Several years ago, when the boys were younger and first started playing sports, there were a couple of seasons where the idea of not keeping score was suggested and encouraged. You know, teach them to love the game, not to worry about winning or losing. Well, you know that didn't fly in our house, and after every hit, basket, or run into the end zone, our boys would look over at the sidelines and ask Daddy, "Who's winning now?" Of course, the correct score would fly off Coach's tongue faster than the "non-competitive" parent could shoot us a glare. In our opinions, someone always comes out ahead-- just a fact of life. And the sooner our boys realized that sometimes they would carry home the W, sometimes they would walk away with L, the better. Having a dad whose profession and livelihood rest on the amount of wins and losses per season probably sends a stronger vibe to win, but in all fairness we try to teach that age-old lesson of how to be a good loser; and I know firsthand about losing; being the only girl in a house full of guys means I lose A LOT of battles, some I thought I was sure to win, but that was 15 years ago.
Fifteen years ago, Coach was busy finishing school, working part time, and fishing whenever he could squeeze it in. That meant the entire responsibility of decorating our then-home fell on me. Color me Happy! Every room looked the way I wanted it. Every color scheme was mine. Every Southern Living concept played out in various places throughout our 3/2 ranch. I also had some set-in-stone ideas for when we had kids--precious outfits, pastel nursery decor, long, wispy curls falling at the neck of a baby blue smocked jon jon.
Fifteen years have passed and the scoreboard clearly insists that I am not leading this race.
Who's walking away with the W? Hmmm...
Once upon a time, I had a beautiful wicker trash basket in my kitchen. It had its own liner that folded out over the top with the word trash embroidered in blue. Now? On one of his many trips to Home Depot to buy trash cans for some spring football drill, Coach found a great deal apparently and brought one home to us. For our kitchen. To replace the wicker one. I resisted, he persisted, and eventually I folded, as right now in my kitchen sits a gray industrial-sized trash bin that requires me to buy lawn and leaf bags to fit it.
Back in the day, after a long day of teaching English, Spanish, or maybe some kick butt Spin class, I liked to retire to my bed, glass of water in hand, and the remote set for anything resembling "Designing Women" reruns, Kardashian chaos, or even some trashy E! news. Now? I find myself asking questions about Tuna, King Crab, and auctioning off storage sheds. I find myself using first names of fishermen, logging truck drivers, and men who mine for gold. My questions even sound sincere.
Those precious little boy outfits I envisioned while fat and miserable at nine months preggo? Didn't happen. Coach wasn't too keen on "sissy" looking boys so nary a knee sock ever graced my T's chubby little legs. Not a single smocked Strausberg captured by Olan Mills. And those curls? The first mention at Kroger or Sunday school of how pretty our boys were brought out the clippers; thus, the buzz cut became the official hair style of the Kirk boys. No Beiber bangs being slung around here- the proof is on the photo wall.
I guess after so many years of "losing" to a crew of four who outnumber me on just about every decision from supper to movie night to where to hang the flat screens, one(me) gets used to it and losing doesn't really hurt too much. I mean, I love the Louisiana red necks we watch every Wednesday night; the buzz cut hair really does show off the incredibly beautiful blue and green eyes on the three Ts; and even I will now admit that the bigger garbage can means fewer trips to the outside bin to unload. But there's just one battle I swore I wouldn't lose-- one I was prepared to fight til the death for--one change I feared would truly define me.
At some point I must have waved the white flag, surrendered as graciously as only a Southerner could do. The walls of our home once boasted wrought iron pieces, black and white baby portraits professionally framed, and antique pieces that surprised me on anniversaries and birthdays. My special order window treatments matched the throw pillows on my sofa sectional that cozied up to to the antique table my Mama Carter passed down to me. Now? Deer. Or more specifically, deer heads hang from places on my walls that should be reserved for canvas paintings of things I saw on Pinterest. But they are there, and there they shall stay.
Why? I'd love to say it's because Coach won and I lost, and that's pretty much how it looks. But it's about more than winning and losing and competing and beating someone else and being the last one standing on the mound with stained pants and shoulder pads ripped out of jerseys.
At the end of the day, life is all about compromise; so is love. Besides, second place isn't so bad, especially if the guy you walk off the field with is the one carrying the first place trophy.
Because you can always hang that trophy on the wall:-)
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