Soccer field jitters

Robbie had his first soccer practice of the season this week. He had to go straight from after care at school to practice because both Mike and I got hung up at work, which meant he didn't have a soccer ball or cleats with him, neither of which seemed to bother him.

We arrived at the field and I walked him over to the team. The coach knew him from last season when Robbie and his son had been on the same team. I turned to walk away from the field and was kind of surprised to feel my stomach sinking a little bit to leave him there. It's not like I was going far away -- just to the parking lot, only for 60 minutes. But I found myself feeling a little anxious for him and oddly as though I'd left a little piece of my heart out there on the soccer field.

"Please have fun," I thought. "Please make a friend. Please come running to the sideline after practice sweaty-headed and dirty and smiling." And then I began to think about what I would say in case he didn't have fun or make a friend or come off the field smiling. "It's only the first practice. Next time you'll know someone." 

I watched practice from my car and realized that the uneasiness -- all 2 minutes of it -- was all on me. Robbie didn't have one bit of hesitation. He kicked and ran and participated in the drills. I was happy that he was wearing his favorite neon green hoodie, so I could easily pick him out from the crowd of boys.  

How did this happen to me, this anxiety over leaving my 11-year-old at a soccer field while I sat 100 yards away? I never had those fears for Charlie. Maybe that's because when it comes to sports, Charlie has never known a stranger. If there is a ball involved, he is your friend and is game for whatever game you've got. I don't think I've felt that way about Annie. She can be shy when she first meets someone, but she is such a confident spirit that any shyness melts away easily. So why do I fuss about Robbie?

He is my baby. I swore I would never treat my third child any different than I treated the other two. But I do. Not only is he my baby, but he's my spectrum kid. My pervasive-development-disorder-not-otherwise-specified boy. So that means in some instances, he needs kid gloves. But as I sat there watching his neon green hood bobbing up and down the field, I realized this kid has changed. Right under my nervous and watchful eye. He has grown and matured. While I was sitting there praying he would make a friend, he was out there praying he would make a goal.

I guess its time I start letting go a little. Loosening the reins and watching where he will go. And I realize (and my older two will be oh so happy to hear it) that he's also grown up enough to be held to a higher standard. To be expected to pull his weight more than we've required of him in the past. 

I can't promise not to get nervous or overprotective again where Robbie is concerned. But at least maybe not on the soccer field.

Livin' the day

Wow. Today was a great day. I am dog tired, but in a good way.

It was just one of those mostly ordinary days. I slept until 9am -- that's always a good start. When I got up, I decided to make my grocery list and gather my coupons because it's pretty slim pickin's in our fridge and pantry.

Do you know that it took me almost two hours to get through all the coupon inserts and try to match them up to the sales? By then, it was time to make lunch and then get ready for Charlie's soccer game. So while the kids finished lunch, I ran to Target to get a few must-haves, including dishwasher soap.

It was the first time that I've had a chance to use Mike's Target discount. I saved $5.20. Not riches, but I'll take it. Mike is really enjoying the job. It's not what he wants to do forever, but I think he's happy to be working as part of a team.

Then it was off to Charlie's soccer game. I really love watching soccer. I grew up playing it (bet you wouldn't have guessed that, huh?). Charlie's been playing with the same team for about 2 years. It's technically a travel team, but so far the travel has all been pretty local.

He scored a beautiful goal today. He was standing just in front of right midfield when the ball came to him. He set it up and took an awesome left-footed shot that sailed right through an opening in the defenders and arched to the left into the goal. Just after he made the shot, I wished that I'd had a videotape of it to show it here. But, in truth, I was enjoying just living the day and being present in the moment.

After soccer, we went to the First Communion Mass (which counts as Sunday Mass, so woohoo! Guess who is sleeping in tomorrow?!). All those little girls in pretty white dresses and boys who look like mini versions of their fathers in khakis and navy sport coats, faces clean and hair brushed (for once!).

We were invited to our friends' house to celebrate their son Jack's First Communion. So we finished out the evening sitting around visiting with friends, which is always good.

See? Nothing too special. But definitely a great day. Hope yours was too.

Eating crow

Waiter, I'll have an order of crow, please. And a Diet Coke.

When I was young, I broke my arm four times. Each arm twice. Four years in a row. The first three times my mom, being the good nurse that she is, refused to believe I had a serious injury and waited for a period of time (the longest a few days) before she took me in for x-rays.

I swore that when I became a mother, I would not do that. If my kid said he was hurt, by gosh I would believe him.

Waiter, could I have that crow battered and fried, please?

Yesterday Charlie had a soccer game. On the way to the game, we learned that one of his soccer teammates had been pretty seriously hurt in a football game earlier in the day. Charlie asked a lot about his injuries, how it had happened and if he was going to be ok. (He is.) Then he started re-living all of his on-field injuries, most of which were bigger in his head than they had been in reality. I could see where this was going.

"Charlie," I said. "If you get hurt today, you are not to lay on the ground moaning. You need to shake it off and get back in the game."

"But what if I'm running my fastest and I run into their biggest guy really hard? Can I stay down?"

"Only if you are bleeding or there are bones sticking out."

Charlie's reputation as a seasoned injury actor is well documented. I was trying to head off at the pass any plans of a repeat performance.

Just as I had predicted, about 10 minutes into the game, Charlie had the ball and was streaking downfield toward the opposing team's goal. He collided with a defender and landed a bit awkwardly.

"My wrist! My wrist!," he screamed as I sat watching from my chair about 5 feet away.

"You're fine. Shake it off," I called to him.

By this time he was rolling on the grass, the 12-year-old referee was hovering over him and the coach was on his way out to where Charlie lay moaning.

"Amy, I think he's really hurt this time," said one of the other soccer moms.

"He's fine."

"Amy, go over there," Mike said.

"He's fine," I said, while reluctantly getting out of my chair and walking over to him.

"Charlie, get up. Your team needs you," I told him, not especially sympathetically.

"Mom, it huuurrts!"

"Charlie, your team has no subs. You have to get up."

He got up, sat on the sidelines and iced it for the rest of the half.

"Amy, I know how Charlie is, but I saw that fall. It looked pretty bad," said one of the moms.

I acknowledged that I was sure the initial fall hurt and his wrist might be a bit sore, but I thought his carrying on was mostly for the drama.

Does that crow come with fries?

During the second half, he went back in the game and I watched him closely to see if he would forget about the "hurt" wrist in the heat of competition. He had a few good runs, but did seem to be a little less aggressive than usual.

With about seven minutes left in the game, he fell again. I could see it coming. Again with the tears. Again with the "my wrist!" Again, over to the sidelines with the ice. I went over to where my future Screen Actors Guild member sat next to the coach.

"Charlie, I'm sure your wrist is sore," I said, trying a softer approach. "I think you're ok, but I'll give you some ibuprofen when we get home."

After the game as we were packing up our chairs to head home, someone asked if he needed more ice. I said I thought he was fine with the (no longer cold) insta-ice pack he already had. In my own defense, his wrist really wasn't that swollen.

So we came home and went about our afternoon. I did notice that he wasn't using his left arm much, so I gave him some ibuprofen. I thought about taking him across the street to our doctor neighbor, but she wasn't home and he really didn't want to go.

After he was asleep, I went into his room to see how he would respond if I touched and squeezed his wrist.

"Don't do that!" he sleepily muttered.

Hmmm...maybe I was wrong.

Caw! Caw!

This morning as he was getting dressed for church, I saw that he was pulling on his pants with just his right hand. So, after church I called my mom and asked if it were her, would she take him in? Amazingly, she said yes. Guess she's learned her lesson.

So off we went to the urgent care center. Where they took x-rays and where I could see with my own eyes before the doctor even pointed it out to me, a fracture in his left wrist.

Waiter, could I get a side of guilt with that crow?