Between catching my breath, letting my prayers go and shoving my hopes heavenward these last two months, I’m surprised I a. haven’t passed out, b. have hopes left and c. haven’t lost my grip on reality beyond all expectation of repair.
I've unclenched my fists a little, enough to allow the hint of a breeze and the tickle of desire to sneak in and play. My heart has been hammered as well, grief and gratitude tangled up together, seeping into the lonely, thirsty corners and giving direction to my decisions. It’s been a terrible, incredible month.
I've unclenched my fists a little, enough to allow the hint of a breeze and the tickle of desire to sneak in and play. My heart has been hammered as well, grief and gratitude tangled up together, seeping into the lonely, thirsty corners and giving direction to my decisions. It’s been a terrible, incredible month.
A significant push from the beginning was reading my friend Jessika's text. Jessika and I had a quick flurry of texts one day in February about the fact that I need to come hold her twin babies before they are off to kindergarten! I told her I had school on Wednesday and work on Thursday, and in writing that I could come Friday. I didn't go that day and have felt badly. She knows how busy I am with parenting, working and going to school and I certainly wasn't expecting any texts last Friday. I knew that Jessika would be sensitively aware of all the painful wounds that I carry being a divorcé and I told her that I was waiting until I bought something to bring for her two beautiful babies. As it was, her text touched me deeply.
"That is crazy!!!! I don't need anything except your friendship and beautiful spirit. B, you are a single mom going to school. Please just be in my life. I miss you!"
Truth told, it didn't touch me but rubbed the stubborn, stony edges of my heart against something softer, and knocked some callouses and doubts from my eyes.
Because lately I've been worrying (okay, I’m pretty much always worrying) because I’m not doing any of the big things I see other dad's do for their sons – the camps away, the fishing trips, the coaching in sports or mowing of lawns – and am, therefore and obviously (at least according to the bitter pill I sometimes swallow in buckets), failing my boys. Yet again. But it was in reading the text of Jessika which made me stop and think about what the boys have recently seen me do. They are tiny, practically insignificant moments, at least on first consideration.
Sunday afternoon of my first hour home after work, Morg flew inside saying “But if you're off work, Mom,” (no hi, no how are you, nothing but this sentence, as soon as he belted through the door after his work) “you’re not too tired to move my bedroom downstairs, are you? So how are we going to move my bed? I bought a big screen tv with my tax return, so I can have it in my room and, you know, play Xbox!” My chest ached like I’d been double punched the night before, and I couldn't quite smile or cry. Because Morg was planning forward of his accord, working out how to be independent, how to get what he wants and not have to share a room with Max instead. My eleven year old son, Markus wasn't thinking about school or friends or what holds the moon up, but why Morgen couldn't stop to help support his family, because “Morgen just ruined the nice room we had downstairs, and the chalkboard wall you just painted, Mom.” Learning that lesson from what I've done, and to see it reflected back to me – that’s an example of being a parent all the way to the final outcome, right there.
Then the next night, Max told me that he wants to keep playing hockey. "Baseball is boring" – he’s already thinking about it, wanting to play with his friends, to make a team. His life is laid out before him, and he loves it all. “I think all the teams are good, Mom, but I’m not thinking of trying out for the one in Colorado anymore. I’ll do that when I get better and stronger.” School, hockey, growing, friends, family, and gospel – it’s as unarguable and obvious to him as his brown eyes. But I can’t take credit for it.
Then, about a month ago, my heart was ambushed at the boys hockey team's last tournament of the season. Twenty-seven boys played (not all of them, due to Spring break) and two of those skating youth were my boys. I went to the Park City rink, and it literally rocked me to my toes – I was at the last tournament of the season and so were my boys. We were there, inside, shooting and sniping and celebrating, all at the same time. We hadn’t been at a tournament together all season. Two teams. Eagles for Max. Sharks for Markus, the coach had asked him from seeing him play, he and 12 other players from all the other teams in the state to form an evolution hockey team coached by Metcalf. They had four practices and two scrimmage games before playing in the tourney of four games over three days against teams from Wyoming, Colorado, Montana and Utah.
When BOTH of their teams won the championship I tried to shrug the occasion off with a casual “Wow, that’s wonderful, B, now focus!” but couldn't. Especially when Markus' coach Greg, sent me this text: "It's a great weekend to be one of your boys." I felt warmth and celebration surround my shoulders and carry my heart above my head. No, I felt, toes curling amazed against the concrete, it is AMAZING. It is WONDROUS. It is worth making a deal about! YOU have done this, gotten your boys here, through everything. It could have gone so many ways, but you are here, and so is Max, and so is Markus and THAT is worth celebrating. I cried, right there in the bleachers, my heart getting an incredibly gentle wash and tumble in the grace and mercy of life.
Maxi and Marko tumbled from the rink doors into my arms that night, and joked and called each other benders and laughed all the way home. We stopped for ice cream from Cold Stone, and they both thanked me repeatedly (mouths full, hearts grateful) both for the treat and for letting them play hockey. In the chomping half-silence as we continued on home, it became clearer and more wondrous. They are watching and learning from me, in ways I haven’t even considered. I remember when I had to prompt them “Say thank you?” as babies. Think about everything they've had to learn to this point to say thank you for sweet ice cream, B, let alone for playing hockey, to process and choose to do it of their own choice. They’re watching, and they love you. You’re doing alright!
So I won’t take any credit for my sons being themselves, but I will take some of the credit for helping them get to where they are. Because being a parent, like being a coach, is incredibly hard work, particularly if you’re trying to do a halfway decent job of it. And having acknowledgement or encouragement or even a crumb of commendation is a welcome and deserved trophy; usually tossed into the furnace to feed the next effort, but a glowing source of heat and comfort nonetheless. Even – actually, ESPECIALLY - if that trophy is from and for yourself.
