We, as mothers, have lots of rules when it comes to our children. We tell them not to sit too close to the television or it’ll ruin their eyes, that they must close the door lest folks will think they live in a barn, and most importantly, hands must be washed after each and every visit to the latrine.
As the children age, they tend to give their mothers a few guidelines of their own. For instance, they’d rather we not kiss them in public, we’re no longer allowed to moisten our fingers to wash their face on the fly, and mainly, we, as mothers, are never even once ever, allowed to run out onto the football field if they are injured.
It would be the worst thing ever, they lamented, to not only be injured but to have their overly emotional mother running out on the turf screaming, “Oh, my baby, no!”
“Dad can come out because he won’t act like a noob,” they instructed, “and you just keep your little spot in the stands warm.”
I listened to their little speeches but I didn’t make any promises. I mean, a mother truly never knows how she’ll react in such circumstances. Certain times call for certain measures. Besides, they don’t own me.
Avid readers may recall the first time I’d ever been tested regarding this rule was last year when my precious little Charlie broke his arm. I stayed put for a minute or two as I heard my children’s firm instructions being played out in my head, and then I did what I had to do.
In all honesty, I
believe the boys were less upset about Charlie’s broken arm than my reaction to it.
“She didn’t really come all the way out to the 20-yard line, did she?” they asked of Charlie with obvious revulsion.
“Yeah, yeah she did,” Charlie said, and in doing so caused the entire male-dominated Clinch clan to glare at me in disgust. This football year had been injury-free. Sure we had the occasional bruise and periodic bump. But we’d avoided wounds and only had minor abrasions that could be treated with an occasional Tylenol.
Yet, as I sat in the stands for our first round of the playoffs, I noticed that my Lawrence wasn’t out on the field.
As a seasoned football parent, I knew where to look and when I saw my Lawrence sitting on the bench, you can imagine my dismay.
Having been chastised enough about the errors of my ways during last year’s injury, I searched the crowds for my beloved spouse who, I’m here to report, was nowhere to be found.
I dropped my blankets and ran down the bleachers two at a time. I wasn’t screaming, “Oh my baby, NO!” but I wanted to.
The predicament posed many questions, up to and including: “What’s a mother to do?” “Is the injury enough to justify a little bit of embarrassment?” and first and foremost, “Where the heck is his father?”
As I got closer, I realized that Lawrence was surrounded by not only two highly trained physical therapists and a doctor but that our very own Father Jim was also there.
Talk about a blow to the maternal gut!
Lawrence seemed to be fine as he talked to his holy medical team. But how was a mother to know? I willed one of them to turn and look my way. I prayed for divine intervention or that Father Jim would at least give me a thumbs-up.
Nothing.
I set out to find his father but came up empty. As I was heading back, I thought that if I saw Father Jim giving Lawrence the blessing of the sick, I was going out there. Rules or not!
When I returned to see an empty bench I, again, was met with many questions. Was Lawrence being hauled off by an ambulance? Had he slipped off to use the latrine and if so, would he wash his hands? Or had he joined his father in an absent bliss?
Nope. Lawrence was back out on the field and hitting hard with a taped-up split lip.
Good news, sports fans. And the best news of all was that I did NOT go out on the field, did not cry out in anguish, and best yet, did not humiliate the family by looking like a noob.
I’m such a good mom.
Lori Clinch is the mother of four sons and the author of the book “Are We There Yet?” You can reach her at [email protected].