft green grass, the storied white-lined pea gravel path to home plate, the safe and familiar dug out, where so many high’s and low’s are celebrated and buried side by side. 

It doesn’t matter that this is West Madison Little League and we typically play for another Little League.  It doesn’t matter that there is an age disparity.  It doesn’t matter that the skill levels are all over the map.  It’s just another baseball game.  It’s just another day at the ballpark. 

That’s why it’s brilliant.  Taking kids just like my sons, who can’t imagine summer without a ball and bat, who literally live out of our car for days during baseball season, who know players far and wide and tell the tales of their triumphant plays or dismal losses, and pairing them alongside kids who might not otherwise get the chance to play baseball, without this team.

This is the Challenger League.  This is baseball at it’s most basic, most pure, most beautiful.   It’s real baseball.  Every player here is focused on everything they can do, not what they can’t.  No one notices if any player is more talented than the next, no one cares how they stack up.  They just want their chance to compete, and play.

And on this first game of the season, my able-bodied boys along with dozens of others, buddy up with players that have varying life challenges some physical some not, and they play baseball.  That’s it.  Simple as that. 

            Every single player may not know the rules to this game, or even care about them.  But they do know the thrill of standing before a crowd of cheering fans.  Some of them give a shy wave while others take a bow.  Everyone on each team bats with their buddy.  Everyone on each team makes it around each base and eventually comes home with their buddy, some with elaborate sliding techniques obviously given in-depth thought during the week leading up to the game.  Everyone plays the field with their buddy.  No one makes mistakes, there are only good plays, good hits, and everyone cheers for everyone.

But of course what I witness happening out there on the field is much bigger than just a game.  These players hit the field with enthusiasm, attitude, competitive spirit, and the most pure desire for a chance to play the game. They hit, they run the bases, they chase down fly balls and line drives, they sweat, they cheer, they smile, they high five, they celebrate.  They deliver everything you’d hope to see at a baseball game in 3 innings of play.

To get the chance to be a part of that truly is priceless. Every challenger player on the field wins, not because their team scored more runs, but because they competed in the game, felt the thrill of the challenge, and soaked up the feeling of a job well done.

And every challenger buddy walks off a winner too, because you can’t truly appreciate your own sport until you play along side those who can remind you, why you love the game.  This is the moment you see everything more clearly.  You run side by side those familiar base paths, sometimes with the hand of another human being in yours, who wants that thrill that you can guide them to, as you round each base, even if it’s on wheels, who looks to you for reassurance and affirmation that they are a part of the team.  You shout with excitement as the ball heads in your player’s direction, and celebrate the thrill of their effort, not your own, making the play.   

And you realize that the dreams of playing sports are not only your dreams but theirs too, and suddenly the world feels just a little smaller because you played a game.

Summer Love!

A few weeks back my youngest and I found ourselves spending the day just the two of us.  It doesn’t happen very often and what made it even more rare was that we had nothing special on the calendar, just a whole day to hang out doing as we pleased.  We decided on a mid afternoon movie, had lots of laughs, and enjoyed every minute of it.  Then, and I’m not even sure how this happened, just when I thought I’d squeezed out every ounce of enjoyment I could from a day like that, I found myself holding hands with my son as we walked to our car…just like that…like it happens every day! 

         Of course, the truth is, it used to happen every day, years ago.  And like so many other little routine things that happened back then, I took it for granted, unable to appreciate then that it would not last forever.  But not this time, this was one of those fleeting moments when all of my senses were on high alert.  I could actually feel a calm awareness take over my body allowing me to calmly breath in the full awareness of what I held in my hand; a special gift that I should fully appreciate for each second I could before letting go. 

I wanted time to stand still. It took me back, just for a few seconds, to the days of squeezing those sticky fingers between my own to do any old random thing. 

  Or the time I didn’t grab hold and he darted right into the street, narrowly avoiding the front bumper of a thankfully alert driver’s car, the feeling of both shock and relief when I scooped him up safe in my arms.  Back to the time when each chubby finger had its own dimple instead of a knuckle, where I often would leave a lipstick reminder of “I love you” before heading out the door for work.  That spot where I would rub my thumb back and forth, connected together in a way you can’t truly appreciate until you don’t have the chance to do it any more.

            So, for this little slice of heaven to slide quietly into my grasp for just a few seconds, I would gladly give up many other things.  And then, just like that, we hopped in the car and went on with our day, almost like it never happened. 

But I know it did.  And I know that those glimpses of “little boy” are getting further apart and I had better pay attention or I will miss some of the last looks I’m going to get at the real treasures of summer, when the days are long, and I can catch them being little a few more times.  

 This summer I’m spending a little time quietly observing whenever I find the chance.

I love when I can sneak away to a quiet spot where they don’t know I am even on the planet, and I can watch them at play.  Oh, I know the rules. I have been instructed that it must be referred to as “hanging out”, not “playing”, at this advanced age they’ve attained.  But I know what I see.

One moment, they are couched down hiding behind a tree or fence, the next they spring up and sprint off in another direction.  I catch them tip toeing past and shake my head in conspiracy as they quietly indicate with one finger that we must be very quiet because the hunt is on and we will be doomed if they are discovered! Their feet are bare and grass stained.  They don’t know or don’t care that the mosquito population is getting fat off of them.  They have no idea they are filling the entire neighborhood with echoes.

            It’s the best part of summer and I am in the heart of it, managing sunscreen, band aides, fireflies, and swimsuits and towels littering the porch. It’s the best love affair I know of kids and their summer vacation and I want to hang on to being a part of it as long as I can, crouched here in my hiding place where I’m hoping I won’t be found!

Freeze! Cheese!

“Mom, make him stop!”

            It’s the catch phrase of the summer of 2013.  The act is old, I shoot the familiar annoyed-mom-look at both of them.  This time we are in the waiting room at the doctor’s office and the victimizer is snapping phone photos of the victim and threatening to post them on various social media.

            It’s on the top-ten-list of ways to annoy your sibling these days.  The old fashioned ways still exist, the one’s I once had perfected with my own brother, excessive touching, entering the off limits bedroom, taking clothing items without permission, and being generally annoying by making various and repetitive sounds, signs, or natural body functions in the general direction of the other.

            But, there are also more evolved methods of getting the other sibling annoyed.

“Mom, make him stop reading my texts!”

“Why did you tweet THAT?”

“Why are you friending all MY friends?”

“Look at this picture of you!” Followed by hilarious laughter from one and “Mom!” from the other.

            Seriously they have to be the most photographed and photo centered generation of all time.  From the now perfected “selfie”, to photos that magically disappear into thin air, to “Mom, look what I just posted!” so the world can fully appreciate a close up look at the soda we ordered for lunch.

            Perhaps one consolation is they won’t have the issues of my generation.  We took plenty of our own bizarre and inane photos but they had to be printed to enjoy them. Then, if you’re like my family, many wound up in shoeboxes stashed in closets full of all sorts of memories.

            What do you do with that?  Can I part with those heart-felt connections to the past, the one where I’m collecting gravel from the driveway in my sticky little 2 year old hand? 

 Or the strangely frightening doll I got at that birthday party with kids from a neighborhood where we only lived until I was four years old?  What do you do with the random group photos where mom was looking the other way, usually talking to someone off camera? Or the photo of us in the back yard but we are so small and black and white that you can’t really make out what we were doing. Or the great uncle at that one family reunion that one year, or my cousin’s children when they were babies, or the great scenery shots of Silver Dollar City in 1972?  It’s usually so overwhelming that I simply slam the lid back on the box and walk away, saving that little project for another day!

            The shocking antithesis to what’s happening on my children’s electronics is hanging in my hallway.   They are the old photos, taken back when cameras were mysterious pieces of machinery. Those standing before you put thought and planning into what would be in front of that lens.  These photos are workhorses, they tell an entire story.  I love them for that.   They are rare treasures.

            I know every inch of the picture of my grandparents when they were courting because I’ve stared at it and studied it for years.   

Grandpa, a carpenter, had a band-aid on his thumb.  I can tell Grandma’s dress was fancy, maybe silk, because of the way the light hits it in the breeze, and it was summer, warm, they were happy and carefree.  It’s all there in that photo.  Romance, mystery, nostalgia, hopes, dreams, everything you need for a good novel is right there captured in that instant in time.

            I guess the new challenge for my kids and their photo chatting generation will be finding that; the perfect balance of cool and nonchalance my grandparents had without even trying. 

  Finding a way to really see, through the sea of pictures a special one, that has it’s own heartbeat; the one that has a thousand words worth of story to tell, their story to tell, for their grandkids to frame.   

            

Maybe that’s impossible.  Maybe the day is gone when one single picture can do all that.  Maybe my kids are just that much more sophisticated than me that they will be able to glean blissful pleasure out of the tidal wave of photos they have of themselves and every incidental item they own.

And, just maybe, my son’s grand kids will truly appreciate a photo of my son’s socks.

How Does Your Garden Grow?

I have a lot more blooming in my garden this year than ever before, and fewer weeds too!   It’s a sign.  I’ve been digging around out in the yard a lot more this year because it’s therapeutic.  It’s where I go when I need to work things out, and lately there’s been a lot to work on.  First of all, spring is graduation season, so I’m automatically nostalgic to begin with. It happens every year, I can easily be brought to tears just by seeing grads in their cap and gown, even when I don’t know them, because I know if I blink there will be faces I do know under there. But, this year, I have the added incentive to of also seeing my own first-born say so long to Middle School.  He’s all set to stroll into the new world of High School next fall to begin his own adventures and the count down to his own cap and gown wearing moment. So those final weeks of Middle School were especially bittersweet.  Each day that his promotion got closer, I dug deeper into the soil that would hold transplanted Hostas and daffodil bulbs, planters that I moved time and again to find just the right home, and flower beds that haven’t been weeded like this in years.  

But, even though I like the finished product, that’s not really all that I’m after out here in the garden.  I’m really here for the digging.  It doesn’t even matter if it’s with a shovel or rake or no tools at all. Just give me the dirt, because, at the end of the day, while my back may ache, my head will feel so much better.  There’s a whole lot more than anybody realizes buried out there with those roots.  Every worry, every nightmare, every silly angry frustration is covered up right next to every big dream, and excited plan and every little thing I needed time to accept a little more gracefully.  All buried in my garden.

That’s why it’s my favorite place.

But also because, not that many years ago quite a bit of our digging happened in this very same spot with much smaller shovels and much smaller worries.  I didn’t do quite as much actual gardening back then, but we got in a lot of digging.  When the kids were little we spent way too many hours to count filling pails to the top, digging deep holes, building castles and elaborate cities and big dreams, here in the sand box.  Many a day we were much too busy to quit our digging to take time for a snack so we would picnic on apples and cheerios right here next to the tools.  And, how many times did the adventure outgrow the sand box and take over the entire swing set, swings, slide and all?

Jake was just a baby when we first got it and from his little swing he witnessed thousands of pretend pirate ship sword fights, super hero rescues, and wild adventures that all stemmed from the imagination of his older brother.

And later, he would march out to sit on these swings every single day, sometimes even in the snow, just to lean back and then lean forward, pulling himself into that rhythm that helped him silently navigate all sorts of childhood moods both happy and not.

That’s why, it’s almost like an old friend has gone away, now that our old swing set has found a new home.  I hear echoes of “Higher!”  in the empty dirt ruts where they dragged their feet when we pushed them on their swings. “Weeee!” where the slide landing spot used to be. I couldn’t be more delighted to see our old pal, power washed and good as new, sitting there in that new yard, and two tiny bobbing blond heads racing toward it, pig tails flying as they run to dig into fresh sand, and swing from those same swings and dream big dreams.  I’m thrilled about that new beginning. But it sure has given me a great big spot in my own yard to get busy digging again.

Bee-Beep!

It really should come as no surprise that I’m writhing in pain on the floor, in the dark while everyone else sleeps peacefully around me.  I’m sure I looked a little like Wile E. Coyote caught, once again, the gullible fool by the crafty Road Runner… Bee-Beep. 

No matter how many times I ask that this not be the case, these huge sports shoes that weigh as much as a frozen chicken and cost more than both my prom dresses put together, are constantly in the middle of the floor where I am trying to do almost anything other than trip over them.  And now, as I sit cradling my foot after walking full steam down the hall in the dark and, of course, ramming right into the roadrunner’s cleverly placed anvil, I swear, again, I will make these children listen next time.

If it’s not one son’s shoes in the middle of the floor, it’s the other son’s four water glasses beside his bed, each filled with the water he thought he needed the night before, and the night before that, and the night before that.  “Please!” I repeat again and again, “Every time I come into your room I should not need to leave with an armload of dishes!”  It really does seem to be a reasonable request.  But there are others too.  There are the inside out socks in the laundry followed by the inside out pants, complete with the inside out boxers still attached…a talent really when you think about it, but annoying none the less. There’s the popular notion that we apparently live in a place where it’s acceptable to leave plates, food, wrappers, Gatorade bottles or all of the above, strewn about wherever we were last enjoying what was once inside.  Again, I lecture, I plead, I reason, I lay down the law; I make them return and retrieve the litter.  But, alas, nothing has worked so far to remedy the problem.

I know that I really should have consequences for these broken rules.  But in the grand scheme of our lives, the shoes on the floor, the socks in the laundry and the extra dish to wash all seem so small compared to life’s real problems.  Plus, there is the nagging irony in all my talking.  Ironic since I’m the only one who seems to be doing it.  

It wasn’t all that long ago that my children produced a virtual fire hose of conversation, we could barely keep up or get a word in.  Now, their words drip out from a leaky faucet.  Led by the oldest child, who can manage an entire conversation in which his answers consist of one-syllable responses, some of which aren’t even actual words, just sounds.

And just as I’ve started to resign myself to the fact that the long conversations are gone, I get an unexpected one here and there just to throw me off.  The catch is, the timing won’t be mine to decide.

For instance, at the end of another busy day when I am about to drag my self off to fall into bed, at my weakest moment, my teenager perks up, suddenly full of information, and happy to share.  Or during church, when all is quiet, he is suddenly ready to whisper to me an entire week’s worth of information that mysteriously comes pouring out, with colorful detail, wit and humor and full-blown genuine candor.  Yet, when I have waited all day to ask, “How was your day?” I receive the monosyllabic “fine” and “good”.

What I’ve come to realize is this.  It is not mine to determine when these golden moments will arise, but how I react is.  So, no matter how tired, or busy, or interrupted I feel, I am trying to clamp my lips shut tight and open my ears.  Because sometimes life’s most important lessons don’t come from a lecture they come from complete silence. And life’s most important battles are usually not the little ones at all.  A good reminder on a night when my smallest toe is barking the loudest. 

BuckyThe Wonder Dog

It’s a rare and frigid night.  I have the house all to myself.  It’s the perfect night to snuggle up in a blanket and catch up on show’s I’ve missed, or to read more than a page of a book before being interrupted, or to soak in a long hot bath.  But instead I’m simply going to spend a quiet evening with one of my best friends in the world. 

We met him seven years ago.  He was a rumpled, shaggy mess, full of anxiety and pent up energy, and bursting with love to give.  He had big soul-searching brown eyes, velvety soft ears, crazy unruly bear-like fur, and longer than normal legs for a Golden Retriever.  He was timid and shy when we met at the Humane Society, but what he lacked in exuberance he made up for with his persistence, continually reminding me to pet him by gently placing his paw on my knee whenever my hand left his head for more than a minute.  His off kilter way of lying down so that his front legs splay outward, much like a seal, endeared him to us even more.  He was lanky and clumsy and adorable. It was love at first sight.

We brought him home and he was an instant fit for our family, smart, quiet, obedient and friendly.  And so gentle he once carried a squealing baby rabbit inside his mouth from one side of the yard to the other, then gently deposited its saliva-covered body at our feet, unharmed. 

He’s been known as Bucky for the second half of his life, we will always wonder what he answered to during his early years and how it is that we got so lucky to have him. 

 

We do know he’s a creature of habit.  He knows mealtime like clockwork, both his and ours.  When we sit down to dinner, he perches under the table on high alert for crumbs, spilled milk, or any random tidbit he can scavenge.  Just the other day he was able to sample the crust of Jake’s grilled chocolate cheese sandwich.  We had experimented with the concoction, giving the old favorite a twist using thick slices of sweet fudge-like chocolate cheese.  As crazy as it sounds, Jake deemed our experiment delicious, and said, “Wow who ever heard of chocolate cheese! What are they gonna think of next, tomato flavored cotton candy?”

We laughed and figured it was actually possible in this world where it seems nothing is impossible anymore.

But tonight, I know the reality is, everything really is not possible.  Our old friend’s time shared with us is winding down.  His spirit may be as young as the day he came to live here, and his will to please and play is still as strong as a puppy’s, but his body just can’t keep up.

Of course we aren’t alone.  So many others are saying good-bye to their own fragile friends just like I am tonight.  We all see the signs. We slow the walks, fight the arthritis, guide the blind, dish up special food, direct the confused, itch the now unreachable favorite spot, and tell them every night what a good dog they are. 


Another family we know was also watching their dog grow older.  Their daughter said of their dog, “Mom, he isn’t old, he’s just wearing old pajamas.”

     

I like that.  I think Bucky’s in his old pajamas here beside me tonight, sweet and quiet, and I wonder if he is also thinking back to our long walks, stopping at his favorite tree in the fall so he could enjoy an apple along the way, visits to the dog park, putting up with the cat preening him, chasing squirrels, and sneaking away on his own for secret jaunts around the neighborhood. 

Saying good-bye is not easy. That’s why the only thing I’m doing tonight is hanging out with my best friend one more time.

Spin Doctor

“Mom, this big kid at school keeps pushing me.”

“What?” I am surprised and worried. “When is it happening?”

“Usually at recess but sometimes in school too.”

“What are you doing when it happens?” I ask.

“Usually just standing around with my friends,” he says.

“Does he say anything to you?” I ask.

“No, he just shoves me in my shoulder and walks past,” he replies a little tearful now.

We sit down together to talk more about the circumstances.  Is my son being bullied? Should we call the school? Should I be worried about his safety? Then we consider another possibility.

“If you’re just standing there, and it doesn’t seem like he wants to hurt you, do you think it’s possible that pushing you is just his way of trying to get your attention?” I ask.  “Do you think he might just want you to include him as one of your friends, and has a different way of showing it?”

“I don’t know, maybe,” my son says thinking it through.

At 11 years old words aren’t always at the top of the list for ways boys get their point across.

Unfortunately, once they do start using them, it isn’t always easier to communicate.

 All my life working in the public eye I have wrestled with how to manage the feedback I get.  It is an inevitable part of the job and not hard to reason why so many feel compelled to sound off with their thoughts since the talking heads are right there in the living room as though a surrogate part of the family and pounding out an email takes so little time and somehow relieves some pent up tension.

But the question for me, is how to manage the message when frequently the intent is not constructive, and the message isn’t that they want to be friends. 

Over time, you grow thicker skin.  But every now and then something can wiggle it’s way under there and fester just enough to make you second guess, to challenge your confidence, to sucker punch your self esteem, or as I like to think of it, to give you a chance to test your will power.

Often times it is the bizarre and random comments that get stuck in my head, not because I think they are true, but because they seem so odd I can’t help myself, I get sucked in, a moth to a light, banging my head over something so ridiculous yet irresistibly captivating.

The latest is this; an angry complaint that this column always focuses only on good news.

Yes, guilty as charged, read the other sections of the paper.  Walk away without another thought, right?

No, instead I actually spend hours trying to think through how to focus on bad news. 

There are many options after all, murders, sports doping, political disagreements, health problems, financial stress.

Each topic negatively impacts lives around the world every day.  Just not mine.

I don’t choose to ignore the negative stories of the day.  I choose not to allow them to make me a negative person. For me, the real lesson in all of this is the kind of spin you choose to put on your life and those living with you and around you.  You have a decision to make every day.  You can see the world as a dark place and choose to be bitter and angry.  Or you can choose to see the brighter side, to look for the good in people, to live a thankful life of purpose that pleases you and believe that is good enough in spite of criticism to the contrary.

That is the path I choose.  Those are the conversations I have with my boys.

That is the spirit in which I sent my son back to school the following day just to see what would happen if he looked at his pushy challenger differently.

“Guess what happened at school today?” he offered, hopping into the back seat after school.

“What?”

“When that kid pushed me, I just pushed him back the same way and said hey what’s up.”

“What did he do?” I asked.

“He just smiled at me and said ‘nothing much’ and walked on by,” my son said grinning.

“Guess you have another friend, huh?” I said.

“Yep.”

Fond Farewell

My morning started this way:

One son to the other, “Can I wear your white socks?”

Other son replies, “No!”

“Why?”

“Cause their mine!”

“So?”

“You will put a hole in them”

“No, I won’t”
“Yes, you will”

As the discussion escalates to shouting, followed by the inevitable shoving, I’ve had enough.

“Are you guys really arguing over a pair of socks?” I ask exasperated.

“Do you have any idea how much stuff you have?  You can’t possibly wear every pair of socks you own, anyway, you have so many!”

My tirade continues: “Do you know how lucky you are? You have food on your plate at every meal, a warm house, a family who loves you! And you can’t find it in your heart to share one pair of socks?”

By now their eyes are glazing over and I know they are in the just-act-like-your- listening mode.  But I forge ahead: “Learn to be grateful and generous with all that you have, share willingly, give happily!”

And with that we have officially launched into the holiday season.  It’s the season of giving, but so quickly turns to the season of getting. 

I worry about how to raise a child in this world of newer, better, faster. Can they truly be thankful; can they truly appreciate what’s important in life; can they become a strong, successful, satisfied adult who is still kind, thoughtful, generous, and yes, thankful. Can you even teach that?  Can they learn? 

I am banking on it, literally.

Just shy of 20 years ago my husband and I were attempting to purchase our first house together.  We weren’t even married at the time, and had a mere 5% as a down payment.  We were not getting very far with banks willing to take us on as a loan risk.  But one banker did.   We were grateful and told him so at the time.

Seven years ago we purchased our 4^th house since that day.  We loved its location, with trees, room to run, privacy and all we could dream of in challenges and charm.

We didn’t think the neighborhood could get any better, but it did.

To our surprise, right across the street lived the very banker who gave us our start.

Over the years our family came to know him along with his delightful wife as two of the most genuine, devoted people we have had the opportunity to know.

A true gentleman, and the love of his life, devoted and doting as though they were still courting even though they traded rings long before I was born. 

Without ever knowing, they have taught everyone in our family a little something about living the dream, openly finding so much more joy in caring for the other than in any selfish pursuits.  Their generosity and interest in our boys touched our hearts countless times with special little unexpected gifts and treats and the most lovely detailed thank you notes written in the most beautiful and delicate cursive script I’ve ever seen.

            

Their loyalty to one another was joyful, their love pure, a groom and his bride right to the end.

           

 We have lost them both now, he a long, heartbroken year after her.

They quietly lived their happily-ever-after in their little house in the woods, right across the street, but the lessons they were teaching us couldn’t have been shouted any louder.  

 It is with heavy hearts we remember so many of life’s most simple lessons and how quickly they can be forgotten in a busy rush to get it done world.   But I also find peace and hope in this joyful season, knowing that yes, you can learn these lessons of life if your lucky enough to have a good teacher.

Making the Team

I am cutting an onion and squinting into the stinging tears blinding me to my task.  But it feels good.  It matches my mood and I actually welcome the feeling.

We didn’t want, or expect it, but we have received the opportunity to help teach and guide our son through one of the difficult life lessons of overcoming disappointment and adversity.  Given the choice I don’t suppose there is a parent anywhere who would say they would choose to see their child go through these “life lesson” experiences, but then, it isn’t a choice of whether to go through it, typically, it’s a choice of how you decide to navigate through the fallout.

For me, it’s like there is a marble in my brain and it is rolling around in one of those maze games trailing down every path, every wrong turn, every dead end, trying to analyze every minute detail, every angle, every scenario of our current situation, not to place blame or point fingers, but to find some way, any way, to make it not hurt my son.  In the end, though, the marble comes to rest at the natural landing spot, the one that says, there is no way to make it not hurt.  It does.  He is.

Those old enough to have perspective on life, to have survived this type of thing and look back with wisdom and knowledge that time heals, and what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, and you can make stepping stones out of stumbling blocks; those people will say that this type of experience will build character, or light the fire of a competitive spirit, and will turn good athletes great.  But those living in the moment just feel bad.  

Our son didn’t make the team.  We were sick as we faced the task of delivering the news and watching our sweet vulnerable boy experience the sharp pain of rejection, knowing we could do nothing to soften the blow, protect him from the fallout, or preserve his self esteem at the place it lived before.  He is too smart.

Looking into those sharp blue eyes, he called every bluff, he cut through every attempt to cushion the blow.  He got it.  Life isn’t fair, but it doesn’t matter.  It’s going to happen, like it or not. 

Here’s what I have learned. Delivering news to your child that you know will break their heart and crush their brilliant spirit changes a person.  For the first time that I could remember, I couldn’t hold him and say, “It’s OK.” In time it will be OK, but right now, it’s really not OK.  For every way parenting has stretched my emotions beyond anything I thought I could feel, this brought me to a new level, the other darker end of the spectrum of the joy I never knew I could feel until I first laid eyes on my son after he was born, or watched him speak, walk, and run for the first time.  The other side of joy is where I had now traveled.  This new place wasn’t nice, I didn’t enjoy it, but I’m changed because I went there. 

I also know this; my son reacted as I expected, with tears, questions, and heartache.  But my mind reels, and my heart melts at what else I witnessed.  I saw a grace beyond what few adults could hope for in accepting the unexpected news from his dad, I saw a depth of strength to muscle a smile for his mom through chapped tear stained cheeks so that I would feel better, and I glimpsed the man I would one day send into the world to face other unseen adversity, knowing there is more to life than making every team.  I saw someone I am proud of beyond anything words can describe, someone I love with every sense I have, and someone who is already a superstar, not because he made a sports team, but, this time, because he didn’t.