Over a salad with friends recently, I shared how my high school graduate, Micah, finished his sports “career.” And so did I. My spectator-mom “career,” that is. As I sipped my tea, I calculated aloud how many years I have lived with bleacher buns: almost twenty-four. Twenty-four years! I almost spit out my tea. One of my friends said, “It’s the end of an era.”
The end of an era, yes.
Our oldest son is 28, and he began soccer at age five. We’ve had short breaks but only a few and not for long. My husband coached most of our boys’ pre-high school teams. It has always been a family affair.
I remember a day when my mother-in-law reflected sentimentally about her days as a spectator mom. As we watched my oldest son Sammy’s little league baseball game, she told me how much she cherished those days and missed them. This memory is crystal clear to me because I could not imagine missing those days. There I sat with three youngsters in tow (one was potty training, and one was a newborn).
Dan and I joke that our boys were raised on the baseball fields. And in part, they were.
I potty trained two in the rec center bathroom next to field 5. I think of it every time I see it. I changed diapers in the stroller, dispensed discipline, fed them meals, and chased after those wild little boys.Continue Reading
