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.

Chicken Cheeks

“Mom, you haven’t changed in ten years!” The words, which bubble out of him in a cascade of filial adoration, are punctuated by the slamming of a car door.

My oversized bag slides off my shoulder, catching in the crook of my elbow, as I juggle grocery sacks, my cellphone, an over-burdened key-ring, and supper. After much maneuvering, the key turns, and I push the door open with my knee.

“Oh, honey, of course I have.”

Loudly, I drop the bags to the table and drag my free hand through my hair.

“You just don’t notice because you see me every day.”

He molests the bags in search of chicken while two pairs of canine eyes study him, lending support. He withdraws the box he’d been seeking, and wisely places his body between it and the closest dog.

“Go on, Chevy…”, he murmurs to the most aggressive of the two.

Moving to the cabinet, he chooses a plate as I shelve the groceries.

“Ok to use a washable plate?” I like his description.

“Sure, honey.” My voice echoes off rows of cardboard, aluminum, and glass.

As I emerge from the pantry, he looks up from his dinner and finishes chewing, in a hurry to offer his insight.

“Ok…” He swallows. “Maybe your cheeks…a little.”

“My cheeks?” My chuckle comes from behind the refrigerator door.

He swallows again before clearing his throat and blurts, “Well, not those cheeks!”

I smile into the vegetable crisper, knowing he has no idea that it really doesn’t matter which ones he meant.

Waxing Autumnal

When I was a child, every teacher, worth her salt, met the autumnal equinox with a tube of waxed paper in one hand, and an iron in the other. Our job, as students, was to provide the leaves. And not just any old leaves. Her directions soon turned the project into a competition of size, color, and shape.

Soon, stomping through the woods became a yearly ritual with me; one that I continued after my children were born when teachers, and students alike, had long since traded their irons in for much less interactive forms of artistic endeavor.

My children looked forward to our forays into the forest, and the competition grew quickly between them in the search for the perfect autumn leaf. Of course, we returned home with buckets of them. After giving the directive to choose just one, I went in search of waxed paper.

I watched the care they took in placing the chosen leaf in the center of the paper I provided; the gnawed lips, and the quiet eyes. I remembered the way that felt, and the ensuing anticipation of the finished product. And, as I approached their careful handiwork with the steaming iron, their grimaces, which gradually melted into eyes of shining wonder. Of course, months later when cold winds had removed the remaining leaves from every tree, I would find the once-treasured remnant of autumn under a cabinet or protruding from a slightly askew dresser drawer, and I collected them, placing them with mine, now decades old, in a box they will open when deciding what to keep, and what to throw away.

As I drove around this weekend, I was struck by the magnificent colors in the trees near my home. The reds seem deeper, the oranges fiery. And it occurred to me that this seasonal display offers more than beauty, it offers comfort, as well. Because, year after year, no matter what other changes may come in our lives, this one thing remains constant; as autumn winds bring in cooler, brighter air, the leaves on the trees of our landscape react, on cue, to put on a show we look forward to, no matter how many times we’ve seen it. And, each year, in a stand of human resilience and hope, we firmly state this season’s show was the best, yet!

Lessons Learned…

I never had much use for homework. Fortunately, I was able to soak up enough information in class, that my lack of ambition only tripped me up occasionally. I did have to take Algebra I twice, and Geometry was much more interesting the second time around. You will notice a pattern…

My parents never queried me on my work habits, preferring, instead, to remain oblivious as to how the grades were accomplished. All of my book reports, and class projects, were completed without their assistance, or comment. Our job, as children, was to attend school and make the grades. Theirs was to write checks and take a turn in the carpool line.

Much to my chagrin, things had changed by the time I had children.

My second child has a mild learning disability which affects reading comprehension. He is also male. This is a formula for disaster.

We were fortunate to find a tutor who was using her experience as fodder for her thesis, and thus worked gratis. Every morning, an hour before school started, our footsteps echoed against industrial tiles and concrete walls as we stumbled in. And, every evening, after the dinner dishes were done, he would pick up his flash cards as I laced up my sneakers, and we would walk. I never thought to measure the actual distance, but I know we logged many miles, walking in circles around our block, as he called out the answers while burning off his “boy” energy. As we tired, we turned, in tandem, into our drive and slumped into a wooden swing strung between two sturdy oaks. As I reclined against the arm-rest, he pumped his legs in time to his responses. This is how we made it through phonics, and the second grade.

Fast forward, over a decade. I have moved my family from a sleepy country town to a burgeoning, metropolitan suburb in hopes for the very best in opportunities, and education, for my youngest son. The curriculum is demanding, and those long, circular walks now seem like a walk in the park.

In first grade, at the age of five, he was directed to construct a musical instrument. I pored over online documents in search of the simplest example, in hopes of carrying on my parents’ tradition of limited participation. I finally settled on a percussion instrument of Native American heritage, which required hours of winding yarn around 2 sticks discarded by the towering pines in our backyard. My son wound for about 30 minutes before restlessness overcame him, and his pudgy, 5 year-old hands could do no more. The rest was up to me. The result was a haphazardly wrapped trapezoid which, when rubbed between 2 hands, made an occasional clicking sound.

Dressed in my suburban mother costume, I placed the carefully constructed, delicately woven, instrument in the bottom of a large box for safe-keeping, before sitting it in the backseat of the car. The special care we had taken with his hair, forced my son to hold his neck straight, arched, and away from the back of the seat, in hopes that it would remain in place. We were on our way to the presentation of the instruments.

Reluctantly handing him the box, we parted as he made his way, through a throng of students, to his classroom, and I turned towards the cafeteria, and the display area. As I walked among the tables, my heart skipped a beat as I realized my mistake. With one manicured hand placed over my mouth, I read the history of the mandolin before inspecting the carefully carved wood for juvenile imperfections. There were none.

At the next display, I tested the tautness of animal skins stretched across wooden tom-toms, and found no failing.

The next velvet draped table, featured eight, expensively etched, crystal glasses holding carefully measured amounts of variously colored liquid. A silver-handled, rubber mallet rested, luxuriantly, next to each one. Display boards, featuring computer generated graphics, blocked my view of the next table.

So…you wanna play hardball….

By fourth grade, I had adopted a new strategy. When the teacher assigned a report on The Revolutionary War, in which the student was to dress the part, I eagerly anticipated our role assignment. Thanks to Ebay, my son channeled Samuel Adams resplendently dressed in period costume, complete with powdered wig. As he traversed the hallways, no teacher was immune to his charm. It didn’t matter that he left out most of a paragraph of his report, as he stumbled over his presentation in true nine-year-old form. He dressed the part, and for that, he garnered a large, red, “A”.

Our next assignment was a scientific experiment involving, of all things, earthworms. Harking back to my upbringing, I sent my ten-year-old outside into the gardens with a shovel and pail. Southern drought had apparently chased the slimy creatures further underground, forcing my use of a larger shovel. We were expected to test ten. We settled for eight.

Camera at the ready, I set up shots of my son among carefully placed worms, rich, brown dirt, and apple pieces.

After all of the data was collected, my son watched as I arranged photographs amongst cleverly engineered graphics on a display board. I would settle for nothing less than another “A”!

Fast forward, again, to today. I am sitting in rush-hour traffic, which due to our herculean, hurricane-contrived gas shortage, is decidedly lighter than it was one month ago, and my cell-phone rings.

“Mom?”

“Yes, honey?”

“I’m working on mean, median, and mode. I added the numbers and divided, but what do I do with the remainder?”

Silence.

“I called this kid I know, who’s in honor’s math, and he said I should make the remainder a fraction. Is that what I do, Mom? Is that right?”

Continued silence.

“Mom?”

“Yes?”

I can still see her face, curtained by God-given, red hair. Tall, and pale, she stood before the class and gestured her freckled arm towards the gibberish she scrawled across the chalkboard.

I probably should have paid more attention…

Has It Started Already?!

He calls me every morning at exactly the same time…

At 8:10, my cell-phone rings, and my 11 year old talks for ten minutes.

Without a breath.

“Hey, Mom, I locked the door. I have my homework. I ate my breakfast. The bus will be here in ten minutes. I wonder what we’ll have for lunch. I hate my social studies teacher. Football practice was awesome! You know how I told you about that kid, T. J.? Well, this is what I did last night….”

This makes me tired.

By now, I have walked to the front lobby of our building in order to ensure that my cell phone coverage will not be interrupted.

“Coach put the linemen in the backfield, just ‘cause we did such an awesome job on Saturday. He said he wanted to give us “a little love”. So, I’m standing back there, and Josh is about ten feet away, and Troy sails one….”

My head is in my hands, and I am breathing….

Listening and breathing….

“And, anyway, I think I got a good grade on my science test. I really feel pretty good about it. Oh,” Hey kitty”. My kitty’s here. Remember I told you about that kitty that sits with me until the bus comes? Well, she’s here. Wait….I’m gonna take a picture.”

Click.

I return to my desk and stand for several minutes in an effort to re-orient myself. The office phone rings several times, I put out several fires, and push back my chair, on my way to the water-cooler.

As I leave my office, I hear the ring that tells me I have a message.

The cat is long-haired, and calico, and though she apparently lives in my neighborhood and has a particular affinity for my son, I have never laid eyes on her before.

I show the picture to the resident cat-lover in our office whose 84 year-old eyes can’t quite make out the image. As I struggle to point it out, the phone in my hand rings, again.

“Ok, so it’s pretty cold out here, Mom. And, you know, there’s like no one else out here, so I just like put my hands in my pants. I mean, my hands were really cold and no one else could see. So I put them in there and they got warm, and so I took them out, and at the end of one of my hands was like this really LONG hair. And, I’m like “Oh, my God! Has it started already?” I mean this isn’t supposed to start now is it?”

The effort required to control my laughter silences me.

And, now, much softer, and much more insistent,

“Is it?”

Softly, persistant laughter infuses my voice as I assure us both.

“No, It’s ok. You’re ok.”

And, we are.

And, His Name Is Palmer…

He has played football with this group of boys for, at least 3 years, already. And still, no one knows his name.

He is slight, pale, and thin. My son, who shares a huddle with him, has never heard him speak.

Midway through our first game, and carrying a comfortable lead, the boys huddled up in preparation for another drive. The huddle broke, as Moms stood and strained to find the numbered jersey they had taken from the washing machine the night before. Several seconds passed before the ball sailed through the air, forcing every pair of feminine eyes away from the backs of their progeny, and onto the arc of brown leather. The catch was made, “the crowd went wild”, and a quarterback was born.

Now, three games into an eight game season, the situation is vastly different. The Panthers are trailing an unworthy opponent, and the starting quarterback is carrying a decided limp. Enter our nameless, faceless, voiceless hero.

I watch as this child, easily fifteen pounds lighter than most of the boys he is challenging, stands; steady, strong, and brave. He takes the snap and dances backwards, awkwardly, in a valiant imitation of a poster on his bedroom wall. His rail-thin arm raises, and he flings the leather in full knowledge he will be hit by a force much bigger, much faster, and much more athletic than he can ever hope to be. And he does so, without a flinch, without complaint; standing tall.

Seven times in a row, the play is repeated. Seven times he huddles with boys who won’t know him in school, come Monday. Seven times, they break and he takes his place in the hot seat. He takes seven snaps, and hurls the ball into the air seven times. And, seven times, the receiver fails to make a catch.

Every time the huddle breaks, I watch his thin, spandex covered body assume the position, and my fists clench in hope. This will be the time! This time he will catch it! And every time the ball hits the ground, or another child’s helmet, or a referee’s hands, I flinch, knowing we have to go back in…

And, soon, as the ball leaves his thin, pale fingers, I find myself unable to follow the trajectory, and, instead, seek to find the one who will deliver the blow. And, as I see the crash about to take place, my hand covers my mouth, and my eyes narrow as I hold my breath in sympathy.

This boy is not my child. But, he is someone’s child. And he is brave, and valiant, and unexpected.

After the seventh throw, the ball has bounced off the turf into a waiting referee’s hands. Mercilessly repeated disappointment has silenced the crowd, and it happens before I know to stop it.

“DO WE HAVE A PLAN “B”?” I yell bravely, valiantly, unexpectedly, and, loudly.

Sunday Best

“So, are you cooking dinner Sunday night?”

The question was random, at best.

“Uh…no. It doesn’t make much sense to do that for just the two of us. I stopped doing that a long time ago, just about the same time you stopped eating it…”

The expected, angled for, and, yet, still uncomfortable silence fell.

“What if I said I would be there? Would you cook dinner?”

It was a tradition I had insisted upon. One of the few. A Sunday night dinner, during which every family member actually sat in a chair at the dinner table until everyone had finished eating.

Good music played, softly, and all manner of utensils were in attendance, from salad forks, to dessert spoons. It was to be served family style, and southern, from it’s menu to the cadence in the conversation.

And, conversation was key. It was a time to catch up on the week and set the tone for the week to come; a bonding time, a loving time, one on one time, with no distractions.

Several different answers compete in my head, ranging from the acidly sarcastic, “Well, why didn’t you SAY so! Of course, I’ll slave over a hot stove for hours, as long as YOU are there.”, to, “Well, I don’t know, I kinda had plans…”, to what eventually stammered from my mouth on a wave of trepidation, “Ok”.

I seasoned the chops, and moved about the kitchen in time to personally chosen music piped in through the tiny speakers in my ears. I peeled potatoes, before chopping them into boiling water, and I searched my pantry for a known favorite; crowder peas.

As the song ended, I realized the telephone was ringing, and danced across stone tiles to answer it.

“Hey, whatcha’ doin’”, my oldest son always insists on knowing what I am doing before stating the purpose of his call.

“Cooking dinner, you?”

“Cooking…I’m frying chicken. I was wondering….do you dunk in the egg first, and then the flour, or the other way around?” Cooking questions are not unusual. All my boys cook. I insisted upon it.

“Wow! You are brave!” I said. “I don’t even fry chicken. Well, I will, after I’ve beaten it to a pulp, so that it’s flat, and I’m sure the inside will cook. And, of course, I spice it up and add a little parmesan. I’ve got that recipe. You want it?”

“No. I’ve got skinless breasts.” We paused to consider his statement. “Why don’t you fry chicken?”

“Because, I never get the inside done. And, besides, you can get good fried chicken most anywhere. It’s just easier to buy it…”

“Oh.”, he paused. “Well, Heather will be home in about an hour, and I have to have supper on the table. What if I cut them in half?”

A picture of my beautiful son, wrapped in an imaginary apron, filled my head. His face shone, like the sun, as his beautiful Native American girlfriend entered the house after a long day of crunching numbers.

And, I felt pride.

I felt success.

I felt that something I had insisted upon, mattered.

Years of Sunday dinners had left my son with an obligation to provide. And, as his love labored, he stayed behind and created an environment of caring and nourishment, with no thoughts to traditional roles, or pride, or selfishness.

Somewhere, there was a football game on television, but my son had shut off his TV, to strap on an apron and carry on a tradition of bonding and loving.

“Dunk once in the flour, then in the egg, and then, again, in the flour.” I said through my smile. “And don’t forget the salt and pepper!”