Sunday is the first day of autumn. Whoopee.
It occurred to me as I was driving the other day how few sporting events I attend, now that my kids are young adults with busy lives.
I’m not sure what you’d call the opposite of a sports fan (although I’m sure some of you readers will write and tell me) but that’s always been me.
Even so, I signed my kids up to play sports early, even though, at that age, they mostly just wandered around the field picking dandelions.
I didn’t want them to grow up chubby and clumsy like I did, so I ruthlessly signed them up for every sport available, even if they protested that they didn’t want to play.
“Too bad,” I told them. “You’ll like it.” And, indeed, this was the advantage of being an older mom, because I always just did what I thought was right, regardless of how the precious little darlings felt about it. I wasn’t weighed down with any desire for these small humans to be my friends. I have plenty of friends. They’re my prisoners.
Anyway, I’m happy to say I was always right (as usual) and the kids had gobs of fun playing soccer, softball, baseball and karate. They also developed strong, lean bodies, learned what it meant to be part of a team and made new friends.
The downside of being a single mom in this situation is that my attendance was required at each and every game, which had a disconcerting way of occurring at the crack of dawn.
I complained to another soccer mom about having to stumble to games when my eyelids were still firmly glued shut, and she assured me that someday I’d miss these mornings.
Well, guess what? She was wrong. I never missed crawling out of bed way too early, and listening to kids whine that they couldn’t find their (a) jerseys or (b) cleats or (c) miscellaneous other sporting gear that cost way too much.
Gee, precious children. Lost something?
It was too ridiculously early. I really didn’t care. If the rugrats couldn’t find what they needed for their games, then guess what? They went without. Mommy was 46 years old and had a hard week and there was no way she was digging through mountains of smelly kid detritus to find some lost shoe.
I’m sure this policy would horrify many better mothers than I, but guess what? They always ended up finding their stuff. The only time I remember a crisis was a playoff soccer game, when Cheetah Boy couldn’t find his jersey, no matter what. He was a star player, so he had to be there. The sobbing was positively operatic.
We finally just went without the jersey and, while the coach was miffed, it all got sorted out. It was years later that we finally found that jersey, tucked well under his mattress.
While soccer was early, at least there was a timer. You knew how long you were in for — unlike baseball and softball, which just kept going and going and going until it didn’t anymore. You were there for the long haul. And the season is so long. You started wearing parkas and drinking hot coffee, and ended in shorts and drinking sodas.
I probably sound like it was misery, but of course it wasn’t. It was just what you did with your family, and I loved having a family of my own, albeit premanufactured.
It occurred to me the other day that I’m not committed to watching any kids’ games these days, but it will be coming back around.
My first grandson, Floyd, is 15 months old now (can you believe it?) and while his favorite sport right now is tossing things on the floor and then throwing a hissy fit until someone picks them up, it won’t be that long before he’ll be old enough for T-ball.
There are still lots of dandelions on that field. And I have my folding chair ready.
Want to meet me? I’ll be hanging out at Curly Girl’s dive bar on Monday, Sept. 30 at noon. Stop by to say hi, get your book signed, buy a book or meet Curly Girl, the bartender. You don’t have to buy a drink. Yes, it’s a dive bar but it’s clean because my daughter’s a neat freak. Poor Richard’s Cocktails, 6412 E. Stearns St. Long Beach. poorrichardslb.com
