I basically quarantined myself to my bedroom all of Saturday and Sunday. I could hear my kids’ voices but they knew not to (and didn’t want to) go in there. Occasionally, one would crack the door to say bye as they left for their game. (I missed two kids’ last basketball games, one kid’s first baseball tournament, and another kid’s high school game). I vaguely remember Rhett opening the door sometime on Saturday to tell me he was out of toothpaste. I laid there completely covered, body aches, fever, basic misery, and he needed to tell me he’s out of toothpaste???? For real? I immediately replied with my go-to answer for those three days, ‘tell Daddo.’ I didn’t think anything else about it except for my moment of frustration of why in the world the kid thought I was the one who needed to know about the empty bathroom essential. His dad is COMPLETELY capable and WILLING to get him some toothpaste. His dad is capable of many things! I rolled my eyes and laid there for another day and a half.
The last day I was home sick I was able to get a few things done around the house. Everyone was gone to school so I safely went upstairs to the kids’ rooms for the first time in four days. I was stripping the bed sheets, vacuuming, straightening things, and of course spraying some more Lysol. When I went into the boys’ bathroom, there it was. All squeezed to the maximum squeezing to get the last bit of paste out, laying right by the sink, used earlier that morning, Rhett’s empty toothpaste. I just stood there and looked at it and smiled. The weekend managed to go on without me. Every kid made their games and other events. No meals were missed. The kids were alive. Daddo handled it. He coached Rhett’s baseball team. Helped sponsor a school sporting event with Will and Cole, got Cora dressed for her game. They all managed. But Rhett never told his dad he needed more toothpaste.
Why?
This all reminded me of an essay my oldest son Will wrote two years ago for class. The prompt was something about ‘someone special in your life.’ Of course he wrote about his Dad. He mentioned his grandparents doing one thing and even me teaching him about money and finance. ‘Will, you don’t need to buy that airsoft gun,’ is the extent of my money lessons to him, so of course I knew he was just writing something for his intro. A paper filler as you will. That’s where I came into the essay. Could he not think of anything else? Was that all he did was make sure and write his 3-4 sentences to introduce the topic and I happened to fall in to that? Well, the paper about his dad was AMAZING and made me tear up anyway.
Then there was that empty toothpaste. Something so simple yet a need for my littlest boy. That’s when I came to my momma realization. I do have a special place.
Many years ago early in this parenting gig, Will, again, (the oldest has always been our guinea pig in learning parenting skills) was playing on his first baseball team that Dad wasn’t coaching and he was invited to play. I was nervous for him, felt the pressure, wanted him to do his best, the whole nine yards of the sports mom. He was SIX. The first night driving home from the game, Jake was talking to him about some good things and bad things he did. I was right there with him giving both the good and bad critiques. After all, I knew what I was talking about. I played. I know my kid. I’m the best one to help him do better with his baseball. I got a side glance from my man in the car that night that made us all go silent for the rest of the ride. After we got home and got the kids in bed, he calmly explained to me my ‘place.’ He reminded me that yes although I might know what I’m talking about and may one day need to be a coach, right now I am Will’s mom. My Place as described to me that night was to show nothing but positive support, bring the needed snacks and drinks, get the kids where they need to be and hug them after every game. I’ve taken that to heart as his wife and their mom. Flash forward 9 years and now four kids in sports and one that I do get to coach, I’ve slowly learned to control my competitive adrenaline during and after my kids’ sporting events. As much as I want to unload on them with the multitude of expert advice I have, I hug them and tell them how good of a game they played. Even after the bad games, I get an eye roll with those and sometimes I just give the ‘good job.’ And sometimes I am the last person there to get a hug. But they know I’m there. They know there’s one coach and that’s dad. He’s also the coach for so many others who don’t have a dad at home so that their moms can just focus on being a mom too. That night several years ago he told me, ‘he doesn’t need two people on him all the time, and needs you to just be there for him.’ It stuck.
So the toothpaste, their favorite drinks and foods, a snack at the game, extra deodorant for their locker; I’m their person. Rhett needed me to know he was out of toothpaste. They don’t even think the grown man in the home needs to know. But V8 Juice and powder packets, and protein bars and concession stand money, that’s ALL me. And I’m okay with it. Even if I’m never the essay topic.
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