Before you go #8: Love that curly hair!

When you were about the age you are in this photo, we signed you up for T-Ball.  All in all, it was a fairly forgettable season, save for one memorable comment by one of your little teammates.  I found myself in conversation with this particular little girl, and I recall trying to make her understand whose mom I was.  Eventually, a flash of recognition passed across her sweet little face.  “Oh!” she exclaimed.  “The boy with the nice hair!”

You have, indeed, always had nice hair.  Once, when you were little and my sister was visiting, she gave you and her two little boys a bath together.  She looked at me in astonishment when she started soaping your curly head.  “Wow,” she exclaimed.  “He has REALLY nice hair.”  Your curls have been beloved by grandmothers and aunties and little girls alike for all of your 18 years.

It is actually quite funny to me, as I think back across the years, how very many memories I have involving your gorgeous locks.  Once, when we were preparing for family pictures, we decided to use some styling product on your hair to ensure it maintained it’s perfection for the camera.  You took one look at it and whined, “Noooooo, what did you do?  I look like.. Grandma!”  (In fact, your spiky curls did bear a certain resemblance to Grandma Ellie’s no nonsense style).

In truth, I am not sure how you feel about it.  As the bequeather of your curls, I know first hand the love hate relationship most curly girls have with their waves.  While some body and character is to be desired, it also comes with a certain amount of unpredictability and dependence on weather conditions that plagues those of us prone to frizz and bounce.  Is it the same for boys?  By and large, other than a few memorable instances, you have seemed relatively indifferent. 

Funnily enough, your hair came up in a recent parent teacher conference.  Your gym teacher mentioned that he calls you “mopsy” or something similar, meant to reference your bushy mane when you can’t manage to keep it trimmed.  I think you look handsome either way, but I admit I greatly prefer your hair trimmed and tidy.  It has lost some of its little boy smoothness, and would probably benefit from a bit of TLC (or at least product) when you let it grow.  We had a bit of a moment around your senior pictures when I insisted you schedule a haircut, and you were horrified to discover afterwards that it was (in your opinion) too short.  We actually ended up rescheduling so it could grow out a bit, to a compromise medium length (longer than I might have liked, shorter than you preferred).   You are a handsome boy, in any event and with any haircut, and had I known your destiny as a man with glorious locks, I might have named you Samson, instead of Samuel.

Before you go, love your hair.  With a little luck, it will be around for your enjoyment for many, many decades to come. 

Before you go #7: Keep learning

 Dear Sam,

Before you go, keep learning from life. 

When I wrote this series of blog letters to your older sister two years ago, a large number of the posts were about sports.  She played for the same team in the same position that I did, and she won the state tournament her junior year.  This was a large point of connection for us; volleyball was a big part of my high school experience, and much of her experience mirrored mine.  We bonded and celebrated and grieved over the sport for most of her growing up years.

In a few years, I’ll embark on a series of letters to your younger sister who is becoming a standout basketball player for the high school team.  I have no doubt that my letters to her will linger often on our shared history in this sport.  In truth, the sports for these girls looms large in our entire family story, not just in my relationship with them.  We devote many hours and dollars to their passion for these games, and I spend countless weekends and hours on the road with them traveling to tournaments and games. 

Meanwhile, you are quietly growing up at home.  I never intended to focus so intensely on the girls, but  here is something I have learned in my years of being a sports’ mom:  there is never a shortage of coaches, advocates, donors, and interest in boys’ teams at every age, even the very youngest.  Indeed, there were often 3 or 4 dads (always dads) lined up on the sideline with their budding little male athletes.  Girls’ teams, in nearly every way, are sidelined and secondary in our culture.  This is wildly frustrating to me, and I have probably overcorrected in our own home—pouring hours into your sisters, dropping you off to be coached and mentored by others year after year. 

In my defense, I did step up to coach your very first basketball team.  I vividly remember racing into the local Y, trailing little girls and diaper bags, hugely pregnant with your brother and with toddler Lucy on my hip, and trying to coach you from the sidelines.  From there, however, you were picked up by another team, coached by a couple of dads, which I gratefully surrendered you to.  I admit I was busy with your older sister’s volleyball team, and your younger sisters who were barely older than babies, and then with your baby brother.  I would gladly have turned Grace over to another team as well, but there was no one, so I stuck with her while you learned the game I love under the direction of someone else. 

Later, when there was no one, I stepped back up.  It was early middle school, and a fraught time in the parenting relationship under all circumstances.  I shouldered my way into the Little Eagles’ meetings and leagues and tournaments, vastly outnumbered by men (I was, without exception, the only woman on the sideline in every contest).  I’m a confident woman and a proven professional leader in a decidedly male dominated industry, but I admit these experiences tested me.  Boys’ sports are so political and loaded.  So many parents put so many expectations on their sons, so many dads are trying to relive their own storied (or not so storied) sports’ careers through their boys.   Unfortunately, our team was pretty lacking—and, other than you, none of them have continued to play in high school.  Looking back, I think my hesitation was primarily my own self consciousness more than anything; the families I coached and you played with were unfailingly supportive in spite of our rather dismal win loss record.   

You, on the other hand, were wildly embarrassed by me.  You were openly hostile and rebelled against even my most basic advice.  Those years were pretty painful for both of us, and at the end of 6^th grade, we sat down and discussed our future together in sports.  “I’m not sure I should continue coaching you,” I said resignedly.  You immediately and enthusiastically agreed.  “You understand that might mean you won’t have a team, then,” I continued.  “I will do what I can to find another coach or to get you on another team, but I can’t guarantee anything.” 

“I understand,” you said, “but I think this is best.” 

And that was that.  We went our separate ways, and other than the signing up and the writing of checks, your sports career has proceeded without the very intimate involvement I have shared with your sisters.  I grieve this, a little.  Looking back, I’m not sure where I would have redirected us, but on the other side of all this, there are experiences and connections that you and I will never share as a result.

In our defense, sports have never loomed as large for you as they do for the girls.  You enjoyed the comradery and connection of it all, but none of them ever captivated your body and mind the way they did for the girls.  You tried them all over the years—baseball and soccer and football and swimming and track and tennis and even briefly (somewhat disastrously) volleyball.  But while you enjoyed them all well enough, you never found any of them compelling enough to warrant much attention in the off season and consequently, in spite of good athleticism and competitiveness, never really reached a high level of performance.  I truly believe this is the result of some bad luck (a bum knee and some poorly timed illness) but also a certain lack of passion.  You liked to play, but you never loved it enough to really go the distance.  There is absolutely no shame in this approach.  Indeed, it may be a more healthy and well rounded relationship with what are, after all, just games. 

But I feel like we missed out on some great opportunities for both life lessons and bonding along the way.  I’ve long believed that sports provide a remarkable mirror to some of life’s learning moments.  When Grace started playing volleyball in high school, I wrote this, “what I always loved about sports was how it mimicked life in such concentrated and applicable ways.  Hard work pays off.  And sometimes it doesn't.  Trust your team.  You, your teammates, the referees, and your coach will all make mistakes.  Forgive.  Play in position.  You must lead.  You must listen.  You must follow.  Put your emotions aside and get on with it.  Fight for the win.  Lose with grace.  People will let you down.  People will lift you up.  People will criticize you.  The same people will praise you.  Get up.  Keep going.  You will triumph.  You will fail.  You will get screamed at.  You will be loved.  You will get hurt.  You will overcome suffering.  You will weep.  You will soar.  You can only talk about blocking footwork and passing technique and quick sets for so long.  Then you drift into life lesson territory.  If my daughter welcomes me into this space in her teenage years via the bridge of volleyball, then I have more reason than ever to love it.” 

We never really had that bridge, and I’m sorry for that.  What I’m even more sorry for is how much time travel sports have taken me away from you.  What I gained in one on one time and life lesson territory with your sisters, I lost for you.  Meanwhile, life was teaching you some of the same lessons all along.  I don’t think I’ve missed many, but there are lots of hours I won’t get back.

And now, you are coming up on the post season of your senior basketball season.  You haven’t played much varsity, and you don’t seem to mind that too much (contracting mono at the beginning of the season sort of eliminated any opportunity to work yourself into much playing time).  Your team is highly ranked and there’s a chance you guys will go the distance.  I’ll be rooting for you all the way.

I teased you the other day that your sister brought home a state championship while she was in high school, and I now expected that from all of you.  You sort of snorted and retorted, “It’s not the same thing, mom.  I don’t even play.”  But here’s something you may be forgetting:  I was a bench warmer on a state championship team in high school as well.  I know how it feels to ride the pine every night, only seeing playing time during blowouts or a few brief plays on senior night.  I know how it feels to be constantly overlooked, to chase balls for superstars, to take stats and barely need to shower after the game.  I have been there.  And I admit it is less thrilling to win under these circumstances than to be in the game, but you are still a part of the team!  You still dragged yourself out of bed all those early mornings (I know how hard that is for you).  You ran all the same sprints at practice.  You gave up all the same Friday nights on the road.  There is a sacrifice and an involvement that no one can take away from any member of a state championship team.  I hope I get to share that with you.

So, before you go, Sammy boy.  Keep learning.  Keep listening to life and absorbing all the lessons that come with it.  Even if it isn’t as a result of some big game or devastating injury, life is teaching us all the time.  There are lessons to be learned on the sidelines every bit as much as on the court.  Pay attention, and keep growing.  I may not have had the hours alongside you in the gym and on the road, but I have never stopped being your number one fan.  Before you go, keep learning.

Before you go #6: Eat Cake!

Dear Sam,

Before you go, eat cake!  Today is your day, your 18^th birthday.  It occurred to me as I walked the dog this afternoon that I have no idea how to be the mother of an 18 year old boy.  Or man?  I guess you are officially a man now?  How did I end up the mother of an almost grown man all of a sudden?

A friend of mine with two little girls asked me today how we planned to celebrate you, and I told her we had 3 options on the table, any of which you might discard in favor of doing something with your buddies.  I realized that it wasn’t that long ago I was a mom of littles, easily certain what you would want since fourth and fifth and tenth birthdays are pretty straightforward.  What captivates your hearts and minds for the first ten or twelve birthdays is all over your lives and your accessories and your conversation.  The super hero bandaids and bedsheets and t-shirts, the football cards, the ninja coloring books.  I remember all of your birthdays—Shark Tale and Shrek and High School Musical.  The desires of your heart are more obscure, now.  Even though I try hard to keep the dialogue between us open (and indeed, sometimes you share more than I am ready to hear), so much of your life is lived without me, at school and in your car, at friends’ houses and in the gym and at fast food joints.  Your main gift tonight will be a gift card, because I haven’t really the faintest idea what would make your eyes light up like I once did.  I think you most want freedom and grown up things, and I can only dole those out in bite sized pieces just now.  It’s never quite enough, but so painfully soon, you’ll have all you could want. 

It has been a whirlwind few months, starting with our long overdue family trip that had been postponed since spring break 2020, then racing into the holiday season, and culminating in 6 crazy weeks of non-stop basketball for you and three of your siblings.  We have barely seen one another, and today, as I pause to remember my blue eyed baby boy, first laid in my arms 18 years ago this morning, I vow to slow down and savor YOU in these last few months.  This family is noisy and needy, and our life is crazy crammed with things that demand so much of my time and attention.  You—quieter and more independent than any of my other kids—just sort of slip through from day to day and all of a sudden, the sand is almost gone in the hourglass of my life with you under my roof.  I’m not ready.

I will try not to smother you, my love, but I’m feeling a bit panicked just now.  I know you are in a rush for your future to begin, but I need to cherish you just a little bit longer--my forever Valentine, gift of joy and love on that cold winter morning just a few years ago.

So, we may end up at Texas Roadhouse tonight, where you and your brother will tuck a dozen rolls into my purse to eat at home later and you’ll probably order the salmon and hopefully be a good sport about the cheesy saddle they perch birthday boys on for a raucous, embarrassing birthday song.  Or I’ll cook salmon at home (you love salmon) and fry potatoes and grill asparagus and hope you linger for a little while at my table, even though of course you’ll be excused from dishes on your special day.  Or maybe you’ll invite your buddies over, and I’ll order pizza and soda and stay out of your way, save to serve cake and pause briefly over the stubbled faces of boys I still remember as rowdy middle schoolers.  Almost every one of them is now taller than I.   

Oh Sam, I know you have to grow up and that means growing away, but I wish I could put a cartoon character on your cake and snuggle you to sleep tonight.  I wish I could catch you licking the frosting before the cake is served and carefully rinse the plastic figurines from the top for you to play with later. I wish we had balloons and party bags planned, instead of—well—nothing but some loose options waiting on your whim later tonight. 

But before you go, celebrate wonderful you!  Birthdays necessarily get a little less magical as the years go by, but 18 is a big one and I’m so proud of the man you are becoming.  And if you change your mind and want me to go find a cake with a superhero on it, all you have to do is say the word.