Punched Ticket - Musings of a Wrestling Mom
Although out of the classroom for at least 5 years, as a teacher I developed some habits that I’m convinced are forever instilled as second nature. For example, a skill I have honed in on is blocking out noises of all levels, especially voices. After years of developing techniques to avoid the piercing shrills heard at a first grade recess, I sometimes have to remind myself to focus when I actually want to hear what another is saying.
I must admit that years of developing strategies to shut others out have proved worthy at my son’s wrestling meets over the last 13 years. Recently at high school County, I was focused in my solitary shell, writing in notebooks while blocking out directives and cheers from gruff-voiced coaches and amped-up fans. An elderly gentlemen near me was finally persistent enough to draw my attention away from the thoughts I was jotting all over my paper. He asked what I was writing. After I explained that I author a blog about many different topics, he inquired if I was writing about this, as he gestured to the organized ruckus that surrounded us. My answer was no at that time, but we are now entering the weekend of my son’s senior year semi-state matches. In other words, inspiration to write about life as the mom of a wrestler is in full force.
If I run into the interested grandpa at New Castle this weekend, my demeanor may strictly contrast our first exchange. The meet that may admit your child to the annual Friday night state gathering at Banker’s Life tends to force one to be extremely tuned in. I will let him know that the emotions of a wrestling mom span from pure excitement to almost throwing up, often both simultaneously. Therefore, I appreciated his nudge towards an obvious blog topic. When my kiddo overcame an opponent that odds said he couldn’t, I cried. When he lost after expending every last bit of grit & energy he had to offer, I cried again. During his matches, the F bomb has slipped out of my mouth more times than I would care to admit.
My son has always been a methodical opponent. He has consistently remained respectful, win or lose and he hasn’t given me reason to intervene concerning weigh-ins or, more importantly, grades. He has earned the confidence that I’ve witnessed developing in him over the years. I have gagged while throwing his practice clothes in the washer, drenched with sweat amounts only comparable to my night time hot flash perspiration. Many of his Saturday mornings have started before my eyes were able to part. I’ve felt empathy towards him when the family devoured odoriferous Italian while he ate one plain, baked chicken breast, with luke-warm water to wash it down.
After more than a decade as a fan of wrestling, the sport still has the ability to throw me for a loop. Will the lightest weight be the first match? Will the meet start early? Will there be bleachers or do I need to bring my lawn chair? Will there be a break before the final round? Can I bring in a cooler? Will there be healthy snacks at the concession stand? How was that stalling?!
I have been known to say that children give you approximately one beautiful moment per every 100 shitty or mundane ones. That apparently averages out to just enough to make humans continue to perpetuate the species. Throughout my eldest’s high school career, though, the scales have been tipped. The amount of joyful, significant still frames in my mind heavily outweigh the lackluster times spent taxiing to practices and meets.
I have been healthy and blessed enough to watch my son create memorable moments in his life. I anticipate many more to come. Some of my most memorable moments are indebted to being the mom of an athlete. The next time I watch my young man wrestle, it could be the last time this season, or the last time ever. Either way, I will feel the same pride that I could feel in the energy enveloping me on senior night. I appreciate every moment of joyful anticipation and celebration along my roller coaster ride to TacOcaT.