I would like to add another chapter to the mother guilt collection I have accumulated over the past 13 years and we’ll call this one, “Confessions of an athlete’s mom.” As one sport season ends and another begins, I am ashamed to admit I have turned into one of those pushy sports parents.
You see, despite all genetic odds against him, the son that I delivered into this world is an athlete. As he approaches 11 years of age, he has taught me through sports that sometimes, it is better to be a bystander than a participant. I could not handle the insanity we expect our kids to endure in sports, and it’s all due to the adults in charge. Scary.
Sometimes, I‘m not sure my son can handle it either. There were moments this season where the obligation to his team barely won over the fear of displeasing others. As hard as it was to watch, it was incredible to see him make the connection that these lessons weren’t just about sports, but life itself. Hockey taught him responsibility, self-esteem, knowing when to take direction, and how to take criticism and when to let it roll. Plus the ultimate lesson that in life, fair play isn’t always in play so you’d better keep your head up. These are essential skills in life. I know this because I lack almost all of them.
The Carpenter is my opposite in every way possible, but together we made this incredible kid who seems to be caught somewhere between both our philosophies. The Carpenter is the voice of reason for our aspiring athlete because he knows how to be supportive of him but honest, tough on commitment but quick to laugh off mistakes, knowledgeable but not all knowing and above all else; he builds self-esteem with that silent confidence fathers, good fathers, seem to inherit.
When hockey season ended I was not sad. It was a great year, no doubt, but I was tired of fast food and rushed schedules. So what did I do? I asked my son to sign up for lacrosse again this summer, to further add to our crazy schedule. After a great first season last year, I just assumed that for my son, who swore he loved the game, it was a given. So when I got ready to sign him up, I was disappointed when he said no. I wasn’t disappointed in him, you understand, but in not seeing him play.
Here’s the truth: I am guilty of living vicariously through my son’s sports, lacrosse in particular. I saw him learn to navigate on a concrete pad yielding sticks and fast flying shots that took dexterity to a whole new level, amidst rules where taking a hit is as important as giving one, and scoring points is split-second excitement. At 10 he had a courage and confidence to get into the mix, learning to channel his boyish aggression into sport and leaving it there. What an adrenaline rush, even when it wasn’t pretty to watch. I loved the sport because my son played with heart and integrity.
The reality is, I love him more. In my keenness to see him succeed, I forgot what ultimately matters: his happiness. My son is already a better person than most adults I know, because of his true character. Sports don’t define him. Neither should I.