An Ending by any other Name…

Sometimes and end is really a beginning and sometimes, well, it really is an end.  This year, my husband will be facing an end to something that has been a part of his life for 42 years, since the age of seven when he swung his first bat. This year, our constant hocking of Boston butts, coupon books, field signs and program ads for our sons’ athletic teams will be no more. And during the next 12 months, our ball will do its final metamorphism and turn itself into a college student—destination still TBD. 

We became sports parents 17 years ago when my oldest began his career as an indoor soccer player. I’ll never forget showing up with my snazzily, uniformed son in tow to his first game at 9:00 am just as the schedule said to find the game already in progress (my husband, never a soccer enthusiast, was in a deer stand and left this first season for me to handle). What the coach (and my husband) forgot to tell this first time, sports mom was that players needed to be there 30 minutes before game time. Who knew?! I never made that mistake again. From that first soccer season, we slide right into basketball and then into t-ball and then football and then…to this year, our last season for it all.

It was not always easy juggling two children in never ending sport events and then adding the dancer several years later. We relied on our village and then some. And I won’t say that we have not at times forgotten one of the kids at the ball field. However, I can say they were never left for long (someone always found them and brought them home). 

I met some of my dearest friends while sweating bullets at a ball field or huddling around the only source of heat in the football stands. We planned everything together from birthday parties to funerals on those fields and we made enough memories to last a few lifetimes. We laughed, cried and railed against the mean girls who grew up to meaner women, all while watching the kids throw balls—in every size and shape.

Consequently, as my youngest son swaggers up to the plate during this last year of summer ball, I cannot help but remember the first time he eagerly ran onto the field as a precocious four year-old, confident in his ability to keep up with the much older kids on the team. He held his own that first year with those boys and their parents, quietly focused on the game and tuning out all of the rowdy parental shouting -- most of which came from the coaches’ bench. From that day to this, he has maintained that focus and during every plate appearance and every football down, he has continued to give his best attempt sometimes with good results and other times, not.

We still laugh about the time he was on the pitcher’s mound during one of his first t-ball games and the coach could be heard yelling “Logan! LO-gan! LOGAN! LOGAN DID YOU HEAR ME?!” To which my son quietly replied with all the maturity his four-year old voice could muster, “I heard you the first time.”  The coach never yelled at him again. 

I watched him learn to channel his anger into positive action. Disappointment in one plate appearance often results in a key hit during the next one. I have seen him learn to accept the fact that he has bad games and to blame no one but himself. Athletics have taught him how to lead his team through his actions and how to work with others to succeed. It has also taught him that winning is a team sport as is losing.

Our sporting adventures also educated my husband about some things such as, you cannot swing the bat for them and you cannot teach heart. He learned this lesson painfully.  When my son was seven, my husband was drafted to coach his team. My husband was not one of those crazy coaches who yelled obscenities at the fledgling ballplayers, but then neither was he one with much patience for slackers and, let’s face it, most seven-year olds are slackers (or dirt diggers as we often called them)! 

My husband’s coaching philosophy was simple: repetition, repetition, repetition (and there was nothing that bored the kids more than doing the same thing over and over and over again). Of course, there was no one he was harder on than his own son and typically, there was no one who ignored his direction more than said son. There were many tense trips home after ballgames that season with me trying to fill the silence with jokes that fell flat. Needless to say, that was his first and last year to coach any of our sons’ teams. And everyone was much happier for it. Of course, today that season is one we remember with much fondness (like childbirth, you quickly forget the pain).

For years, I have written about the trials and tribulations of being a working mom with active children. This is the last year I will be able to write those articles and experience those adventures. It is ending and there is no denying that fact. I am not really sure how I feel about that. I am not really sure what my (our) life will be like without an athletic event to work our schedules around. However, what I am sure about is my husband and I will find something to do with all of our new spare time and my hope is we will find things to do together -- that this will be our new beginning and not just an ending to a very long season.

Aging Gratefully

“I’m turning 39 tomorrow.  Is there anything worse?” read the Facebook post from Connie I-Can’t-Remember-How-I-know-Her.  I added Connie as one of my friends during the first few frenzied days of being on Facebook.  You know that time when you are just so excited that anyone wants to be your friend that you are accepting everyone!  Since then, I have become much more judicious in my friend acceptance.  Once, even going so far as to explain to one request I was getting ready to ignore why I was not accepting her onto my friend list (yes, she had done something THAT bad).  

There are times now when I go through my friend list and “clean out my friend closet” which is simply the act of purging “friends” whose face I can’t remember and whose status comments make absolutely no sense to me.  But, through all of this, somehow Connie How-Do-I-Know-You, made it through my friend filters and so I reread her post “I’m turning 39 tomorrow.  Is there anything worse?” and I contemplated my response.

There IS something traumatic about approaching a new decade of life.  It is a time for reflection and introspection.  I remember turning 10 and thinking that now that I was in the double digits I was truly a big girl and I could no longer cry when I scraped a knee or otherwise hurt myself.  Little did I know that those tween/teen years would bring raging hormones and menstrual cramps that would bring me to my knees.  Nor did I anticipate the inverse relationship of bigger boobs and a shorter attention span (well on anything unrelated to boys).  Those years brought acne and braces, anorexia and PMS. My lifelong struggle with insomnia also began brought on at this age by insecurities about my new body and my new self.  

And then I entered my twenties—the “Me” decade.  Ah, the joy of being 21 (the last birthday we truly look forward to). Suddenly, I was on my own.  During this decade, my body went from pubescent to womanly.  My health issues changed from regulating my menstrual cycle to understanding the intricacies of my body.  I learned that dieting didn’t work for me but changing my lifestyle did.  I could no longer eat pizza at 2:00 a.m. and maintain a healthy weight.  In fact, I could no longer eat pizza at anytime.  I introduced myself to jazzercise and aerobic, step classes and kick boxing.  I tried body building and weight training and finally learned to amuse myself on a stationary bike.  After two children and two miscarriages, I learned how to balance being a mom, an employee and a loving (most of the time) wife.  I also learned that most of my friends and co-workers were on a drug called Prozac. Most frustrating of all, I still had PMS and my sleepless nights were now brought on by crying babies and their night terrors.

While I didn’t have a hard time turning 30, 30 and a half was a wretch.  I suddenly realized that I was getting older and that there was no turning back.  I learned that my body wasn’t my own and that the laws of gravity apply to all things. And, oh yeah, the rhythm method of birth control DOESN’T WORK! After three children, my focus became maintaining a healthy lifestyle for me AND my family.  No more soft drinks in our house and no more fried foods for anyone.  Gone was the red meat and in its place were chicken, fish and beans.  From whole milk to skim and low-fat galore, our kitchen was filled with healthy eating choices.  However, I have since been told that had I looked under beds (including my own), I could have found any number of candy wrappers and soda cans.  And suddenly, this decade brought concerns about cancer – breast, skin, colon and brain. And still PMS continued as did my insomnia.  But, somehow, I made it through relatively unscathed (still no Prozac).

Forty snuck up on me.  One day I was 39 and minding my own business and the next…BAM! A surprise birthday welcomed the new decade.  Many a comment has been made about how “40 is the new 30”.  My husband even compared me to a fine wine (he said I was just getting better with age).  I told him I felt like a block of cheese-- sharp and moldy. Regardless, this new age was upon me and so were new health issues.  It takes a little longer to get out of bed –when my feet hit the floor, my knees pop and my back sometimes grumbles.  I also realized that the creaking I hear at night is not the bed but rather my bones.  My metabolism seemed to know the moment the clock rang in 40 and immediately slowed down.  No longer do my three-mile runs keep the weight off.  I now have to double my mileage to maintain the same weight which allows me to make good use of my sleeplessness and hit the road at 4:00 a.m. for a brisk morning run.  

My “always been so low” blood pressure snuck up to normal and beyond and suddenly my heart palpitates at the most inconvenient times.  In fact, Prozac is looking more like an option as are Lexapro and Wellbutrin.   

My friends and I are beginning to face entry into our “pre-menopausal” period.  This, I am told, is when you just begin to dread the hot flashes, the loss of your best “friend” and the hair on your legs which is now growing on your chin! PMS turns even more violent and the few hours of uninterrupted sleep entirely disappear as does any pretense of good temper.  Good times, I’ve been told, good times. 

I have not yet faced 50 and beyond.  But, what I know is that I will age gracefully because there is no other option.  I will not be a Joan Rivers whose face is so tight when she smiles her ears move.  I won’t use Botox which will relieve my face of most of its expression (yes, even my most effective glare that can stop a child or a wayward co-worker from doing evil from 20 paces).  I will embrace my fine lines (while I continue to invest in and use a very good moisturizer) with the understanding that I earned each of those lines, darn it! I know that I can’t compete with the body of a 19 year-old.  But, neither can she compare in knowledge or confidence to me. I tell my husband to go ahead and look, but we both know that there are just some things he can’t afford.

So to Connie You’re-Going-To-Be-Deleted-From-My-Friend-List, I wrote this response. “There is something worse than turning 39—and that is not making it past 38.”