And, That’s When I Saw The Duck

It was just a regular Thursday morning…

I go in late on Thursdays. My schedule was changed a couple of years ago to accommodate customers in other time zones. Personally, I felt those customers could have used the same method they use when planning to watch a program on television. For example, if an Alabamian hopes to catch an episode of “House” advertised to air at eight, eastern, she knows to pick out her spot on the couch no later than 6:58. They are used to it. They’ve always done it. My bosses weren’t having it.

Actually, I enjoy the extra time at home in the morning. I get to see my son and we can have a conversation that doesn’t necessarily include grunts. I can water my garden and/or pick flowers to take to the office. I’ve even been known to start a load of laundry. The real advantage, though, is that I can take my son to school.

School ended for most kids almost two weeks ago. But Shane plays football and, in this town, football players are expected to take summer courses in order to free up time in their fall schedule for weight-lifting, film-watching, and any other activity the coach might deem necessary to win the next game. Of course, all of this comes under the heading “PE” so as not to violate any Board of Education mandates. But I digress…

After throwing seed at the chickens and shutting off the sprinkler, I climbed into the driver’s seat beside Shane who always sits in the car for at least ten minutes before anyone else is ready. Two of his teammates waited in a driveway around the corner, soon filling my backseat to capacity, and the shrunken airspace with just a hint of man/boy funk.

The drive to school was short and quiet, as a local DJ hinted at lascivious content after the next commercial break. The backseat boys exchanged nervous glances.

Banter began as we took our place on line in front of the designated drop-off point. As we inched forward, the boys in the back opened their doors while Shane slid in for a good-bye kiss that could be my last. Every one could be my last. I know this; the preciousness of what I have left. I was also acutely aware of the amount of testosterone sliding out of my backseat. I turned my head, offering my cheek.

Summer should mean lighter traffic. For some reason, that hasn’t happened this year. So far, the lights are just as long, the lanes are just as clogged, and drivers in tiny cars with loud mufflers are just as annoying.

My commute takes me through several very large intersections which, when combined, include fourteen lanes of traffic. I glided to a stop at one of them while considering whether or not to listen to a CD rather than my beloved “Fresh Air” on NPR. The topic was electric cars and the batteries that propel them…snore…

And, that’s when I saw the duck.

She was small, smaller than the ducks I visit at our local park, and brown; mottled brown and white that would turn beige in a squint. Five look-a-like ducklings waddled, in military-like precision, behind her.

ACROSS SIX LANES OF MORNING COMMUTE TRAFFIC!!!

One hand grabbed the door handle, while the other found the console.

My mind raced.

How had she managed the first five lanes?

How would she manage the last? The turn-lane to my right always moved with a steady flow of traffic.

I considered getting out, but didn’t want to frighten her. She’d done such a good job, so far…

All I could do was wait; wait and worry, worry and wait, while white-knuckling my car’s interior.

Sweat beaded along my hairline as I eyed the rearview mirror. Nervous, I shifted my eyes to the passenger-side mirror, while wondering what I might do if a car appeared there. “They’d never see her.”, I thought. “She’s so small.”

The driver of the car to my left tapped her horn as though to hurry her along. I bounced in my seat in an effort at moral support.

I watched Mother Duck gain the curb, before checking the mirrors again. “Hurry!!!” (It was a silent scream.) Like molasses, the ducklings flowed over the curb behind her. She poked her billed into the underbrush several times before choosing a path and, in agonizing fashion, they were gone.

In a gush, I exhaled the breath I’d sucked in upon seeing the duck. Tears came to my eyes, and I wondered how she’d known. What force told her it was time? Whose hand held traffic at bay?

Who said there’s no such thing as miracles?

Frayed Strings

No one loves their children more than I do. My youngest is thirteen now, which only goes to prove that all the minutes I spent wishing he could be my baby forever were for naught. But I knew that…

To my credit, I’ve turned those mournful minutes into reasons to be grateful. When he recounts an exchange with another student in school, I pay attention. The day will come when sharing won’t be so easy. When he calls “Mom”, as I walk past his darkened room, I stop and listen before reminding him, again, to go to sleep. When he allows me to take his hand as we walk, I feel it as I hold it. And, when he wraps his arms around my waist, and rests his head against my chest I thank God for the blessing. Every little boy hug, every little boy kiss, could be the last.

He turned thirteen last week, three days before school let out for summer.

“Do you want a party? You could invite your friends from school, the guys from your baseball team, and some of your football friends. We could go to the park. You guys could play baseball, and we could cook-out.”

Shane sat silent, looking through the window to the backyard. Movement in his eyes told me he was considering the offer. He’d attended several birthday parties this year.

Valerie invited him to his first boy/girl, night-time party. There was dancing, which led to sweating, which provoked Shane to stealthily comb the health and beauty aids aisle during our next visit to the grocery store.

Chelsea’s mother went one better and rented a pool-side clubhouse. As we pulled up, the outer walls of the building seemed to vibrate in time with the disco ball sparkling through an upper-floor window. Expecting hesitation from Shane, I turned in my seat to offer words of encouragement from someone who has personally experienced countless disco balls. The backseat was empty, the car door slammed, and by the time I turned around Shane had mounted the walk towards the door without so much as a wave good-bye.

A pattern began to develop, and I saw my mistake.

“Oh…I just realized all the parties you’ve gone to this year were given by girls. Boys your age don’t have birthday parties, do they?”

Relief colored his face.

“Not really…”, he smiled, lowering his head.

“Ok! So what do you want to do? We could go out to dinner. Your choice! Or we could go to the movies. You could take a friend….You tell me. What do you want to do?”

“I want to spend the weekend with Josh.”

Josh is his oldest brother. He married just before Shane’s birthday. He and his wife live in a rural area seventy-five miles away.

Shane left on Friday.

Friday night I had dinner out, and for the first time in a long time, no one offered me a children’s menu. My companion and I enjoyed uninterrupted adult conversation. And when we left, there were no tell-tale crumbs beneath our table.

Saturday I slept in, and woke to a quiet house. I never realized how much noise is generated by the simple act of breathing until mine was the only breath drawn. I took my coffee to the patio and never felt compelled to grab at the table beside my chair in hopes of steadying it. Birdsong fell on my ears without accompaniment. No one asked me any questions.

I spent the rest of the day doing as I pleased. I shopped without uttering the word “no”. I turned my Ipod up as I gardened, never giving a thought to what might be going on inside the house. I gutted the playroom, and in so doing generated quite a pile for the next charity pick-up. He hasn’t touched those toys in years…

I organized his dresser, and added several threadbare t-shirts to the aforementioned pile. The one with the hole in the collar has bothered me for months.

I baked cookies for the neighbors and no one whined, “You always make the good stuff for other people!” I watched tennis on TV without giving advance warning of an imminent takeover of the den. Music wafted from speakers mounted beneath the eaves as we grilled on the patio and no one asked me sardonically, “Why don’t you like rock music anymore?”

As I turned out the lights above the mantle and closed the sunroom door against the night I thought, “So this is what it will be like when he is gone. I can do this…”

The phone rang and I jumped to answer it.

“Hello?!”, I never gave a thought to sounding casual.

“Hey, Mom.”

Those two words began tales of Clydesdale horses, front flips from diving boards, and a dog Shane loved enough to bring home.

“I’m glad you’re having a good time.”

“Ok, Mom. Gotta go.” Male voices parried in the background. I understood the distraction.

“Ok…” Silence in the line told me he had hung up already.

For the first time in thirteen years Shane hung up without saying “I love you.”

But he does…

The Other Side of the Bleachers

My son started playing football at six years old, and after just a few weeks of practice his Dad, Roger, and I were hooked. Fortunately for us, Shane liked it too, and football became a family affair.

This past August marked the beginning of our seventh season. After serving as Head Coach for two years, and assisting for a third, Roger opted for what he imagined to be a less hands-on position this year, by volunteering to act as Commissioner for the seventh and eighth grade teams. I had done my time early on, serving as Team Mom for three seasons before opting for an “early retirement”. The break was a welcome one, allowing for more time spent writing while the boys were playing in the dirt.

This year, two weeks into the new season, we found our team without a volunteer to act as Team Mom. There are a number of reasons why this is a liability, but to illustrate without belaboring the point, I’ll employ the image of launching a canoe without benefit of oars. And as large, brown boxes of brightly colored spandex were unloaded in my garage, I felt a touch of spray upon my face, and the familiar warmth of well-worn wood sliding into my reluctant hands.

Last night was Halloween, and I had governance of twenty-three boys, all dressed as football players. Our team made the first round of play-offs, appropriately ending a season of unprecedented rain-outs on what amounted to a mud-pit bracketed by goalposts. They made an impressive showing, losing by only two points to a team that had suffered just one loss through two seasons. Leaving the field wet, muddy, tired, and defeated, the boys were greeted by a rainbow of umbrellas held by wet-footed parents eager to retreat to the relative warmth of their vehicles while racking their brains for plausible arguments against trick-or-treating. Post-game speeches given by rain-soaked coaches were barely audible above drumming canopies and “shishing” rain gear. Cheerleaders held trays of soggy cupcakes, and clocks ticked inside every prepubescent head as the witching hour waned carrying the threat of unmanned Halloween costumes. Within minutes the boys collected a pillowcase, seeded with candy earlier in the week, and struck out, undaunted, in search of more mischief while soggy, preoccupied parents slogged through the mud behind them.

My official duties aren’t finished. I have gifts to order and a party to plan. There has been some talk of an All-Star tournament that will require my organizational skills. But as I eased into my office chair this morning, it was with the knowledge that the worst is over. Most of the mistakes that could be made have either been fixed or avoided entirely; and the boys had a good season, ending the year on a positive, if not winning, note. As I heaved a satisfied sigh into my coffee mug, my inbox blinked.

I clicked before I noticed the email was from “The Parent”. You know the one; the negative parent, the parent who can’t find the time to attend a game, but always finds time to complain about the outcome; the mother who, despite her absence, assures everyone within earshot that her son didn’t get his league-mandated allotment of playing time; the parent who prefers to spend her time critiquing the work of others rather than volunteering to help. An educated eye can spot this person at the beginning of the season. It’s all in the facial expression, the set of her mouth and the turn of her nose, as though she walks ensconced by a noxiously odoriferous cloud no one else seems to notice.

I read the note and decided, without hesitation, to ignore it. I mean, what can she do? Fire me? But her ingratitude did inspire me to put down some words of hard-earned wisdom, a kind of “Everything I Needed To Know I Learned In My First Year As Team Mom”, if you will. This is my swan-song. I’ve tossed my muddied shoes, and advise the next person filling them to invest in a good pair of galoshes. Were I asked to compose a handbook for parents of children playing recreational sports, it would be just this simple:

HANDBOOK FOR PARENTS OF CHILDREN PLAYING RECREATIONAL SPORTS by Stacye Carroll

1. Observe the adults who are working with, and for, your child with the knowledge that each of them is a volunteer. And remember that the amount of time you see them sacrificing is but a small part of the actual time spent.

2. You may assume that every volunteer working with your child does so with the best of intentions. They do not undergo rigorous background checks and mind-numbing training sessions with the purpose of undermining your child’s efforts.

3. No one enjoys asking another person for money, but quality sports programs require a large amount of funding. If your child has expressed an interest in playing youth sports, it is your responsibility to determine the costs involved and whether or not your family can afford to participate. This should be done prior to signing up.

4. Many programs mandate a specific minimum number of plays, per child. Coaches spend a considerable amount of time trying to satisfy this requirement regardless of your child’s ability. If you doubt this, please reread bullet point number two.

5. By the time your child has played a specific sport for a number of years, both you and he should be aware of his skill-set. Be reasonable about your child’s ability to play proficiently. Put another way, some children play sports with an eye towards competing on a higher level, while others play for fun. Be mindful as to which description fits your child, and allow him the freedom to be what he is, instead of what you would have him be.

6. Your athletic ability, or lack thereof, does not necessarily transfer, genetically, to your child. Please reread bullet point number five.

7. If you don’t have anything positive to say, keep your mouth shut. I borrowed this advice from my mother, and have found it serves me well in almost any situation, but is particularly effective when it comes to the emotions evoked by our love for our children. And, in case you missed it, the key word in that last sentence is “love”. Love your children, don’t brow beat them. They are truly doing the best they can do today, which isn’t necessarily as good as they did yesterday, and may be better than they will do tomorrow. Through it all, what they need from you, their parent, is love.

8. Go back and reread bullet points one and two again. If you still feel like your child isn’t being well-served, then it’s time to take a stand, as in stand up and volunteer. Your perspective will change, along with your viewpoint, as you view things from the other side of the bleachers.

Lessons of the Father

Don’t tell me…

when you decided popularity trumped principle.

I don’t want to know.

Don’t tell me…

that winning is the best lesson and his trophies do more than collect the dust of missed opportunities to grow.

I don’t believe you.

Don’t tell me…

that your motives are altruistic.

Look it up.

And, as excuses fill your mouth with the bile of garbled rationalizations,

don’t tell me.

Garden Party

My sister held a garden party last Sunday to celebrate the graduation of her 2 children who, though twins, only bear the usual family resemblance. She had invited nearly one hundred people and hoped frequently occurring spring showers would hold off long enough to accommodate the crowd her modest house would not.

Her landscape-architect husband keeps their backyard in immaculate condition at all times. For the party, they sat circular tables upon the lush green carpet of grass, at alternating intervals about the yard. One table offered a modicum of privacy, sat as it was just to the left of the deck. Several tables swept up the center of the yard, while others were placed next to irregularly shaped islands covered in cedar bark, from which an assortment of hydrangea, azalea, and rhododendron competed with hand-picked annuals to achieve an overall effect of floral serenity. My eye was immediately drawn to a weather-beaten antique planter, featuring flourishes covered in rusted paint chips. The urn, itself, was immense, and the spray of green spikes that sprung from the center made it appear even larger. A carefully selected assortment of summer flowers surrounded the spray and swooned down its rusty sides, as though the entire arrangement had been plucked from a centuries old English garden, and placed there just for this event.

My father suggested I choose a table, and I did so in deference to his “bum knee”. He had the left one replaced several years ago. The right one will have to wait until golf season is over.

As we sat, I watched my sister’s friends scurry about the yard offering platters, and pitchers, and beribboned packages of plastic cutlery. A social animal, my sister has never been without a bevy of devoted friends. While not particularly envious, I admire her on both counts and know that she never fails to return their favors.

As always, when present, my father held court at our table. He asked about family members who were not present. We discussed work, and praised the cuisine, until my nephew approached, sinking into an extra chair with an easy grace that belied his years. His hair was longer than when I’d last seen him. His shoulders were wider, his waist smaller, and his neck thickened by off-season weight-training. And, as I listened to him speak, I imagined his effect on his female classmates.

“I feel like I have to stop and talk to all these people.”, he confided, breathlessly.

“Well, you do!”, his grandfather encouraged.

As the conversation continued, my nephew became animated as he discussed the college he would be attending in the fall. His efforts on the football field earned him a full scholarship to a school that fosters athletics, while maintaining an emphasis on academics. He described the recruiter he’d been working with, who had recently accepted a coaching position in a larger, more prestigious program. He praised the facilities, and appreciated the diversity of his fellow recruits. I watched as he spoke with an easy confidence that gave way to self-deprecating laughter, and silently praised my sister and her husband for their part in his maturity. Too soon, he turned in his chair.

“I guess I’d better be making the rounds!”, he said, with a smile.

Soon after, my niece floated towards our table on a wave of purple, Grecian elegance. She was taller and thinner than she had been at Christmas, and her blunt-cut, long, blonde hair framed her mother’s face.

“Have you ever known anyone who just gets prettier every time you see her?”, my father asked no one in particular. “Well, she does!”

My niece blushed prettily around a wide smile, as we all agreed. Her voice was soft as she answered questions about her future from her spot behind my sister’s chair. Holding her future firmly in hand, she was hoping for an academic scholarship from the school of education. She didn’t stay long. She had other tables to visit.

As she walked away, my father resumed the earlier conversation in which he shared his secrets for longevity. As he spoke, I rose in search of the after-dinner coffee I knew he’d soon be calling for. I dodged a pair of the twin’s classmates I recognized from years of Friday nights spent watching my nephew play football. Heads down, hair hanging over burdened plates, they never saw me.

The kitchen was a busy place.

“Why are you bringing those in?”, my sister’s voice carried more than a hint of exasperation.

“It’s too good to spoil.”, her friend declared in a voice that brokered no argument, as she rested a tray filled with cupfuls of elegantly dolloped banana pudding on the countertop.

As my father sipped his coffee I surveyed my surroundings, and noticing others beginning to leave, took my cue. Finding Shane, I kissed my father, and hugged my sister while straightening my skirt. Mounting the stairs to the deck, with family in tow, I reached for my hostess’ neck.

“We’ve got to run.”

“Noooo…”, she wailed. “I haven’t had time to visit. Who knows when I’ll see you again?” Her voice was truly plaintive and, for a moment, I waffled. Slight pressure on the small of my back reminded me of other, more urgent, responsibilities.

“I’m sorry…I’m working…”, I answered, taking a step towards the door.

My sister wiped her hands, again, on the dish towel that doubled as a name-tag, reading “Hostess”. I moved in to kiss her on the cheek as she wiped me with her name-tag.

“I want that recipe.”, I said into her ear before we parted.

“The pudding?”, she pulled away, dish towel in tow, as her eyes darted to the right in anticipation of further leave-taking. “It has a secret ingredient.” This time her eyes sparkled as they are wont to do, and for a moment she was there.

I watched as she worked the towel with a haggard smile. Her face was different; tired but something more. I scanned the length of her for signs of weight loss. and decided it to be a plausible explanation. She talked, a mile a minute, about the party, her children, and their lives. And, then she laughed, as she always had; a loud laugh, long and raucous, a laugh that started from someplace deep and rolled to the surface with lots of noise, forcing her body forward. The noise of it infused her voice as she spoke.

“…I know! I sure hope I like him!”, and I realized she was speaking of her husband. That’s when it hit me. My sister was losing her babies. Eighteen years ago she’d given birth to more than children, she’d undertaken a vocation. And now, her job complete, her life yawned before her.

And, it’s not just my sister. I’m surrounded by people who are bidding their children “goodbye” with parties to celebrate their combined accomplishments. And this is where I would be, had I not made the decision to have another child at an age that put me in the unfortunately named category “elderly multigravida”. At a time when I should be sharing her loss, I am but an interested observer.

Some of my friends seem excited; poised on the edge of a new life, and eager to exercise the luxury of eating when they please, sleeping where they like, and living, in general, their own life. My sister, on the other hand, as she threads damp cotton, once again, between her worrying fingers, seems hesitant.

Birmingham is just a few hours away, and football is my favorite sport. Saturday afternoons are a busy time for me, but I’m sure I can find a few to share, as we let go.

Game Face

I loved those Saturday afternoons. Dad was asleep by half-time, but magically, some kind of internal clock woke him in time to watch the final play. His snores leant a softness to the crowd noise and announcers’ banter.

Later, I married an avid University of Alabama football fan. He hung flags, wore his special game-day shirt, and God help you if you were misguided enough to ask him a question while the ball was in play. While watching with him, I met and fell in love with the Florida Gators.

I graduated from a school whose founder chose as its mascot the White Owl. I believe this to be the reason they were denied the right to field a football team. So, with my back to the wall, I punted, and adopted a team. For the last ten years, the only occasion upon which I’ve missed a televised Florida game, found me sitting in the stands, watching my son play.

When Shane was about four, a complete stranger approached us at a local “Chili’s” as we waited to hear the tell-tale sizzling, announcing the approach of our fajitas.

“Is this boy playing football?”

Managing to speak despite a mouth gone slack, I answered, “He’s only four!”

“Oh! Well, he’s a big boy; got offensive lineman written all over him! See ya’ in two years!”

I don’t know if he was there, but we were. Three nights a week, I hurried home from work to dress my first-grader for football practice. It had never occurred to me, during all those years of coaxing nylons up my own leg, that the experience would benefit my son. Spandex is so unforgiving….

Shane trotted gamely onto the field, as I scanned the row of peopled, nylon-covered, folding chairs, unaware that the spot I chose would, for the next several months, be designated as “my spot”. Fortunately, I chose well. Aluminum fencing, separating us from the boys, served as an adequate footrest, and my neighbor was an interesting man who, at 50, had just reenrolled in school. I found him to be somewhat aloof at first, until he explained he had no hearing in his right ear. From that point on, I leaned in to talk to him, and realized he hadn’t really been ignoring me, after all.

Six year-olds in football helmets look like Atom Ant. They just do. And there is nothing more entertaining than watching twenty-five Atom Ants run (mostly into each other), and kick, and catch. Shane learned a lot that year, and the experience inspired his father. Roger has coached Shane’s teams, in one capacity or another, every year since.

The first year with Roger at the helm was abysmal, or as we have come to call it, “a learning experience”. The team won only one game. Fortunately, it was the last one, and the fervor experienced in that triumph encouraged the parents to give him another chance.

Year two brought in new talent, and we won every game, including the county championship. Riding this wave, we beefed it up for the boys in year three. A parent/policeman arranged for her co-workers/motorcycle-club-members to escort us to the county championship. A show of bravado like this is so much more effective when you actually win the game. Instead, we suffered our first loss in two years, and the boys learned a very valuable lesson. We cleaned it up a bit, but the moral went generally like this; “Don’t let your mouth write a check your ass can’t cash.”

Shane has played football for five years now. Besides the obvious physical aspects of the game, he has benefited in many other ways. Youth sports offer a social “in”, as it introduces boys to others in their peer group they might not otherwise have met. Most importantly, though, youth sports build confidence. And, it’s not just about winning games. The confidence boosters live in the small things; a successful block at practice, the ability to run three laps around the field in one-hundred degree weather without stopping to vomit and/or cry, and being part of a group relying upon one another to complete a task. Add to this, the vision of Mom in the stands sporting the team colors, holding a sign with your name and jersey number on it, and the possibilities for positive self-esteem are endless.

Five years ago, at the age of thirteen, my nephew expressed an interest in football. He had excelled in baseball and soccer, and his parents had hoped he would continue. Football came out of left field. My sister, Laura, was especially skeptical, mostly due to the violent nature of the sport.

For the last four years, Andrew has held the starting safety position on his high-school football team, and his parents have never missed one game. Three years ago, as I sat in my pajamas, enjoying a rare Friday night at home alone, Laura called to say Andrew was playing at a local high-school just minutes from my house. I reluctantly drew on some jeans, pulled a fleece over my pajama-top, and arrived just as the third quarter began. It was my sister’s turn to don the colors, wave the pom-poms, and cheer. Her husband, too, felt his creativity enhanced by his son’s show of athletic prowess. The hats he designed for us to wear at the Championship game were comically supportive, and the cooler he lugged into the stands, packed with assorted hot beverages and warm spicy muffins. Andrew’s team ended the year as State Champions, and I have missed few games since.

Despite our living about forty minutes apart, I don’t see my sister very often. Her son’s football games provided us with an opportunity to share a passion, to laugh, and to connect. I came to relish our time.

I learned the basics of the game from watching it on television, and the nuances by watching my son and nephew play. I learned what splits are, the difference between free- and strong-safety, and how to guess a penalty call by noticing where the pretty, yellow bean-bag is thrown. It is a bean-bag, you know; a bean-bag wrapped in yellow cloth. The only flags in football are those flapping at the edges of the field.

I love American football, and my various experiences with it have left me well-versed. My son and I watch games together, and when he gushes after a particularly gutsy play, I get it. The guys at the office, misguided Georgia Bulldogs all, include me in their pre-game and post-game discussions, and through this experience I have perfected the art of “talking smack”. Ok, I pretty much had that one down already. I just aim it in a different direction now.

As they have for the last four years, my son’s team made it to the semi-finals. This year we lost, but there’s always next year. Shane made a name for himself as the best center in his age group, and his kicking coach has offered to take him to Kicking Camp at Appalachian State this summer.

The Gators won a national championship this year, and I have a tee shirt to prove it. I wear it to work on the occasional “Casual Friday” just to see those Bulldogs bare their impotent teeth.

And my Steelers won the Super Bowl! You’re thinking, “She’s from Atlanta and she’s supporting the Steelers?” Two words: Troy Polamalu.

I may know the game, but I’m still just a girl…