It's taken me a long day, some by-myself driving time, and a stroll down Facebook lane to process everything that happened yesterday. QB1, masquerading as a defensive lineman all season, played his last down of football EVER. My little flag-pulling kindergartener grew up and filled out and finished his college days as the #3 leader in sacks in his conference. He strapped on shoulder pads, plastered on eye-black, and ran the turf one more time donning Sewanee Purple, while we watched some 900 miles away. On another field back home, QBLittle suited up in Lumpkin Purple and fought his hardest fight ever for a 3rd Superbowl title. No parent can be in two places at once, and though it killed us both to not be able to watch both Tucker and Truett playing live, I saw something yesterday that makes me smile to this day. Truett and his team played probably their hardest game ever, going down by 6 early on and not producing much offensively. Frustration was written all over his teary little face, hands reaching up after each failed play, each punt, every loss of yards. He pleaded with his coach from field to sideline, begging him for something that would work, that language that only a coach and his player understand. My dejected 9 year old was going to have to reach deep. Life gives plenty of opportunities to succed AND to fail, and this was going to be one of those. Which would it be? My dejected 9 year old was going to have to reach deep--halftime came and went and luckily, a new #6 took the field. There was no quit on that field when they started the 3rd quarter. I like to think that of all the lessons learned and taught at our house over the last 9 years, Tucker taught the best one. Though life, covid, and various other circumstances gave him every opportunity to quit, bow out gracefully, throw in the towel on playing past high school, he never did. He kept showing up and showing out, making adjustments, rolling with the punches and the coaching changes, picking up the pieces of the kids who hung up their towels and left for greener pastures; and though he may have been in Texas yesterday, fighting his own line of scrimmage battles, I saw that spirit of overcoming adversity that got him so far come alive in #6. Tru erupted in the second half and ran for two touchdowns and made some key plays on defense to help his team clinch a 19-6 win. The only time his hands were in the air that quarter was to high five a teammate. The only tears during that half were tears of victory. I shed my own tears behind a beanie and a blanket, grateful for a win but also for something bigger: For those early mornings in the car on the way to a cold 8:00 game; for those blazing hot middle school afternoons chasing a toddler and watching a teen; for Friday Night Lights and Saturday afternoons hearing his name called as captain. It's over for one and just beginning for the other, but I know #6 isn't going anywhere without #3.

Scores and Scales

 Many years ago, Billy and I were members of a local gym which frequently hosted member appreciation days. On one of those afternoons, a friend and I wandered around sampling smoothies, enjoying 5 minute neck massages, and taste-testing new protein bars. As we polished off the last of the smoothie, I noticed a young, fresh-faced trainer offering to show me with a "new" gadget what my body fat percentage would be. Yikes! Tucker and Tanner were only toddlers, so I wasn't too far removed from pregnancy and baby weight. I'm not sure that is a number anyone would want to know; however, I had been working really hard at the gym, running and taking classes while the boys hung out in the child care room. Maybe I would be pleasantly surprised. Maybe this would just continue to encourage what I was already doing. Alright, I decided. Let's do this. 

I walked up to the young, fresh-faced trainer and told him I wanted to "take this test" and find out my body fat percentage. 

"Sure," he smiled back. "I just need to get a little information from you first."

"Sounds good," I said, maybe with a touch of regret.

"Ok, how tall are you? 5'9", 5"10"?" he asked, ready to punch it in on his new gadget.

I giggled. "Uh, no. I'm 5'7"."

"Oh, ok. And weight. What are you, 115, 120?" he asked in all his youthful wisdom.

I giggled even more. "No, but let me stop you right there. If I look like I'm 5'9 and 120 pounds, I don't care what my body fat percentage is." And I walked off. I was happy with what I had been told and realized I didn't need a number on a machine to solidify that feeling. And just what if? What if that number hadn't lined up with all my hard work and my 5'9" image? What might that have done to me and my fitness journey? Would it have put a damper on all that hard work I'd been putting in?

A few weeks ago, my students took their state tests, a piece of cake for some, but a stressful time for others. You see, our classrooms are filled with some of those students who put in the hard work and the time: the "extra" work at school that not everyone else is doing; they go to tutoring, do extra homework at night, raise their hands during lessons. They're superstars, all of them 5'9" and 120 pounds. But, unlike my fitness test so many years ago, they didn't get to simply walk away with those achievements and numbers that they work their butts off for daily. Unlike me, they had to take the test, to punch in the numbers and wait for "the gadget" to tell them what I already know and see every day. Sometimes, those numbers lie. They don't measure and can't show the potential I see every day. Sometimes, gadgets stink.

I'm proud of all my students, but sometimes, I wish, like I did so many years ago at the gym, they too could turn and walk away from the test, taking with them only the words of affirmation they hear from us teachers every day. No scales, no scores, just the words from me that I hope they will remember today and so many years from now: "You are not a score! You are not a number! You are amazing!"

Funerals and First Basemen

    

 

My dad died when I was nineteen, and though it's been 30 years, there are little things, and people, I vividly remember about that time. I remember the cars lining the street of our neighborhood that afternoon; I remember Amy Lott's mom pulling up in her little blue minivan with a big tray of food; I remember Cathy from the church, stationed at the kitchen phone, fielding calls from folks as the news made its way around town. I remember standing in the receiving line for almost two hours at visitation, meeting and greeting and accepting words of sympathy and condolence from folks I knew and some I didn't. I remember a lot about that week and that day. One thing I won't forget is the blond, sun-glassed lady rushing in at the last minute of visitation, apologizing profusely for being late and for being dressed in Khaki shorts and tennis shoes. I can still see Nancy Trimm, explaining how she had just seen the obituary in the newspaper and knew if she hurried she might just make it. We couldn't believe, after so many years, she was there, and I had no idea at the time what an impression it made on me on what it means to be a friend.  I remember that flustered entrance, her words, and the face that hadn't changed in the many years since we had last seen her at the ball park.

 

    Mom and I spent many summer evenings on warped, wooden bleachers, Nancy taking her spot beside us as we watched little boys take grounders and throw errant pitches. I wasn't very old, but I was allowed to be part of the conversation that went on between the moms and relished my time there. Nancy's son and my younger brother had somehow managed to be teammates from T-ball to buddy ball and on into little league, so without really knowing it, there on the splintered second row, she became a part of our past, a part of my childhood, and a reminder that people come into your life for reasons; sometimes, we just don't know the reason until we're standing in the visitation room of a funeral home and someone goes out of her way to show you that she cares.

    Yesterday, we spent 12 hours at the ball park. Yesterday, there were tents and canvas chairs and coolers iced down with waters, Gatorades, and Frog Togs. There weren't any rickety, wooden bleachers, but there were a lot of Nancys, moms (and dads) who love my first baseman and look out for him as if they shared a last name. They cheer when my boys do well, check on them when they get hurt, share snacks when one is hungry, and grab a phone to catch pictures  of your kid coming across the plate after a Home Run! So when folks look at us like we are crazy because our schedule is dictated by year-round youth sports, I just smile and keep on packing my cooler. I know one day, one of those parents might just show up unexpectedly when I, or my kids, need a Nancy the most.

I like it #4!

Like many parents of multiple kiddos, some days I just don't feel there is enough of me to go around. I have teenagers who want to talk about football practice or school or college visits while my 5 year old needs help finding the words "of" and "the" on soup cans. On the worst days, I worry that I am shortchanging one or all of them. I fear they will look back and remember having to earn my attention. So, I tiptoe into a dangerous world. I imagine life with one kid and one kid only. Dinners with only 3 at the table; no spills; no lefties bumping elbows with the person in the next seat. Laundry would happen only once a week. The grocery bill would be practically non-existent. Finally, there would be no competition. No shouting to be heard over another brother. No laps or couches to push another from. No yelling "Shotgun" as they race to the car. No one competing to read the "ABC" book while another does math problems at the table. No pleas from me to "let your brother finish and then I'll help."

Last week Tate competed in his first basketball game of the season. And because we are a big family, he had a big cheering section rooting for him in the stands. Every basket Tate scored, every steal he made, every rebound he grabbed was followed by claps and stomps and hoorays from me and Dad. But the biggest mouth on that bench was Tucker. Over and over, for four quarters, he clapped and whistled and repeated, "I like it #4!" Tate heard him every time and managed to glance our way when he did something special. Very quickly, my fears of anyone being shortchanged because of too many siblings was extinguished by another "I like it 4!"

Relief.

Reassurance.

With just four words from Tucker.

I stepped quickly out of that dangerous one-child world and back into mine. I like it here. I like the noise, the chaos, the mountains of sweatpants and jerseys. I like the chatter, the crowded table, and their needs that sometimes only I can meet; but I know now that when I can't meet those needs and there isn't enough of me to go around, they have each other:

Shouting from the stands; bumping elbows at the table; shooting hoops in the driveway; eating cereal late at night -- all the big stuff.

Joy

“Yet love revives as we spin homewards. Joy and sadness come by turns, I know now. But life goes on and on we go, spinning along in a violet light.” Walker Percy, The Moviegoer

Life does go on, and on we go, celebrating milestones and mourning the passing of childhoods that just don’t last long enough. Joy and sadness have come at me like a prizefighter this week, accompanying the rollercoaster of a ride that is senior year, all smashed into one final week of high school football.

Joy has come to me every morning in his texts, thanking me for what the touchdown club has gifted the seniors with that day: lunch, breakfast, goody bags, t-shirts. Sadness comes, too, with all that it represents: success, closure, a finale. Today, joy overwhelms me with a picture from last week's game and a shoutout in the local newspaper. Sadness sneaks up later with the invitation from the school in Ohio. Joy wraps me tightly when the little boys play touch football in the living room, Tucker refereeing as seriously as if he were wearing stripes. Sadness sucker punches me later when Truett asks if Tucker will come home to visit after he goes to college.

Tomorrow we travel away for our last matchup, the seniors' last night representing Indian football. Joy will undoubtedly consume me as I watch my number 7 take to the field, white towel hanging at his waist, ankles wrapped for protection, helmet tucked under his arm as he marches to the 50 yard line for his final role as Captain. Joy grabs me, shakes me, hoots and hollers with me at every touchdown, every complete pass, every run for positive yards, but today it screams at me, louder than ever: "Stop! Look at him! Look at what you've done! You did good." And I know we have.

Tomorrow night, I will shoo away the sadness. There will be no room for it as we celebrate the boy who changed me, taught me, stole me and holds me captive to this day. Tomorrow night, sadness will wait its turn. It will come, I know, probably as we make the drive back to Dahlonega, trailing a school bus full of boys who will step into the next phase of their lives when they step off the bus for the last time; but it won't come before I soak up the sights, the sounds, and the emotions of one last glorious Friday night.

My hope, my wish, my prayer is for him and his teammates to go out as winners, to do what they do best one last time, to enjoy their abilities, to make one last memory that will live forever, one more touchdown pass, one last race down the sidelines, one more snapshot of eleven boys spinning along in a violet light.

Brothers

These two look so much alike, and every day it seems, my 9 year old acts a little more like my 18 year old, too. The funny thing about that, for those who may remember, is Tucker didn't want Tate: "Tanner is the only brother I want," his 8 year old self protested when we broke the news of another Kirk joining our crew. It was a rough night that night, but I don't bring up that story much, because for all the tears Tucker shed that night, the relationship between these two managed to not only survive, but thrive these last 9 years.

We played baseball today, Tate and his 9U Indians, and as any good travel ball mom does, I watched from behind the plate when he pitched, strolled the 1st base side when he was there, and paced behind the dugout when he stepped into the batter's box. I've done it that way for years, from Tucker's first years as a 1st baseman to Tanner knocking down grounders at second. As I moved from spot to spot today, the only thing that differed from those first years was my cell phone. Normally, I would have ignored the ring during a game, but I knew it was Tucker calling, asking for score updates and how Tate was doing. When I told him Tate was pitching, his immediate reply was "send a video." And he hung up. Expecting the video. So I sent it. "Nice," he texted back. And that one word made my day more than it probably would have made Tate's.

Tate might not come right out and say these exact words, but he wants to be just like Tucker, whether it's football, baseball, or a good hair cut. During the high school games, whether Tucker is on the mound or in right field, Tate manages to pull himself away from the siblings playing wall ball to come over and ask me how Tucker is doing. As a 9 year old little boy, he can't commit himself totally to the game at hand, but he does care enough to check in and make sure that at home that night, he can offer up a "You pitched good tonight" to his big brother. Same for Tucker-- he couldn't quite pull himself out of bed this morning to make it to an early game, but he wasn't too tired to check in.

Tate knows his mom and dad are proud of him on days like today when he hit a home run and a triple and made some good plays in the field, but when he gets in the car and immediately asks to call Tucker, I think it means a little bit more to hear it from him.

Mothers are All Slightly Insane --J.D. Salinger

Clichés stink!

But they're true.

Time flies.

The days are long, but the years are short.

Being a mother is the world's hardest job.

They're all clichés, but they're all true. And Tucker's 17th birthday is a big, shining reminder that time has FLOWN by and my first born son, the one who propelled me into motherhood, now drives a car, has a job, and receives college mail daily.

His 17th birthday reminds me of those long days, when Daddy was coaching football, and two-a-days and film-watching and away games meant some days were longer than others. But then the 6'3" kid walks into the kitchen and those long days fade into really short years.

Remembering the last 17 years solidifies the idea that motherhood truly is the hardest job in the world. Decisions, decisions, decisions. Does he need to go to the doctor? Can he eat that food yet? Why is he crying? Why is he struggling with reading? Will he make the team? Why is he hanging around with that kid? Is he old enough to go away for the weekend with the church? Hard questions for first time parents.

At least I thought those were the hard things. Now, driving to school in the mornings. Driving home late at night after ball games and work. Taking the ACT and SAT. Dating. All BIG things that add up to late nights and gray hair.

And pride. And joy. And mature conversations. And laughs. And daily reminders of the little boy, the long days, the happiest years, and the best that is yet to come.

I like J.D. Salinger's take on motherhood, definitely not a cliché, and I'm sure most mothers would agree that we are all slightly insane.
It is my badge, a tattoo, a proud mark to celebrate the boy who made me a mom. The boy who made me, me.