Awkward Mom vs. Sports Moms

Children propel parenthood. It's the natural order of things. You think parenthood is one big push of the children out of the nest, but, in fact, the children push you first; back you up, bit by bit, until you have a decent running start and a view of where they are trying to go. This slow backing up is just part of that important parenting lesson that even though this small human looks like you and talks like you and walks like you, he or she is not, in fact, you, but a complete and independent person who just isn't going to fit in your nest someday. Now, your basement nest, I suppose that is a different story and a tale for another time.

No, today, we are talking about autonomy-shoves. And these pushes are usually gradual steady slides that I wouldn't say you are ready for but they don't typically come out of nowhere. Super Oldest pushed me into the world of Dance Moms; I didn't love it, never have figured out those pesky false eyelashes, but I have a theater degree and a love of drama, so it wasn't a far leap. Super 1st Grader pushed me into saying, with alarming regularity, "Oh, don't sit there, Super 1st Grader's invisible spider likes that chair best." But, again, this wasn't too far from my own defiantly imaginative home base, louder perhaps, but familiar.

But, Super Kindergartener. Oh, Super Kindergartener. Well, you see, Super K. is her own fireball, always has been. That child entered the world like a tornado and really hasn't slowed down in 6 years of being here. So, I suppose it stands to reason that her pushing wouldn't be gentle or gradual. No, Super K. decided to shove me off a cliff into the world of Sports Moms, and I'm pretty sure I'm still falling.

You're killing me, Smalls! 

I am not competitive or coordinated. I usually lose at Monopoly because I've given all my money away so we can all keep playing, and even I know that socialist-monopoly is a pretty bizarre winning strategy; much more of a jigsaw puzzle kind of girl. And then, of course, there is my ability to trip on mere air. I mean, my name is Awkward Mom, you do the math. Point is, Sports and I have never been allies. I wouldn't call him a villain, I enjoy his Olympic events and the occasional baseball game hot dog and watching all the hotties in the World Cup, but Sports and I aren't exactly buddies. I've got no major problems with him, but sometimes his followers are hard to take. (Restrains self from launching into a tangent on organized religion)

Sports fan are wild and loud and I wouldn't want to be stuck in an elevator with them, but for the most part they are good natured people who get really excited about penalty arcs or encroachment, no different than your average comic book fan. For comics and sports, the panels and spread are all still there, there's just usually more sunlight involved in the latter. Anywho, like I said, I'm cool with Sports and I'm at peace with most of his followers, so where does the reluctance come in? Well, where it always comes in; looking foolish in front of my peers. And there aren't any peers more intimidating than Sports Moms.

You've met them; these masters of the mini-van, these behemoths of the ball field. Leaders in lululomon and north face vests, who always seem to have an unlimited supply of orange slices and energy. Valkyries who stalk the sidelines, too powerful to sit in the tricked-out camp chairs they set up by the dugout. You've met a Sports Mom. She's always early and somehow her son's hockey stuff is always clean. She knows the schedule and the score without having to ask the coach. She is completely aware of your child's strengths, weaknesses, and season record, and you still aren't quite sure if her daughter is Evelyn or Avery or Eva. Sports Moms are amazing, self-assured, strong, beautiful women who know how to inspire a herd of 8-year-olds, while making reservations for next month's tournament on their phone, and weaving coordinating ribbons into pigtails, while assessing the other team's goalie's covering angles, and keeping an eye on 3 siblings at the nearby park. Basically, they are terrifying.

Especially if your pale self happens to be used to life in the wings, this dazzling display of athletic fireworks can knock you for a loop. And it did. At Super K.'s first softball game, I wanted to run right back to the wings and hide, and I would have, if we were talking about 6-year-old Awkward Mom. But we aren't. We are talking about 6-year-old Super Kindergartener, and her autonomy looks nothing like the cool dark library mine lives in. No, hers lives in the blaring sun of a diamond. Super K. has needs that I don't understand; a need to win, a need to run, a need to chant rude things at the pitcher. I could deny it. I could easily shoehorn her into my dreams for her. I mean, she doesn't look like an athlete, with her tiny frame and little flapper bob and hands still with baby dimples. It would be easy to pass her off as anything else. She's got it all really, she could function in any world. And yet, it's there and it won't be denied. Not really denied. Maybe delayed but never denied. It's there in her eyes. A fierce focus that will not be cooed or rationalized away.

It's always been there.

I don't understand it, but I respect it. Her need to be herself will be respected, I swear it. But Sports Moms? Why did it have to be Sports Moms? I have nothing in common with them, and lord knows what they are going to make of me. I can't do this. I don't want to freeze in April and burn in June. I don't want to fend off bugs and uncharitable thoughts about umpires. I don't want to prep water bottles and clean helmets and have every pair of shoes I own covered in dirt. I don't want to sit here in this comfortable chair in the shade and shout "Hustle!" at sweating 8-year-olds wearing face masks and baseball pants; I'll choke on the hypocrisy. I can't hang with Sports Moms, they are too strong and tall and knowledgeable and confident and tan. I just can't.

But I will. 

For her. 

I'll do it for her. I'll back up for her. I'll back all the way up and tetter on the edge of my nest, windmilling my arms to try not to fall, if that's what it takes to help her grow her autonomy. If that's what I have to do to get her where she is going. If that's what she need to be herself, then OK, let's sports-mom. Let's sports-mom all that way to ribbon ponytails and powerade.

Because that's parenthood, isn't it? Stretching further than you've ever thought possible, sometimes literally, just because your baby asked you to. Propelling forward on nothing but faith and the needs of your child. You can't see the other side, but you know they need to get there, so you go. You say a prayer and you jump off the cliff. Maybe you try to remember the sunscreen but you still go. You swallow your fear and you chat with the impossibly fit woman next to you about batting averages and the cut-off man. Maybe it will never feel totally comfortable and maybe it will never truly be your home, but that's OK; this isn't about you.

It's about her.