How a season can change you...

I've made no secret of my difficulty of getting into my son's first season of tackle football. I gave in and let him play a year earlier than I swore I would ever let him. He is typically one of the tallest boys in his grade, and in this league he is the youngest and next-to-smallest player on the field. He's playing with and against kids who have a good 25-30 pounds on his small 68-pound frame.

It has really had me on edge.

But, what really didn't help things was my disconnect with the other "football moms" on our team. From my first practice, I knew I'd have trouble meshing with this group. Typically, I have no trouble at all with that.

What I saw were parents that were entirely too into their children's sports activities and I felt like they were taking it all entirely too seriously. There were window sticker decals for the cars, t-shirts with your child's name on the back and the real thing that sent me over the edge--a HOMECOMING party with requests for gifts for our cheerleaders.

I just found it all silly considering this is a team of 3rd-5th graders. And, I openly mocked it on a regular basis to my husband.

Slowly, both my son and our family have gotten used to this different sport. The intensity, the multiple practices a week for longer periods of time than we've ever had practice before. My son has played t-ball, baseball, 5 seasons of soccer, basketball and now football, so it shocked me at how hard the transition has been really.

But, lately, I've felt like I'm finally starting to get it a little more. I've seen benefits that football has brought to my son. He's the youngest on the team, but has earned a lot of respect and even a little popularity with his teammates because he's actually been pretty darn tough. A huge kid will lay him out in practice and he pops back up again and again without complaining. This is a child who has really had trouble being too sensitive most of his life.

I've seen him realize what hard work means, how it feels to be on a winning and a losing team, and how you can really improve your own skills with hard work and practice--something that piano lessons just didn't seem to do for him (as I'd hoped it would).

Today, we had a game experience unlike one I have experienced in a great while. And, through it all, I think I've changed a little.

And...that, folks, is your teaser...come back for my next post where you will find out just what happened at our last game!

One reason for gray sprouts...

The other day, I did something I never do.

I used my 8X magnification makeup mirror, which I am convinced was invented by someone who had something against 30-something women. But, instead of fixating on the wrinkles and scary pores on my nose, my eyes darted to something I thought I'd never see in my days of highlighting the 'do bi-yearly.

I saw a freaking gray hair people.

OK. Not just one, a couple no less. Now tell me how gray hairs are supposed to show up on a highlighted blonde-haired young lady like myself?

There have been a lot of stresses this year. Some I choose to not talk about on this blog. But, there's one I have not mentioned that has me on pins and needles tonight.

My 9-year-old son is playing tackle football.

That's right. I said it. I fully expect to feel the wrath of judgement from protective moms everywhere, so go ahead. I actually judge myself even right now. Ugh.

But, after two years of his begging, I gave in. Then, I waited until the last minute to sign him up hoping there wouldn't be a spot.

Unfortunately, I was told there was, but then I got a last minute moment of relief when an email went out that my son didn't actually make the second formed team for our neighborhood, and they couldn't find a coach for the third one that he was on.

Secretly feeling euphoric over this development, I waited...and then felt huge guilt when I did tell my son the possibility he might not play. His little face was so distraught over the possibility that I instantly shoved my protective mother persona in the closet and even WISHED it would work out for him. And, then it did. Sigh. (The protective mother has busted out of her confines and is now beating me over the head with hangers...wire hangers, of course.)

He had his first practice tonight and I decided it might be better if I did not attend. I do not know if I can handle watching him get pummeled over and over. He is a very tall kid and he weighs much more than he looks, but he is NOT football player stock. He's quite good at throwing and catching, so he might have a shot at quarterback if that hasn't already been sewn up by a coach's son or something.

But, wait. Quarterbacks get hit pretty hard though, don't they?

Excuse me while I go throw up.

I really don't need this stress in my life right now. Is it awful that I'm hoping he is so bad that he gets assigned the waterboy or something?

Why can't he be into swimming? Look at that wholesome boy, Michael Phelps! Do you think that nice tall boy ever begged his mom to get plowed over by kids twice his weight? No, he took his lanky, tall-boy genes right to a swimming pool where his mom could go on living without serious heart palpitations every time he competes. What a GOOD BOY!

My son just came home from practice and had this description of how hard it was:

"Mom, you know if mine and Dad's practice last night was a shirt size, it would be about a Medium. Well, if this practice was a shirt-size, it would be an EXTRA, EXTRA large!"

Funny, I've got a medium-sized, stress-induced headache about now...and an EXTRA, EXTRA large bad feeling that this is the only beginning of my gray hair.