I think I miss those bear hugs most of all.
The Healing Power of the Gay Softball Moms
Kids’ softball games are long - 90 minutes long - which is a lot of time to fill making idle chit chat with other parents, especially if you’re naturally shy. But this year, my 13th season as a softball mom, I vowed I’d be the one to make the first move and get the conversation started.
Yet something about the body language of the other parents on my daughter’s team made me immediately clam up, and the first game ended without a single introduction having been made. Then more games and more weeks passed in the same manner; all of us parents essentially ignoring one another inning after inning. Sure there was an occasional comment, a mutual gasp or cheer, but nothing more.
All of this changed however, when we received an email from the head coach almost four weeks into the season, announcing that a new girl would be joining the team. The coach made a special point to ask us to welcome her moms as well.
Then, to be really clear in case someone was skim reading or thought the coach had made a typo, one of these new moms sent a follow up email introducing herself and her partner and expressing their excitement about joining the team. Well, well, well. That was certainly big news for a little
town.
I was confident that the young girl would be welcomed,
but I was genuinely worried about how the parents would treat her moms. After all, a couple years earlier there were more yard signs supporting a ban on gay marriage than opposing it in our
city. Also, clearly this wasn’t an outgoing or welcoming bunch. This would not go well, I thought.
I could not have been more wrong.
As soon as the moms arrived at the field, one of the dads leapt from his seat like it had been lit on fire. He sprinted towards them, arm extended, ready for a handshake and grinning from ear to ear. He introduced himself and welcomed them to the team. His wife quickly followed suit.
Then, one by one, the rest of the parents jumped up and formed a giant receiving line behind the bleachers. Each offering a friendly welcome of their own. But what happened next was even more surprising. The parents - the same ones who had ignored each other for an entire month - turned to one another and finally began to talk. They offered up names. They chatted about their jobs. Whole family histories were divulged.
In fact, the group was so immersed in conversation, had one of the kids actually done something amazing out on the softball field not a single parent would have noticed. Fortunately there was very little chance of that.
In the weeks that followed, the party-like atmosphere at the games continued. Now that the ice had been broken, the team parents easily mingled and enjoyed the camaraderie that comes with watching your 10-year-olds struggle to play a complicated and frustrating game.
I took my own opportunity to get to know the new moms in the third inning. Turned out they were both interesting and friendly, a lawyer and a business woman, and lo and behold they shared the same hopes and dreams for their kids that I did for mine. Shocking news indeed.
After that first game with our new player, another parent took me aside and joked about all the fuss. “Geez, no one ever bothered to say hello to me, yet these ladies arrive and they’re treated like royalty!”
“Yeah, come to think of it, I was ignored for weeks,” I feigned indignation.
Even my 10-year-old daughter noticed the difference, so I tried to make sense of what happened. I suggested that the other team parents must have shared my concern about how the two moms would be received, so they were eager to let them know they were welcome.
But I think there’s something more. Perhaps they – we
- also wanted the moms to know that we’re not like those other people, the intolerant yard sign-bearing people lurking in our midst.
We are not like them.
I suppose that’s part of the process - the pendulum swing
- that extra offering of kindness that has to take place, until enough time has passed and the addition of a Muslim family, or a black family, or a “Modern” family at a suburban softball game seems completely normal.
And the way we’ll know when that’s happened? It’s when they’re completely ignored, like everybody else.
Middle of Week Eight
Samantha was home alone for a few hours today. She was supposed to be finishing up reading that damn Iliad, but when I came back I discovered her watching an episode of “Teen Wolf” on my computer instead. I should really put a password on that thing.
I also discovered a pound box of candy sitting on the kitchen counter. “Where did that come from?” I asked.
“The new neighbors brought it by. They came over to introduce themselves.”
“Wait, you opened the front door? You’re not supposed to open the door when you’re home alone. And then, you took candy from them? We don’t know them yet. That means they’re strangers! You took candy from strangers! Those are the two, most basic safety rules that every parent teaches their children. One: never answer the door when you’re home alone, and two: never take candy from strangers. And you managed to break them both, at the same time! What were you thinking?”
“But, it was See’s Candy.” “Assorted Nuts and Chews?” “Yes.”
Well, okay then.
The New Bizarre Online Security Questions
Online security questions used to be simple, like what’s your mother’s maiden name, high school mascot, or favorite pie? But now they’ve gotten strange. Either the website designers are trying hard to foil the hackers or, as I suspect, they’re really, really bored. What else could account for these bizarre questions?
Actual security questions:
Who spoke at your high school graduation? The valedictorian. Hmm, what was her name again . . . brown hair . . . over-achiever
. . . went to Berkeley and uh . . . ”
What was your favorite game to play as a child? Good Lord, who on earth would remember such a thing? And do they mean board game like Dream Date, or kickball or hide and seek? I need some clarity here.
What was your dream job as a child? You mean when I was five and wanted to be a princess. I wonder if that counts as an actual job.
What was your favorite place to visit as a child? Okay really people, let’s think about this for a second - if I can’t remember my password, one I likely created only a month ago, why do you think I can remember what games I liked to play, or what I thought, or what I felt back when I was a child, so many eons
ago?
What was the name of your first pet? Sandy. Uh, oops, darn. Now you all know. Can’t use that one now.
Where is your great grandmother buried? My great- grandmother. Seriously? Well, I never met her and don’t even know her first name so I’m gonna guess I don’t know where she’s buried either. But I’ll take a stab at it - in a grave.
What is your favorite food? Easy: shrimp and pasta, and hamburgers. And that ahi tuna sandwich with avocado at that place on Third. I like sushi too. Also steak and baked potato with sour cream. And garlic bread with spaghetti. Oh God I’m so hungry now.
What was your hair color as a child? I don’t like what you’re implying there mister.
Where were you when you heard about 9/11? Huh? Holy crap. Here I was having a perfectly good day and now I’m thinking about that horrible morning. Jeez, people, come on.
What is the coolest place you’ve ever visited? Gosh, that seems really subjective. Is there some hip meter I’m supposed to use to decide? I’ll have you know I’ve been to lots of hip places because I’m pretty cool and . . . wait, oh, I didn’t have my reading glasses on. Apparently it’s “What’s the coldest place?” Still, no idea.
What was the license plate number on your dad’s first car? Let’s see, since my dad bought his first car about a decade before I was born I’m not sure I remember that. Why stop there? What was the thesis of my dad’s sophomore year history term paper? What was he thinking back on July
18th, 1952? How many hairs did he have on his head?
What is the first name of the boy or girl that you first kissed? Why, that would be my husband of course. Ahem. That’s the story I’m sticking with.
What is your dream vacation? Oh this is easy – Fiji. Wait no, that takes too long to get to. I know, Puerta Vallarta. Yes, I’ve always wanted to go there! But I’ve also heard that the Bahamas are quite nice, and then there are a lot of wintery places I want to see. The Alps, Banff, The Himalayas - how will I narrow this down?
What is the name of a college you applied to but didn’t attend?
Gee, thanks for bringing up that old wound.
What sports team do you love to see lose? That’s a very negative question. These programmers must be a ton of fun to be around. Frankly I don’t care who wins or loses as long as they’re serving cold beer.
What is the name of your least favorite relative? Whaaat? I can’t believe that people have a least favorite relative and even if they did, wouldn’t they feel guilty actually typing in their name? Because what if you die and that is the one relative who is able to crack your password codes to access your accounts and then they see their name listed there as your least favorite relative? That’s too much of a risk for me, and my backstabbing cousin Jennifer.
I’m mentally exhausted from answering all their questions. I think this website knows more about me now than my therapist ever did. I could really use a cold beer . . . on Fiji . . . and that Ahi Sandwich from that place on Third.
Wait, don’t I have four Great-Grandmothers?
End of Week Eight
Today someone called me a curmudgeon. I was pretty happy about it until I realized that they didn’t mean it as a compliment.
My husband and I have both gotten rather “soap boxy” as we’ve grown older. We get easily worked up about things that are totally out of our control, like crazy political views, excessive school rules, and the strange popularity of kale. We gotta watch it though, because personality traits like these only get worse with age.
I know this because my mom used to have fine manners but now has become so impatient that when we enter a restaurant she simply finds an empty booth and sits down. Like she owns the place. Then I have to apologize to the hostess and explain that she’s old, and pretend like she doesn’t know the rule about waiting to be seated. But she does. She’s just decided the rules don’t apply to her anymore.
She’s always been a tad impatient. Like back when I went to the hospital to give birth to our second child. After only one hour, my mom asks me if I have any idea how much longer it would be. Um gosh, Mother, I’m doing my best here. I don’t know.
Turns out that “Frasier” was on that night and she didn’t want to miss a single episode. She tells me that she and my dad were going to go home and watch “Frasier” and then come back to the hospital later, when I’ve completed the task at hand. Well that seemed a tad absurd. I mean, maybe our priorities are a little out of whack at the moment?
I called my sister to ask her to record the important “Frazier” episode, but it still took the two of us a good fifteen minutes to convince my mom to stay at the hospital. She didn’t trust that my sister would remember to tape her show, and she’d had about enough of this waiting around business.
About this time, the doctor came in. She took a quick look under the sheet and said, “Hang up the phone. It’s time to push.”
A few minutes later my mom got her ninth grandchild.
With plenty of time to go home to watch “Frasier.”
It Was Only Five Dollars
“Oh my God, look at this! They have my size and it’s only five dollars!” I told my youngest daughter, in what was apparently an embarrassingly loud voice in the children’s underwear section of JC Penney.
I was excited about my discovery that I could buy bras in the children’s department for a fraction of the price of what I had been paying for the grown-up versions. Turns out I’d been throwing good money away for years!
While my daughter spent the afternoon recovering from the mortifying incident, I spent the rest of the day telling anyone who would listen. I didn’t care if people knew my bra size. There was money to be saved, lots of it.
But after posting my news on social media and not getting the response I had imagined, something suddenly became clear. I’d lost it.
How did I get here?
Though the bra revelation was the tipping point, I had ignored earlier warning sings. Wasn’t I a bit too excited about receiving that hedge trimmer for Mother’s Day? Then I spent the entire work week looking forward to Saturday when I could finally have my way with the front yard bonsai. Good Lord, really?
Or what about when I was in Target and spotted their new fall line? I distinctly remember thinking: “I can’t wait to return in a few months when it will all be on sale!”
I also have to come clean that I wasn’t really busy on a recent Friday night like I told my friends. No, I preferred the idea
of sitting on my couch watching House Hunters International to blowing a bunch of cash to see Gloria Estefan perform at the Hollywood Bowl.
It’s not just my behavior that’s changed. Looking in the mirror at my saggy sweat pants and oversized tee, and messy outgrown dyed hair, I hardly recognize the clichéd middle-aged woman I’ve become.
Back when I was young, I always strived to look my best. Never, and I mean never, did I put on sweat pants, not even in the privacy of my own home.
Even when I got married, I wasn’t one of those women who figured I had snagged a man so I could throw in the towel. But though my husband and I agreed we preferred travel over owning luxury cars or a fancy home, we also wanted to start a family so we bought our first house. That’s when things started to change.
As soon as we moved in I became obsessed with decorating it to match the 1920’s style. I scoured flea markets and antique stores to complete the look. Before friends would visit I’d spend hours cleaning and polishing to make it look perfect.
Once we had children, my priorities changed again. Besides their constant care and feeding, there were other obligations: art classes, ballet, tennis, and the indoctrination into softball, their activities that took up most of my time.
As they got older, as kids selfishly do, getting them a quality education became our prime concern. We moved to an area with better schools, but a much higher cost of living and so shopping for bargains and penny pinching became my new norm.
As I jumped through one hoop to the next, I rarely, if ever, stopped to take stock along the way. But a few weeks after my bra revelation, I had an opportunity to do just that. My eldest daughter was interviewing at my college alma mater and as we toured the campus I was amazed by what I saw: dozens of signs and flyers advertising a variety of internships, clubs to join, and exciting semesters abroad.
Did these things exist when I went to college, and if so, why didn’t I take advantage of any of them? As I walked around the beautiful sculpture garden, I regretted missing out on so many exciting things during my college years. I wished I had stopped to take stock back then.
I didn’t want to make the same mistake now. So I thought about my life and all the trade offs we’ve made of late, how we’ve learned to live with leaky bathrooms, stained carpets, and put travel plans on hold, all because our eldest daughter would be starting college soon.
Then I thought about that daughter and her incredible zest for life; all the challenges she’s taken on, the jobs she’s gotten all on her own, and the way she tackled her college applications by creating a bulletin board listing deadlines, costs, and likelihood of financial aid. I marveled at her commitment, energy, and drive, things I never saw in myself at that age.
I realized, that while I may lament the loss of a life imagined, or once lived, I’m more interested now in giving my daughter the best chance at her life’s start. I’d still love to have a fancy wardrobe, a perfect house, and yes, even a grown-up bra, but for now things are fine th
e way they are.
Maybe I haven’t really lost it, after all.
Week Nine
“Can I exchange these shoes? I bought them for my daughter, because I knew she was looking for some just like these, but I wasn’t sure of her size. And of course she didn’t text me back until a half-hour after I had already bought the wrong size. She’s off at the beach right now with her friends because they’re leaving for college next week and this is the last time they’ll see each other, and I guess the phone reception isn’t great at the beach so that’s why she wasn’t able to get back to me before I bought them.”
That was Samantha, not me. Samantha imitating me talking to the sales clerk, telling them my whole life’s story.
“You realize you can just say, ‘I need to exchange these.’ They don’t care about the rest. They don’t want to hear it.”
She was right.
I know this because my sister and I often teased my mom for doing the same thing. And it was my grandmother before that. During trips to the grocery store we’d actually pray that the clerk would not offer up a perfunctory, “How ya’ doing?” because we knew that would prompt her to give a painfully honest and long-winded answer.
“Well, my arthritis in my hip is still acting up, and since I’ve been on this new heart medicine I’ve lost my appetite, but my doctor says I need to keep eating to keep my strength up. I go to Dr. Gulati, over in the 6-12 building. Do you know him? He’s quite good. Even though he’s from another country, he speaks very loudly so I can understand him just fine. Anyway, the doctor says I have to force myself to eat, even if I don’t feel like it, so that’s what I’ve been doing.”
Is That The Shirt You're Wearing Page 19
