Sit down, shut up, and make some Kool Aid

My oldest son is smart. He reads all the time. He is a kind child, and well liked. He just doesn't move very quickly.

On summer nights all the kids in the community go to the lot behind our building and play kickball. Sage always begs to go. I go too, and sit on the sidelines with a few other parents.

Sage stands in the outfield, looking at the sky, looking at bugs, examining his cuticles. "look alive Sage!!" I yell. My friend looks at me sideways. "what?" I say.

The ball heads his way. "get it!!" I scream. Sage covers his head and ducks in terror. I head out to the field. "Becca," says my friend, but I am on my way. "Hey," I tell him, that ball is super soft. No matter how hard it hits you won't get a bleed." "But it hurts," he says. My son who has endured painful medical procedures most of us would close our eyes for if we saw them on ER. The very soft ball. It hurts.

The kids are suggesting (nicely) that I clear the field. I go sit down next to my friend, who is trying not to roll his eyes.

Sage's team comes in and it is his turn to kick. Sage runs up, kicks the ball and starts jogging towards the plate, in slow motion. "RUN!!" I scream. He turns to look at me, and he is out.

He walks back slowly and sits by me. "Good try!" I say, and pat him on the back. He lays down in my lap and says, "I am DYING of thirst." "Wanna go home?" I ask. "No." he says, "I'll miss it." All this fun, I think. Sage's team heads back out.

"I never thought of you as a little league type parent," my friend says. "I am not," I say, insulted. "I just want him to have fun." "He is!' says friend. I am quiet. I know he is right. I just want Sage to be happy. I want him to participate. Get in there, not be scared.

Honestly, folks, I don't give a hamster butt if my kid does well in sports. I just don't want him to be scared to try. I am worried that I have ruined him with my terror that he would get hurt. "Careful" I call as he walks down the hallway. Now he is afraid of a soft ball.

He is here, though, playing with his friends, and they are okay with the fact that he is harvesting interesting rocks as the ball sails over his head. His team is up so he walks slowly back and sits next to me. "look," he says, and hands me a roly poly.

He is participating, just his way, and he will be afraid, and he'll be sad sometimes, too. That's what I have to look forward to. Sitting on the sidelines, keeping my mouth shut, letting him play the game, and being there, loving him, when he comes home for a bandaid, a kiss and smile.

Being a mother is like that, the hard stuff is not what you thought it would be. I thought the hard part would be having to be in there all the time, fixing everything. I was in there, when he was one, when he was two. Now he is eight. I have to step back. Just a little. Let him play the game, let him get hurt, (or not) and let him decide what is worth the risk and what isn't. That's harder than any two a.m. feeding, as far as I'm concerned.

So this is me, off to the side, watching intently but keeping my distance like an unrequited love. I will be here, to dry tears and ice swollen knees and to send him back, once again.
This is me, doing the hard stuff.
Woohoo. Go mom. Yea team.