Facing the Fall of Change

Written by Kath, a mom without a blog

It’s fall across most of our country. The long, warm days of summer have given rise to brisk mornings and evenings; the sun is lower in the sky, and days are shorter. It’s fall out here in the desert as well, but the signs aren’t as obvious. You really have to look for them.

Fall in Phoenix means we open our windows again. Of course, this only happens in the early morning and late evening hours when the temps dip to the 70s or so. But still…we OPEN our WINDOWS. We haven’t done this since, seriously, May. Watching my curtains sway a little in the morning breeze is a little bit of heaven for me.

We don’t have the usual “look” of fall here, either. Our trees (for the most part) don’t turn color and drop their leaves. Oh, sure, a few do. They are scattered among the masses of desert trees (mesquites and palo verdes) and palm trees which pretty much stay green year-round. So the minority of trees that do change get sort of lost in the greenery.

I feel sorry that my kids don’t get to experience the traditional fall. My 5-year old daughter has only seen fall leaves in picture books or Charlie Brown specials. So last weekend, my husband and I packed up our three kids into our SUV and headed north for the weekend.

The usual noise and chatter of conversation and DVDs playing became a hush as we hit the dirt road and started the climb up the mountain. We rolled down our windows and breathed deeply the clean, crisp mountain air. And then, my kids began to see them. Small clusters of yellow and orange at first. But then we saw the maples. Oh, those glorious maples in their pinks, reds, oranges, fuchsias, rusts….so absolutely, breathtakingly beautiful. I turned around and watched my kids’ eyes soaking up the sights. Their “oohs” and “aahhs”, their squeals of delight…it was quite a moment.

We got settled in to our destination and went for a walk. Approaching the first oak tree, my daughter picked up an acorn off the ground.

“What’s this, Mama?”

“That’s an acorn, honey.”

Pause. Turning and examining the acorn in her little hand. “Like the one from Ice Age?”

“Yep, just like it.” Note to self….make this trip EVERY year with the kids.

There was just something so beautiful and comforting in the magnificence of pure nature. The colors were so vibrant. It’s an extraordinary sight to behold, but the trees were just doing what they were SUPPOSED to do—they were changing.

When we returned to Phoenix, I was telling a friend about the beautiful sights up north. Her reply stunned me a bit.

“Oh, I lived on the east coast and HATED fall,” she said. “The leaves changing color always made me depressed and anxious, knowing that the trees would soon be totally bare and that winter would set in.”

Wow. That thought had literally never occurred to me. I guess since I’ve lived in the desert most of my life, I didn’t realize that fall for some people (who live in areas where the winters are brutal) would be so anxiety-provoking.

It reminds me of a time in my life when I saw that things were “changing.” When I anticipated what would come with dread, fear, and anxiety. I know what that feeling is like. It’s scary. The unknown always is.

I’m currently in one of those moments again in my life. The subtle colors are there signaling a change that I know deep down is coming. It makes me frightened of the “barren tree.” I don’t want to think about it.

But here’s the deal. If I spend my days focusing only on the bare tree, I’ll miss the beauty of the fall. I won’t see the rich golds, bright reds, and deep browns. I might miss the very best part of all because I can’t stop thinking about what’s to come.

So, today, I will enjoy the fall. I will soak up the hues and try to imprint the images in my brain, so that I may NEVER forget.

Because when the leaves fall, it’s true the tree becomes bare. But what happens next is that the leaves break down and nourish the tree; for when spring comes, new buds will appear. And the hope of those new leaves…leaves that have been fed by the ones that came before, comforts me.

Obama's speech is NOT the main thing most moms are thinking about today

Big sis' and 2nd-grader Claire supporting Phoebe on her first day of kindergarten.

Sept. 4, 2009

As most kids are back to school today, we are slowly getting back to blogging over here at Moms Without Blogs. Today's post is from one of our hardcore MWOBS, Kath, who I have known since we were nine years old. As I read this piece, I got tears in my eyes as I often do when reading her because her words most always resonate deeply within me. Probably because we are cut from a similar cloth.  

My second baby, Phoebe, started kindergarten last Thursday. My heart did similar and different backflips of emotions as I watched another kid of mine take her place on the kindergarten carpet in a circle of strangers knowing full well some of these strangers would become her best friends. (and if she's lucky, one of them will be a lifelong friend like Kath is to me.) 

So the buzz du jour is certainly Obama's speech on education to the kids of America, but over here, all I can say is I'm psyched that Kath has written about what's really going on in most of our mama hearts today as we watch our babies take another step on their journey in the world. 

Written by Kath

It’s officially back to school time for everyone but we've been back to school for weeks here in sunny Arizona. I think it’s someone’s cruel joke to make kids return to school in mid-August. Picking up your children at 3 pm when the temperature exceeds 105 degrees (WITH humidity, I might add) is pure torture. 

The eve before the big “first day” I stood in the doorway of my boys’ room. I took in their over-stuffed backpacks, zippers strained from new crayons, pencils, notebooks, and glue. I saw the new tennis shoes, gleaming and clean (for the last time!) awaiting new adventures this school year. The uniforms were washed and hanging in the closets, the new socks neatly folded in the drawers. I sighed, and couldn’t help but feel, well…sad. Something was bugging me because I felt a little dread about the next day.

As we walked on campus that next morning, you could see the moms and dads had an extra spring in their step. It reminded me of that “Staples” commercial. You know the one, where the dad skips around the store to the tunes of the Christmas song “The Most Wonderful Time of the Year.” He’s dancing through the isles, throwing school supplies into his cart in glorious anticipation of the return to school. Yep, most parents I saw that morning had that same giddy expression on their face. But I didn’t. I couldn’t. I just felt, well sad. What the heck was up with that??

In the days since that first day, I’ve tried to make some sense of this sadness. Why am I not like the other parents? I should be thrilled that my kids are back in school, why aren’t I?

I keep remembering a conversation I had with my dear Irish father after I had my first child. He told me that the world is a “magnet.” “When you’re pregnant or your child is a baby, they are as close to you as they ever will be,” he said. “But gradually, the world pulls them away, little by little, until they are grown.”

At the time, the words were sweet, but I just couldn’t comprehend them. I mean, my nipples were cracked and bleeding from being “so close” to my son. He wanted to nurse non-stop. I was longing for a little magnet pull of the world to create a little distance.

But now, I think, I get it. I’m sad this time of year, because I’m feeling that pull. School reinforces the pull of the world to me. During the summer, my kids are mine. Each and every day, I have them. We relax in our PJs, go to movies, swim, take vacations. They are all mine, and although they can sometimes get on my nerves, I truly and absolutely love it.

When school starts (and all the activities that go with it), I sort of “lose” my kids. They spend more time at school and activities than they do with me. And my heart hurts. Oh, I know, it’s good for them to go to school, to learn, to be active. They are growing up. I understand.

But my heart just can’t. Children are little for such a short amount of time. Those first 5 years go by like the blink of an eye. Then that magnet world really starts to pull.

I know that in a few months, this sadness will be gone. I will enjoy watching my children learn new things at school. My heart will burst with joy as I cheer them on at their activities. They will grow and change and develop and all will be good. 

But for today, I’ll embrace the sadness a little.

As we walked around school the first day, many of the parents asked when my daughter would be starting kindergarten.

“Next year,” I said.

“Wow! Only one more year to go!” they’d remark with that look that says “hang in there” to the other parent.

Yep, ONLY one more year to go. I’ll cherish every moment of it.

Her Hands

Our Mother's Day Week extravaganza continues today with a post from one of the original moms without a blog here at MWOB, Kath.  I have known Kath since we were 9 years old and we are blessed with a rare and lasting friendship. Her words today hit me to the core and my heart aches for her as she approaches her second mother's day without her mom.  I knew her mom.  I ate lots of her mom's food at a green formica countertop surrounded by the love and humor and hospitality of an Irish family I am proud to know.  Kath's mom simply ruled.  And she is so missed.

Written by Kath, a mom without a blog

For me, Mother’s Day is really about my own mom. I know it’s supposed to be the day that we, as mothers, are showered with flowers, gifts and some much needed “me” time by those we love (good luck with that everyone). But for this gal, it’s a day I reflect on and give thanks for my own mother.

My mom was definitely the most hard-working, giving woman I have ever met. If you look up “selfless” in the dictionary, I’m pretty sure my mom’s name would be there. She was the oldest of seven children and, as such, was a born care-taker. Her whole life was truly dedicated to the service and loving-care of others.

In her early 20’s, my mom emigrated from Ireland to New York. Now, I know the mere mention of the word “immigrant” opens a can of worms big enough to supply fishermen until the next century. I’m not going to go there today. Suffice it to say, my mom did things by the book. She had each and every paper in order and was properly sponsored by a distant aunt. (Back then, an immigrant had to have a “sponsor” who was completely responsible for the individual and was held accountable if the immigrant did anything illegal while in America).

On the boat over from Ireland, my mom contracted tuberculosis. She subsequently had to spend months in a sanatorium for her recovery. She endured lung surgery and isolation (her aunt would visit every few weeks or so), completely away from her family in Ireland. I can’t begin to imagine how difficult that was for her. I’m sure I wouldn’t have the strength to endure what she endured. But when she spoke of that time later in her life, she did so without anger, bitterness, or sadness. She simply did what “she had to do” and was grateful to be in her new country. That was my mom.

I think it’s her hands that I will remember the most. My mom did not have pretty hands. Her nails were not manicured (I never remember them even painted). She worked hard each and every day and her hands took a beating. Her skin was rough, dry and calloused.

But I loved those hands.

When I was sick, those hands would gently touch my forehead. I remember their cool abrasiveness. It was soothing. My mom was there. Her very presence provided the security I needed to get better. I just knew that everything was going to be okay.

In church, those hands would often grab mine to hold. They felt strong and protective. I felt safe and loved.

Those hands made the best meals ever. My mom could seriously cook, and anyone who ever entered my home growing up could attest to this fact. Food was always prepared for any guest who came over. You just HAD to eat when you came to my house. And, boy was it good. I remember, in college, after a weekend home, she would send me back with loads of yummy goodness. I’d have stuffed Cornish game hens, homemade spaghetti sauce, and baked chicken. When I heated that food up in my dorm room, I’d soon have a steady stream of neighbors dropping by “just to say Hi”. Yeah.

Those hands skillfully and lovingly sewed and knitted through the years. There were graduation dresses, prom dresses, play costumes, and even items for good friends. When I brought my first born home from the hospital, he was warmly wrapped in a beautiful white blanket painstakingly knitted by those very hands.

In the last few years, those hands would shake periodically due to her illness and the curse of those dreaded seizures. My mom HATED having to be taken care of. She always wanted to provide the care for others, not be on the receiving end. But she accepted her illness with the dignity and grace that only my mother could.

I held those very hands 19 short months ago when she peacefully left this world guided by the abundant love and thankfulness of her family. 

I miss those beautiful hands…

Last Friday, my boys had a “Mom’s Morning” at their Catholic school. My daughter was at preschool and my oldest sings in the choir, so during the school mass, I sat next to my middle child. He’s my little affectionate guy, and loves to snuggle up close--anytime, anywhere. 

He held (no, squeezed) my hand throughout the church service. At one point, I looked down and gazed at his hand in mine. I do not have pretty hands. They look weathered; scratched and scarred from bumps over the years. The skin is dry and cracked from washing them. A lot. 

But I realized something. 

My hands are beginning to look just like my mom’s.

I couldn’t be more proud.

My mom in her element

My mom also in her element - holding one of her precious grandbabies.

The Dry-Erase Board that Lives in My Brain

Kicking off my week away is a favorite here around MWOB and one killer writer, Kath.  She's part of the larger rescue plan I have going on over here but she doesn't know it yet.  

All I know is every time I read her words, I want to jump through the computer or jump on a plane and go give her a huge hug.  I love this chick. Here's Kath:

This morning, I went for a nice, long run. 

I started running for exercise a little over a year ago, which is completely ironic to me because I’ve always hated running. I played lots of sports as a kid and I didn’t mind running in short bursts, but sustained long distance running was truly loathsome to me. 

I think it was that dang burning in my chest that I hated the most. Ten minutes into a run, it would set in. Like someone had their hands wrapped around each of my lungs and they were squeezing them. Hard. Like they were wringing out a wet washcloth. 

Man, I hated that feeling.

As I grew older, I’d try running again every so often. But, never fail, 10 minutes into the run, I’d have to make that crucial decision: head home for a warm cup of coffee and the daily newspaper, or continue to run and possibly cough up a lung on the sidewalk. 

Really, the choice wasn’t difficult.

But for whatever reason, about a year ago, I decided to give running one more chance. This time, I pushed through the pain a little harder. And something miraculous happened. 

I think I experienced for the first time what people commonly refer to as the “runner’s high.” Boy, was this ever cool! Not only did the burning in my chest disappear completely, but my legs felt strong and fresh. I literally felt like I could run forever. But the best part, the truly best part, was what happened to my momma’s brain. 

I usually picture my momma brain like a large (okay, sometimes not-so-large) white board. On that whiteboard is “my ongoing to-do list” which consists of lots of different tasks and responsibilities listed in different colored dry-erase markers. Even though the specific tasks might be different, all moms have some sort of “list” scrolled in their brain. Something like this:

Schedule dentist appointment.

Out of milk…pick some up.

Cupcakes for class party.

Load(s) of laundry.

           Oil change in the car.           

Costume for class play.

Baseball practice/game.          

Pay gas bill. 

But, I digress. 

Because, you see, when I get into my groovy place on a run, I can see this enormous eraser come and start to wipe off my whiteboard. With each step of my feet (“pound, pound, pound…”) I can see big sweeps of that eraser making my whiteboard clean… sparkling and glistening in all its sheer emptiness. 

And, man, is that ever liberating.

So, this morning, when I was on my run and my whiteboard was shining in all its pure, well, whiteness, something really cool happened. Natalie Merchant started crooning through my ipod ear buds. And she spoke to me, she really spoke to me:

“These are days, you’ll remember.

Never before and never since,

I promise,

Will the whole world be warm as this,

And as you feel it,

You’ll know it’s true, that you

Are blessed and lucky.

That you, are touched by something,

That’ll grow and bloom, in you….”

I thought, “Natalie!! Right on!” How true these words were. These really are incredible days. 

I know I get so caught up sometimes in completing the tasks, too hung up on all the responsibilities on my whiteboard. I often focus on getting through my days instead of really living them. 

Because this is life. The everyday moments. 

Life doesn’t start at some arbitrary point in our lives (“when I graduate” or “when I get married” or “when I have kids” or….any other event). Life is the here and now. The spilled milk, the sticky kisses, the fights over bedtime. The chaos, the craziness. The snuggled-up quiet moments. It’s all of those tasks on our “to-do” lists that we can either look at as items to be completed or moments to be experienced. Because one day (a day that will come much too soon for my liking), I’m certain I will look back on these days, and I will miss them. Deeply. If only -

Holy sh**! 

No, literally, I’m talking CRAP! 

At that very moment, I stepped in an enormous pile of dog feces right in the middle of the sidewalk. You’ve GOT to be kidding me.

Man, that really killed my buzz.

What was I saying?

Holidays + Grief = Lunatic Mom

It's Monday and I'm so psyched that MWOB is getting back to its roots by welcoming back my oldest and dearest friend, Kath, as a MWOB guest blogger.  Our friendship began in 4th grade and will last to the end of time.  I wish every woman a friend like Kath.

Kath is a mom to three kids, a wife, a pediatric cancer nurse (aka "a saint"), and a mom without a blog.  Really.  I begged her to write her first post when MWOB was just an itty-bitty newborn blog and I had to beg her again to write this story. Okay, maybe not beg. But insist.  

So in the spirit of what MWOB is all about (that even without a blog, we all have a story to tell), I give you a story from Kath:   

My mom passed away a little over a year ago. The one thing I’ve learned about grief is that it’s a real bastard. It does NOT get better with time. The pain does NOT fade gradually. It’s not linear; it’s more like a process, a sea of waves alternating with calm waters. I can be cruising along, doing well when something (fairly “routine”) happens, and I’m racked with the grief all over. It’s like being sucker-punched right in the gut. The wind is knocked out of you, the scab ripped off and you’re vulnerable and hurting all over again. 

My mom is buried at a large Catholic cemetery here in Phoenix. Four times a year, they have a “clean up week” where all decorations are removed from the gravesites to keep things tidy. These dates are clearly posted at every entrance. You must remove all flowers, etc. for the week and then you’re free to place them back on when the week is over. I understand the need for such a clean up every few months. It keeps the cemetery from looking trashy, and really, who wants to be buried in a trashy cemetery?

Last Christmas (the first Christmas without my mom) my family bought a nice large wreath on a metal stand for my mom’s grave. It’s strange, but it’s really important to me that she has something on her site. I know she’s not really THERE, I believe she’s in a much better place, but I want her final resting place to look nice. We bought an artificial wreath so we could use it for several years. Before the cemetery clean up last year, I brought the wreath home, wrapped it up, and put it in my attic. This past Thanksgiving, I cleaned it up and placed it back on her grave for the holidays.

Which leads me to last Monday. My boys, ages 10 and 7, were off from school and we had to take my dad to his chemotherapy appointment. (My dad was diagnosed with lung cancer 6 months ago. Pretty sucky). While at his appointment, it dawned on me that it was clean up week at the cemetery and I had to get that wreath. After settling my dad in for his treatment, my boys and I headed down to what I thought would be a quick trip to the cemetery. 

On the way there, it dawned on me that the clean up may have already begun. But I knew the property was enormous, and the chances of my mom’s grave being cleaned (she’s buried on a far end of the cemetery) were slim. I was reassured as we drove up, because there was a blanket of red/green/silver decorations on graves as far as the eye could see. 

As we pull in the gate, my 10-year-old, B, speaks:

B:  “Mom, it’s gone.”

Me:  “What???? What do you mean?” 

Although, I know exactly what he means because his 10-year-old eyes are way better than my 41-year-old ones.

B: “Meema’s wreath is gone. They took it off.”

I tried to process what I was actually seeing. The 2-acre area where my mom is buried was picked clean. Not a flower. Not a wreath. Not a bow. Absolutely deserted. It was the only area of the entire cemetery that was clean. 

Then…the sucker-punch right in my gut. I vividly pictured in my brain the worker standing on my mom’s grave, grabbing her wreath, stuffing it in the trash. HER wreath. MY MOM. Tears welled in my eyes for yet another loss. How could I have let this happen? 

I scanned the property and saw several men cleaning up the adjacent area. I floored my car towards them and slammed on the breaks.

“Stay in the car!” I barked to my boys.

The cemetery worker heard me before he actually saw me.

“WHERE. IS. MY. MOM’S. WREATH???” Then the sobs came as I blubbered. “I had to take my dad for chemo today. I couldn’t get here in time. How could you have thrown it out……?” I’m really not sure exactly what I said, only that I was hysterical and crying. 

The older Hispanic man looked at me with the kindest eyes you can imagine. “I’m sorry,” he said. Then he said it again. And again. And again. He pointed to another area of the property and told me the decorations had all been taken there for disposal. I was welcome to go and look through the items to try and find it. He hoped I did. I apologized, too. After all, this guy was just doing his job.

So my boys and I headed over to the area behind the Mausoleum and started dumpster diving for my mom’s wreath. We found three large piles of sad, discarded Christmas items. The whole area smelled like rotten flowers and old Christmas trees. The center pile had some sort of music box or toy playing music from way down at the bottom. It was playing the melody of the “Happy Birthday” song, but the batteries were clearly drained so it sounded off-key and sickly and creepy - "Waaa waaaa waaaa waaa waa waaa...."

After five minutes or so, it became apparent that we were looking for a needle in a haystack. And in all likelihood, my mom’s wreath was at the bottom of the heap, crushed and soiled. Would I really want it if I found it? 

And that’s when it caught my eye. I spotted one fine looking wreath towards the back of the pile. It had pristine, green leaves. It had gorgeous pinecones. It had a perfect stand. It had a crisp, velvet bow. Oh yeah, and it had someone else's name on it. Yep, it was addressed to a person at a lot number/grave number at the cemetery’s address. My 10-year-old caught my eye at just that moment.

B: “Is that one Meema’s?”

Me: (lengthy pause….) "Um, no. This one has someone’s name on it. Keep looking.”

Man, what was I thinking? I couldn’t take someone else’s wreath. But, dammit, I came for a wreath and I wasn’t leaving without one. I mean, it was just going to be thrown away anyway, right? RIGHT? 

So, I subtly removed the tag and after a couple more minutes nonchalantly said, “I think I found it.”

B: “Isn’t that the one we just saw with someone else’s name on it?”

Me: “I don’t think so. I don’t see a name.”  What the hell was I doing??

My sweet boy just looked at me with the most sincere eyes. He knew which wreath it was. This lie was going nowhere.

Me: “Look, honey. In the next two hours, this beautiful wreath is going to be smashed and discarded with all this other stuff. It was just like the one Meema had, so it’s okay if we save it from being thrown out.”  Yeah, we’re SAVING the wreath….we’re regular saints!

But you know what? That was enough for both my boys. They didn’t need any more explanation. If I said it was okay, they were cool with that. Then my 7-year-old picked up a poinsettia and says, “What about this pretty plant?’ And his brother grabs a small decorated Christmas tree and says, “This is cute.” Suddenly our wreath rescue mission has turned into bargain hunting at the after-Christmas sales. At a CEMETERY.

But, trying not to shirk my parenting duties completely, I became all indignant.

Me: “We can’t take those things! They don’t belong to us. That would be wrong. We are taking the wreath and that’s IT!”  We loaded up the wreath and took off. 

As I reflected on the roller-coaster of emotions that I experienced and inflicted upon my poor kids, two thoughts occurred to me:

First, I am making a deposit into both boys’ savings accounts. They’ll need it for therapy one day. 

And second, I’m pretty sure my dear old Irish mother just rolled over in her grave.

When Your Mom Used to Be A Soccer Star

Oh yeah, it's another happy manic Monday!  I introduce to you another guest blogger and hopefully a mainstay here at MWOB, my oldest friend Kath - a friend who knows my soul just like a friend of over 30 years should.  Kath and I met when we were 8 years old after my family just made the move of a lifetime from Chicago to Phoenix.   Our friendship has simply spanned most everything significant in a girl's life and I sincerely wish my daughters will have a friend in their life like Kath.  As a mom, Kath is as normal as it gets.  She is my rock in a sea of self-doubt reminding me I'm not the only one who yells.  

Kath did not title this post, I took the liberty since I was one of those childhood friends who knew what kind of athlete she was.  My dad still speaks of the countless goals Kath scored when we played together on the same field.   I love this post from her because since my firstborn is currently involved in her first year of soccer, I can totally relate.  I mean TOTALLY.  Enjoy!

From Kath:

Ask any of my childhood friends, and they’ll tell you I was a pretty decent athlete growing up. Better than decent, pretty doggone good, if I do say so myself. I was your basic tomboy, shunning anything pink, frilly or dainty for dirty and physical. I played lots of sports; softball, soccer, basketball, even volleyball. Man, there was nothing like going all out in a sport you loved. Thinking back to those good ‘ol days, I can smell the dirt of the infield or feel the dampness of a grassy soccer field on a Saturday morning. My heart pounds thinking of the thrill of full-on body sliding into second base for the steal. I get giddy remembering sprinting down the soccer field, elbowing and slamming into other girls to get my foot on the ball for a laser pass, or perhaps even a shot into the net. Yep, I LOVED playing sports.

Without a doubt, soccer was my favorite. As you can imagine, I couldn’t wait to get my kids into the game I cherished as a youngster. Unbelievably, my oldest child, Brendan, wanted absolutely nothing to do with soccer. How could this be? Was he really mine?? But Brendan prefers sports and activities where he doesn’t actually have to TOUCH other kids (we’ll save that for another post). So, respecting his uniqueness, I didn’t push the issue.

However, when my second child, Patrick, expressed an interest in soccer at age 4, I leapt at the request. We ran right out to Big 5 and purchased just the right pair of shin guards (cool shiny silver, long enough to protect the entire shin, light enough not to weigh him down and impede his speed). He needed cleats, nylon shorts, and, of course a new water bottle. As I checked out with our purchases, I daydreamed of my little Pele tearing up the field, dazzling everyone with his footwork. I’m actually thinking, “Maybe the coach will have to limit his playing time to give the other kids a chance to score.”

The Saturday of his first game is, without a doubt, a day I will never forget for as long as I live. If you’ve been to a 4 year-old’s soccer game before, bear with me here. For those of you who haven’t, it’s quite similar to watching a group of gnats flying around a room. You rarely get to see the actual soccer ball during the game. Four players play at a time for each team, so you spend the game watching 8 sets of legs kicking and scrambling for the ball. Dirt and dust flies everywhere. And occasionally (most often by pure accident) the ball ends up in the net.

I watched as my Patrick was put in the game. He started off just chasing the kids around the field. “Okay, he’s just warming up,” I thought.  I waited for my little scoring machine to attack. Low and behold, he just continued to run after the group of kids, seemingly oblivious to the soccer ball on the field. 

At one point, the ball broke away from the group and started rolling right to my boy. Here we go!! But Patrick actually BACKED AWAY from the ball and let a little girl from the other team have it. What could I do? Only what any other ex-soccer playing mom would do…I started yelling. “GET THE BALL, PATRICK! GO AFTER IT! KICK IT TOWARDS THE GOAL!! NO, THE OTHER WAY!! Well, you get the idea.

All of a sudden, my son completely stopped running. He slowly and deliberately walked across the field until he stood right in front of me. Then, my sweet little guy gazed up at me with his huge, saucer, ocean-blue eyes and calmly asks, “Mom, why are you yelling at me?” 

I stood there shocked and silent, jaw at my feet, coffee cup in hand. “I’m not yelling, I’m cheering for you!” I say in my most confident mommy voice. 

But my wise little man just continued to stare at me, his face so innocent, his heart so pure. I couldn’t fool this kid; we both knew what was happening. So, I crouched down to face him eye to eye and promised him that I wouldn’t yell or cheer or say anything else for the rest of the game. He smiled and resumed his pursuit of the other kids.

I’d like to say it’s never happened again, but with three kids now in different sports, I admit that I slip sometimes. I try to catch myself and remember that day on the soccer field with Patrick. It’s amazing how sometimes the littlest people in our lives have the greatest insight into our behavior as adults. It’s yet another bonus to this wonderful journey of motherhood.