At Least It Isn't NASCAR

So. Listen. I once heard a women's speaker talk about marriage. Her point was that we need to find shared interests and that, if we can't find them, we need to MAKE THEM HAPPEN. She told about how her husband was a huge NASCAR fan and how she really hated NASCAR. But then, she started sitting down with her husband because, well, she wanted to spend time with him EVEN when he was watching NASCAR and, first, she found herself learning about racing. Then, she started to get to know certain drivers. Then she found herself LIKING certain drivers and then, CHEERING FOR CERTAIN DRIVERS! Now, she is a huge NASCAR fan. All because she wanted to spend some time with her NASCAR loving husband.

Let me interrupt this program to say that I would rather be tied up with chains while ants devoured my body one teensy, tiny, piece at a time than become a NASCAR fan.You can just kill me dead because I would prefer the grave to watching a car race drive around a circular track over and over and over and over and over and over again. Ask me what I love most about my husband and, well, up until this very moment I would have told you that I love his heart for Jesus. But that's only because I forgot about how he doesn't watch NASCAR*.

I totally get it though. NOT about NASCAR, but about spending time with your spouse and learning to love what they love. Or your close friends. Or your children. Really, this works with any significant relationship you have.

When I married my husband, I detested soccer. Hated it. And, in the interest of full disclosure, it's important for me to explain that I still don't really like soccer. But a weird thing has happened. I've become fascinated by the World Cup. I can't explain it. I watched A LOT of it this past year and I even watched it when my husband wasn't watching me watch it. As in, when he wasn't even home. 

Another weird things has happened. I've started yelling things at my children. Things like, "GO DOWN THE LINE!"

And, "TOP DEFENDER!"

Even, "GOOOOOOOAAAAAAAALLLLLL!"

I've been so proud of my boys this season because they're really learning. Garrett is SUCH a good listener. He plays wherever the coach tells him to play and he doesn't try to be the star. He's one of the best defenders on the team. He's also one of the fastest kids, which makes him an asset. 

This year, the boys joined teams full of kids that had already been playing together for awhile. But they quickly began to fit in. Garrett, by proving his worth by following directions. He even managed to score once, despite the fact that he is very often found playing defense. And Matthew, by, well, by being a bit of a stud. Where his brother is just fine being a team player, this guy wants to be the star. (We're working on it.)

When he sets his mind to it (disclaimer: he doesn't always set his mind to it) he is FAST and SOLID and FAST and COMPETITIVE and FAST.

And he's scored 11 goals this season, with one game remaining.

I somehow find myself on the edge of my seat, somewhat crazy excited when one of my kids has a clear shot, internally howling things like, "BE AGGRESSIVE!"

It's taken eleven long years but, it's entirely possible that my husband and his soccer loving family and our soccer loving boys have finally rubbed off on me.

Don't get me wrong, I'd still choose football or swimming or track over soccer. But when the boys want to play it, well, I suppose that's fine.

I still draw the line at NASCAR.

*Okay. No. The fact that he doesn't watch NASCAR is not at the top of the list, by any means. BUT IT IS ON THE LIST!

That's My Son

I assume that parents raise each child differently, according to his or her personality, needs, likes and dislikes. I assume that growing up isn't the same for the children and that each child, in turn, gives the parent a completely different experience. I assume this is true for all families, not just my own.

Four years ago, I sat in a doctor's office for hours waiting with Matthew's mother, her sister and brother-in-law, and my husband. I wanted to reach out my hand and rest it on the rounded abdomen that held him tight. I wanted to meet him and know him and love him but he belonged to someone else. Someone's who's belly I didn't know well enough to touch. She knew him. She knew his wiggles and his sleep patterns and his hiccups. I knew only the idea of him--wrapped in a love so foreign I couldn't understand when it spoke. There was a blue and white stuffed puppy his brother had chosen for Valentine's Day, sitting in his bed two states away. There were bottles and diapers and a baby swing. There were tiny baby clothes washed and waiting for the boy I would call, "Son."

I loved him. The way I love Italy even though I've never been there.

I wanted to surgically transplant him into my own body, as though his mother was giving me a kidney, because I wanted to feel him there, where his brother had been. I wanted to have--if only for a moment--his legs shoved against my rib cage, his head pushed into my pelvis, his very life dependent on my own. "But he is hers," I would think to myself as though the moment he was pulled from her, he would suddenly be mine.

But he wasn't.

And it's maybe taken me all this time to realize that.

It wasn't a firework explosion of instant attachment like it was when his brother was born. Where else would Garrett have gone? He'd been my son for nine months already. As much as a child can belong to a parent-- which, if we're honest is never really very much at all--he belonged to us. Matthew was placed in my arms only after we'd been made aware that there was a war waged on his life. Birth mother against birth father with a tiny baby caught in the crosshairs of a piece pursuing checkmate.

I loved him purely and honestly--not the way I love Italy--but it was always with the knowledge that we might lose him to one who's blood pulses through my son.

And when the battle was over, I loved him purely and honestly but always with the knowledge that he might grow up and choose one who's blood pulses through him.

But sometime, when I wasn't looking, I realized that I love him purely and honestly and that my blood pulses through him. It doesn't match. I take no part in his creation. But I cultivate his God-given passions. I kiss his boo-boos and I celebrate his victories. I keep him alive with care and I keep him sustained with discipline and hugs and two enthusiastic thumbs up.

He is different from his brother.

So different.

He is moody and emotional and neither his father nor I can adequately figure out what to do with his temper. We don't know if it's hereditary or simply the luck of the draw but in these first four years he has kept us on our knees, asking for wisdom in parenting a personality so unlike our own. And I have wondered, as these days and weeks and months have passed, if a moment would come when I didn't subconsciously feel like I share him.

Don't get me wrong. I do not spend my day dwelling on the fact that Matthew has four parents. It rarely enters my mind at all, really. But I think, down deep in my soul, I have felt the need to send his birth parents telepathic messages when Matthew has victories--as though it is only because of their DNA that the victory was achieved.

Until last night.

Either the clouds parted and sun poured down and I had a major break through or a shell cracked and allowed me to see that the break through happened long ago and I've been too ignorant to realize it.

Matthew has wanted to play sports for a long time. First, we told him he had to be three since few sports begin before that. He was going to play fall t-ball but we were having so many issues with his attitude leading up to preschool that we told him he would have to prove to us that he could be good at school before he would be allowed to play a sport. He's done very well at school and we registered him for indoor soccer. He was thrilled. Then, a week before his first game, he started telling us he didn't want to play. He wasn't big enough. Why would we make him play soccer? WHY? WHY? WHY? So, needless to say, we thought his first game would be a disaster with him sitting in the middle of the court, refusing to play and crying his everloving head off. But Saturday came and he did great. He had an incredible attitude, was nice to the other kids, and wore a smile the entire time. His team lost a lot to nothing. Not that they keep score.

Last night he had another game. Garrett had a wrestling practice at the exact same time so Troy took Garrett to wrestling and I took Matthew to his game. He started off on the sideline. For half a quarter he sat on my lap and I explained that he needed to try to get the ball in the net. I showed him which net. I said, "When you get in, go kick it in that net for me."

Well, Matthew got his turn.

He sprinted past the other kids.

He gave the ball a good kick.

It flew into the net.

There is a moment in The Blind Side when Sandra Bullock (as Leigh Anne Tuohy) says, to a particularly obnoxious rival parent, "Yo, deliverance. You see number 74? Well, that's my son." Matthew is playing peewee soccer. The parents aren't annoying and the skill set is nearly nonexistent. But in that moment, when the ball sailed into the net, when the parents all cheered, when my son turned around and tried to act nonchalant but couldn't stop his face from twisting into a smile, well, I don't think I will be more proud of that kid if he one day plays on the winning Superbowl team. He ran toward me with his thumbs up and I threw my two up in the air. I couldn't wipe the stupid (AND HUGE) grin from my face. I couldn't swallow the lump of pride in my throat.

He scored again.

And again.

He sat out for another half quarter, all the while howling, "I NEED TO GET BACK IN THERE!"

He did and he scored once more for good measure.

His team lost six or seven to four. But those four goals belonged to my son. (And, actually, the other team can thank him for one of theirs.)

"He's seriously good," people whispered. "He's got skills," they said. "Who's kid is that?"

That's my son.

He'll be four tomorrow. He's not playing on the World Cup team any time soon. But it was a victorious day for him. When we climbed into the car to go pick up his brother, I told him how very proud I was. "Because I got the ball in the net!" he declared.

"No, Matthew," I said firmly. "I don't care if you get the ball in the net or not. I am so very proud of you because you had a great attitude. But, yes, you did great getting the ball in the net four times."

Truth be told, while obviously his attitude is the most important thing to me, it was the fact that he scored four goals. Because, in those goals, I couldn't contain my pride. In those goals it wasn't because his birth parents DNA came together in such a way that Matthew can score at age not quite four. In those goals was a smiling boy who falls asleep across the hall, who practices his letters with me, who sings and dances and calls me mommy. In those goals was my son.

I couldn't reach my hand across the chair four years ago and touch my son through his mother--but I can spin him around now because he's mine. I can hold him tight. I can whisper, "I love you."

And I do.

Every chance I get.

Take Down

I have no clue how the scoring works in wrestling. I understand it, in theory, but I always have to wait until the match is over to find out who won.

Last year, Garrett wrestled during a month long session. He came away with no victories. Each time, I waited until the very end to find out that he'd lost again.

He spent a lot of time on his back. If he was winning, his chivalry took over and he seemed to let the other kid score a few for fun. Then he'd lose.

He just started wrestling again.

His first tournament was last Thursday.

He had two matches.

And he won them both.

"That was FUN!" he declared.

It was fun for me too. Except, like I said, I had no idea if he was winning or not until it was over.

Tebow Time

My status update on Facebook reads, "To the doubters and unbelievers: There is a God and Tim Tebow has found His favor.


My brother wrote about the Tebow phenomenon and he said it better than I could.

If you know me at all, you know that I am a serious San Diego Chargers fan. I have been for about the last 18 years. When it comes to the AFC West, I want the Chargers at the top every time. I despise the Raiders and the Chiefs but I used to be able to take or leave the Broncos. Obviously I wanted the Chargers to beat them when they played each other but otherwise they could win or lose. It didn't really matter to me. Then the Broncos put Cutler at the helm and I added them to my list of teams to hate. I cannot stand Cutler. Off the top of my head, I can't think of a player I dislike more although, these days, Tom Brady is a relatively close second.

When I watched the draft in 2010 (if I hadn't already alienated 90% of my readers in the first few sentences of this post, I'm fairly certain I just did. I mean, really, you come here to read stories of my dirty boys. I regale you with vignettes about fecal matter and vomit. On occasion, perhaps, if I'm lucky, I challenge you to dig deeper into your faith. But sports. You draw the line at knowing that I watched the draft. I'm sorry. Please come back tomorrow.) I audibly cried out, "NO!" when the Denver Broncos drafted Tim Tebow. Why? Because I really like Tebow. And I had grown quite accustomed to hating the Broncos under Cutler. Even when Cutler was traded I still detested Denver simply for the fact that they had, at one time, employed him. I just knew that I couldn't hate the Broncos if Tebow was their starting QB.

In the past few weeks, I've watched this very scenario unfold. I needed the Broncos to lose today to bring my Chargers within one game of the lead in the division. For this reason, I was pulling for the Bears but when I saw the same overtime situation playing out once again, I couldn't help but know exactly how it was going to end.

God is using Tim Tebow. Do I think they'll win the Superbowl, not really. Do I think God is showing favor upon this man who takes every opportunity to shout the name of his Savior across the air waves? Yes. Yes I do.

Next week the Broncos play the Patriots. I need the Patriots to win if there is to be any hope at all of my Chargers making the playoffs (a ridiculous long shot at this point). But you know what, in all likelihood I am going to cheer for Tebow's team. Today, Tom Brady screamed at his offensive coordinator. He let the expletives fly as he sat looking like a spoiled brat. Tim Tebow praised the Lord that we both worship. As I grow up I realize that it's all about furthering the kingdom of heaven. Deep down, it is rarely all about the Chargers.

So next Sunday I'm a Broncos fan.

Go Tebow!

World Cup

I've said before that my husband totally lucked out when it came to marrying a woman who is into sports. For real. I am at least as big of an NFL fan as he is--maybe even bigger. I love myself some National Football League. I like baseball, basketball, and a large number of Olympic sports. I even found myself at a hockey game last year and, while I really had no clue what was going on, it sure was fun watching all the fights break out.

But, unfortunately for my poor husband, during the World Cup I turn into a total cliche wife. I don't ask him to turn it off because he doesn't make me turn off football when the third three hour game of a Sunday begins. But I just don't understand why anyone would waste an afternoon watching a ball sail back and forth 8,000,000 times. But right now I'm watching the United States play England. (I'm fairly certain those are the teams and it pains me that I am so clueless because I don't like being a regular wife. I thrive on my sports knowledge which, where soccer is concerned, is tremendously lacking.) Troy had to run to the hardware store so I'm keeping tabs on the game. A commercial just came on and the narrator said, "All over the world, soccer is almost a religion." And I made a face that somewhat resembled the faces I make when I'm throwing up.

Soccer is boring. It's back and forth, back and forth, back and forth and once, maybe twice, in a game someone scores. My dad used to say the same thing about swimming. "How can you go back and forth so many times and not go crazy?" He'd ask me. I guess the love of the sport is in the eye of the beholder. Don't get me wrong, I admire what those athletes can do. I think they are amazing. I'd die if I had to run two lengths of that field and they do it, well, back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. OH MAN! THE TV JUST SAID FIFA WORLD CUP! And they said it, "Fee-fa" and here I've been pronouncing it in my head like, "F-eye-fa." This is so embarrassing.

Anyway. I'm trying to understand the rules. I'm trying not to loathe and despise it. My husband loves soccer. His whole family practically lives and breathes it. My kids will probably love it, play it, excel at it. And I will sit on the sideline screaming for someone to bloody score because the boredom will be killing me slowly.

So, go United States! If that is in fact you wearing the blue...

The Loss

It was just a game. Sure, it was a game of major importance, but it was still just a game. That, however, didn't stop me from crying my eyes out when it was over.

It only took a few moments for me to realize that the floodgates didn't open on account of the fact that Nate Kaeding is a total headcase when it comes to playoffs against the Jets.

Matthew will sit for awhile and watch a little bit of a game. That, coupled with the fact that he's a stout little guy, has led me to refer to him, often, as Sproles. (2031 draft, here we come!) So, last night, Troy took off early with The Rock Star because we had a meeting at church that he needed to get ready for. As the final minutes of the game ticked away and I began to see the smallest glimmer of hope, despite Kaeding's three missed field goals (only one of which was understandable), Little Buddy sat on my lap. He was wearing a bolt shirt, staring at the television, happily kicking his chubby little legs. Then the Jets converted on 4th down and inches and it was over.

And I wondered if Matthew would ever watch another Charger game with me. When next season rolls around will he be here for me to dress in San Diego bolt clothing? Will I still be watching his growth charts and referring to him as Sproles? Lately, I hadn't really cried over the thought of losing him. I'd lost sleep, sure, but the crippling emotion hadn't escaped by way of my tear ducts. So I found it slightly jarring that I was bawling over a football game. Truthfully, I audibly called myself stupid for such a ridiculous display when I hadn't had a good cry over Matthew in some time. And that's when it hit me that I was crying over Matthew. I cannot imagine next football season without him. He is tied so tightly into my every single day way of life that my own muscles, sinews, and Sunday afternoons won't know what to do if he isn't here.

I fought tears later, in the halls at church, as I told Troy that I cried when they lost. He laughed and said he wasn't overly surprised--such is my loyalty to my Chargers. But then I explained why it upset me so much, why I needed them to keep winning, why it's the little things in life, like watching football with my baby, that keep me fighting. I told him that I just had to watch football next autumn with my 18-month-old. He looked me in the eyes and with absolute assurance in his voice replied, "You will."

He doesn't know. He couldn't possibly. But his confidence in that moment filled me with hope. When we were left alone in the hallway, I pulled Matthew close to me until his soft brown baby cheek rested on mine. "Promise me you'll watch football with me next fall. Promise!"

"Da. Ba. Ooh," He said with a grin.

"I'm just going to take that as a yes," I replied. "And you can't go back on your word. A promise is a promise."

No one feels worse about the Chargers losing that game yesterday than the Chargers themselves. It wasn't all Kaeding's fault (although, certainly, the game would have been different had he made even one of those field goals), the team played like hot headed high schoolers. Still, no one feels more loss over a season being over than they do. But if there was a person who needed them to keep winning it was me. If there is another person who is feeling great loss over the end of a season it is me. Oh alright, to be fair, I probably come after all the people who placed bets on the game and lost.