The time was 7:15 p.m. If I hurried, I could leave Lindell’s baseball game and still make the last 30 minutes of the Academic Awards Ceremony at Ford’s high school. I ran through the orange baseball dirt, kicked up by dozens of cleats scampering to the snack shack for a postgame treat, and combed my hair with my fingers at the same time.
By the time I got to my car, my heart was beating in my ears and I had dirt all over my dress pants.
I should have left the field one hour earlier. That was the plan. I’d spend 30 minutes at Lindell’s game and then rush over to Ford’s school’s award ceremony. I had already told everyone else — my middle son, Owen, and my husband, who was coaching — that they’d have to fend for themselves for dinner. But when I got to the field that night, dressed in clothes that were meant for an awards ceremony, not the baseball park, Lindell was sad.
“You’re going to miss my game?” he said. “But this is the night I’ll get a hit. I can feel it. Please stay.”
And so I stayed past the previously agreed upon two innings. Lindell hadn’t gotten a hit, but his team was winning for the first time in two years. Now that they had a real shot, the dugout was going crazy.
How could I miss this moment?
So I stayed for one more inning. And then another. The Lions, it seemed, were actually going to win this thing, and Lindell kept looking out from the dugout to see if I was there.
Then, at 6:41 p.m., my mom, who was already at the high school, texted to tell me that Ford had gotten an award. A picture followed soon after. There was my first-born son — the one who has always had to wait and be patient because of his younger brothers, the one who soon enough will not have any more high school events — receiving an award, and I was not in the audience.
I said my goodbyes at the baseball field and started to leave. Then Lindell yelled to me from the dugout: “We’re really going to win, Mom!”
So I stayed two more innings to see my youngest son, after the final out, run from his position at second base, throw his glove into the air, and celebrate the win with the rest of his teammates. When I said goodbye and congratulations, he was much more interested in running to the snack shack with his friends to get an ice cream.
“Thanks for staying, Mom,” he said as he sprinted past me.
So I dashed off to the high school and arrived at the auditorium just in time to catch the end of the ceremony. I could see Ford in the front row, seated with his friends. When the ceremony ended, I ran upstream, against the exiting crowd, to get to Ford, to show him that I was there.
Huffing and puffing and catching my breath I said, “I’m here. I made it. Late, but I made it. And your brother’s team won. And he’s very excited. And —”
In Ford’s characteristic, humble way, he just said, “Oh, well, I’m actually really glad you got to see the game. I bet Lindell was happy. You didn’t need to rush here.”
Then he dug his car keys out of his pocket and asked if it was OK if he hurried out now. A quick hug later, and he was out the door.
So I drove home alone. And this is what I thought:
From the time we have that second child, we assure our first-born (and later, all the others) that there is room in a mother’s heart for all of her children. This is absolutely the truth. I think about all three of my children and their individual struggles or accomplishments simultaneously all day long. No matter what I’m doing — writing, cleaning, shopping, visiting friends — my heart and my mind is filled with my children. Not just one of them … all of them.
What we don’t tell our children, however, is that for all the ways that our hearts and our minds expand to encompass all of our sons and daughters, there is still physically only one of us to go around. We cannot be in two places. Sometimes we miss events. Often we disappoint at least someone.
But if that night showed me anything it’s this: When we’re doing it right — which is to say, when we’re doing it the best we can — the kids end up just fine. They compete for Mom’s attention and presence, yes, but eventually (hopefully), they end up like Ford: independent, compassionate, confident … and running out the door to live his life because he knows, at least, his mom has always tried.
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