Volleyball gave me back my daughter

I have dreamed from the beginning, that Grace would love all the same things I do—she would be a voracious reader and a tall girl who loved sports, she would have a terrible sweet tooth but also enjoy vegetables.  She would also be better than me in so many ways—she would be thin and straight backed, she would be effortlessly kind and less bossy.  She would have small feet. 

She is 14 now, and she is sort of some of these things and not at all others.  She is a beautiful artist who sings like a lark.  She prefers fruit to chocolate.  She is thin.  She has big feet.  She reads for pleasure only occasionally and prefers science class to English.  And, until very recently, she seemed decidedly lukewarm about the two sports I loved and had secretly (and sometimes not so secretly) dreamed she would take up.  I played volleyball and basketball from grade school through college and loved them so completely that it never occurred to me that children of my blood could ever treat them with a casual “take it or leave it” type attitude that, if I’m being honest, sort of troubled me.

These sports kind of saved me.  Well, maybe that’s a bit strong.  But volleyball and basketball certainly defined a big part of my life, and shaped me in ways I am both proud of and deeply grateful for.  I participated in a variety of activities as a child, but as I grew—and remained—taller than most everyone in my class (including, by 6^th grade, some of the teachers) I started gravitating towards activities that benefitted most from my size.  And in these activities, I found something my (admittedly) intense personality could latch onto.  You know when you’ve found something you were meant to do, something that feels natural and right—like you’ve been doing it your whole life even if it’s your first time.  I’ve tried lots of things over the years—tennis, softball, golf, competitive jump roping (yeah, it’s a thing), diving, gymnastics, cheerleading, running—but only these sports felt like home.

We exposed Grace to lots of sports over the years.  She played almost all the ones I listed above and even a few I didn’t including soccer and dance and some non-sports (drama and choir among other things).  She started swimming competitively in third grade.  I originally signed her up because the swim team was cheaper (by the hour) than swim lessons, and I liked the idea of her getting very comfortable in the water.  I had no idea at the time, however, that this “expanded swim lessons” plan would evolve into her passion for the last 6 years.  Grace swam 2, then 3, then 4 days a week and improved year after year.  She started earning “Q” times (state qualifying times) and we started traveling with her to out of town meets.  The trappings and language of the sport were an utter mystery to me and I felt a little left out of this part of her life.

Because here is the other thing:  Grace started swimming in 3^rd grade at the age of 8.  When Grace was 8 years old, I was pregnant with my 5^th child.  Within 6 months of her first swim team practice, I had 5 children under the age of 8.  It’s a period of my life I look back on with a blend of awe and remembered exhaustion.  I was surviving day to day, and there was simply no room in my life for one more thing.  There was no space in my addled brain for learning the nuances and vocabulary of a new sport.  I stupidly assumed there wasn’t much to swimming besides, well, swimming fast.  I got Grace to practice.  I wrote checks and bought gear.  I went to meets.  Well… I sometimes went to meets.

Because here is the thing—swim meets are 5 things:  1.  Really long.  2.  Really hot.  3.  Really loud.  4. Really crowded. 5. Dangerous and tempting for small children.  They are absolutely the perfect storm of undesirable places to spend any amount of time with toddlers and babies.  And I had 4 of them when Grace’s swimming career was born and beginning to bloom.  I tried to encourage and enjoy her sport.  I have horrible, hazy memories of trying to keep a nursing newborn under a blanket while sitting in the bleachers in the humid, 90+ temperatures while simultaneously keeping toddlers from jumping in the oh-so-tempting cool blue water of the pool and waiting for my beloved Grace to spend her approximately 90 seconds of a 7 hour day in the water.   Looking back, it is no wonder most of the swim obligations were met by her dad while I stayed home.

During this same time, I admit, I was volunteering to help coach Sam and Claire in their first attempts at Y basketball.  I would take my babies along to these events, too (in cooler gymnasiums with plenty of room for toddlers to run and ending within just one hour), and was even known to coach from the sidelines with a baby on my hip.  But really, in my defense, they lasted an hour, did not involve the proximity of a deadly hazard (drowning), were not hotter than, say, 70 degrees or so, and (the unavoidable truth) involved a sport I knew intimately and had enjoyed enormously for more than half my life.

Over the years, the family story began to evolve around a “mom doesn’t like swimming” narrative.  This wasn’t entirely fair, nor, if I’m being totally honest, completely untrue.  I didn’t NOT like swimming.  I just didn’t know it well and I found it somewhat inconvenient due to two things:  the duration of the competitions (and the paradoxical shortness of my child’s participation in them—I mean, the faster she went, the LESS time she spent competing.  She was actually racing for a mere fraction of the time we were there) and the relative discomfort of the surroundings.  The primary pool Grace practiced and raced in was hot, crowded, and noisy. 

So I missed.  A lot.  I tried to sneak up to see her compete when I could, but parking was often poor and until recently, I couldn’t leave any of the others behind without a babysitter.  Nipping in for a 2 minute race with 4 children in tow with a half mile walk between parking spot and bleachers requires nearly as much training and athleticism as her 100 backstroke. 

So, when Grace opted to try volleyball somewhere around 4^th grade, I uttered a hearty sigh of relief.  Now we could finally get on with it.  I volunteered to coach and we spent many happy hours perfecting the pass, learning footwork and blocking techniques, practicing serves.  We developed line ups together on the way to games and discussed strategies on the way home.  We were home.  I thought.

But she continued to swim.  As she grew, we started to discuss the unfortunate reality that volleyball and swimming were the same season in high school and she couldn’t continue to participate in both.  She got picked up by a club volleyball team and her skills continued to advance, but still she stuck with swimming.  When she started middle school sports, she would play the school sport for 2 hours, then head straight to the pool or back to the gym for 2 more hours of either club volleyball or swimming.  I started worrying a little about her caloric intake versus her athletic output.  But she was getting straight A’s and loving it.  Those were her sports.  Volleyball and swimming.  She grew more and more talented at both.  With my experience in volleyball, I knew she had tons of promise.  She continued to grow taller (like her mom) but unlike her mom she was remarkably fast on her feet, enormously strong (no doubt due to the hours spent in the pool) and could jump out of the gym.  Both passing and hitting came naturally to her—it was a delight to watch her knowing the game as I did.  Her instincts—the motions and form--were spot on.  Swim moms assured me that her strokes were also improving.  “She’s so smooth!” one mom continually insisted.  “She’s really getting good.”  I had to take their word for it. 

As middle school drew to an end, we tried not to pester her about her choice.  All summer, she attended both volleyball open gyms and swimming practices, plus weight lifting and conditioning--4 to 6 hours of training every single day.  And she never complained or seemed to wear out.  I envied her a little.  I remember spending hours of my endless summers playing sports I loved.  It never felt like a sacrifice to me.  It was where I belonged.

But the choice loomed.  She grew angry when we asked her about it, so we kept our questions to ourselves.  I was certain she didn’t want to speak of it because she was afraid to tell me she was choosing swimming and thought it would disappoint me.  I tried to be supportive and clear that this was HER choice, HER life, HER turn.  I’d had mine (and, a piece of me reasoned, 2 other daughters that might choose to play the games I knew.  Grace wasn’t my only shot at reliving the “glory days”). 

One hot day this August, I took a call from an unrecognized number and was greeted by the perky voice of the varsity high school swim coach.  The coach knew she was debating between the two sports, and she had followed her club swimming career enough to know she wanted her on the team.  “She hasn’t decided,” I told her.  “She knows she has to, but I think she’s struggling to give one up.”  I assured the coach that I would have Grace call her back within the next few days.  I pulled she and Chad into a room and laid it out.  “You need to decide, honey,” I tried to say as gently as I could.  “And you need to call her back.”

She panicked a little.  “Mom, can’t you talk to her?” 

“No,” I told her.  “This is up to you. Do you know what you’re going to choose?”

“Volleyball,” she said quietly, with such regret in her voice that I couldn’t acknowledge my own excitement right then.  It was such a terrible shame that the only two sports she had ever loved competed at the high school level at the same time. 

“Are you sure?” I asked gently.

“Yeah,” she said.

“Then call her back now,” I said.  “Just get it over with.  Otherwise you will worry about it and make it scarier than it needs to be.”

So she did.  I was so proud of my girl that afternoon.  She made a tough decision and owned it completely.  She called an adult and had a difficult conversation without flinching or backing out.  And she had chosen VOLLEYBALL!

I was so unbelievably thrilled, it is almost embarrassing to admit it.  I tried to keep it to myself, because I know a part of her really mourned the end of her swimming career.  So she started practices, and a few weeks later, told us that she had been selected to move up to play on the sophomore team.  The SOPHOMORE team!  This is a pretty big deal (“it’s not that big of a deal, mom”) and, at least back when I played, only the most promising athletes get moved up (“they just needed someone in my position, mom.  And someone tall.”)   I sent a text to my sister and she and I shared a few ecstatic messages.

Me:  “Grace said she might get moved up to play with the sophomores in volleyball (!!!)”

“PS. We are not allowed to make a big deal of it”

Carrie:  “HOW CAN WE NOT MAKE A BIG DEAL OUT OF THAT!?!?!?!?  Yeah!”

Me: 

And since then, something wonderful and altogether unexpected has happened.  Grace is talking to me!  And not just talking—she is seeking me out and is interested in my opinion!  She asks my advice!  Granted, it is typically along the lines of “do you think I should ask my coach if we can work on blocking?” and “what do you mean when you say the right side should pull in and cover the angle instead of the line?”  But still!  The first time we went to an out of town game, I had Grace stash pillows and blankets in my car so she could sleep on the way home.  I loaded a new book on my phone anticipating a quiet ride home, essentially alone on the dark highway with my memories and my sleeping children.  It shocked me when Grace climbed in the front seat and proceeded to converse with me the entire way home.  Suddenly I was relevant to her!  She trusted my knowledge and sought (not just tolerated) my opinion.  It wasn’t quite giggling about boys over lattes, but I’d rather talk sports than boys any day.

And here’s the most glorious part—what I always loved about sports was how it mimicked life in such concentrated and applicable ways.  Hard work pays off.  And sometimes it doesn't.  Trust your team.  You, your teammates, the referees, and your coach will all make mistakes.  Forgive.  Play in position.  You must lead.  You must listen.  You must follow.  Put your emotions aside and get on with it.  Fight for the win.  Lose with grace.  People will let you down.  People will lift you up.  People will criticize you.  The same people will praise you.  Get up.  Keep going.  You will triumph.  You will fail.  You will get screamed at.  You will be loved.  You will get hurt.  You will overcome suffering.  You will weep.  You will soar.  You can only talk about blocking footwork and passing technique and quick sets for so long.  Then you drift into life lesson territory.  If my daughter welcomes me into this space in her teenage years via the bridge of volleyball, then I have more reason than ever to love it.

A friend of mine whose daughter swam with Grace for years and is now competing with the high school team asked me recently how I was handling out of town games.  “Do you go to all of them?” she asked, “It is just so much work to get there, but there really is no reason I CAN’T go.  What do you do?”

“I agree,” I began.  “It is a lot of work.”  Because it is.  And it is exhausting and overwhelming and puts demands on my husband and the rest of my children and my job when I do it.  We have to leave by 3 because the sophomores play at 5:30 and the out of town games are at least 90 minutes away.   We have to eat crappy fast food for dinner and miss everything the other kids are doing and I end up yet another day behind on laundry and my other chores. But I haven’t missed a single one.

Because volleyball gave me back my daughter, and I’m going to relish every second.  The laundry can wait. 

It's time

It has been almost a month since I started this post.  It has taken shape in scribbles in a notebook and notes on my phone and countless drafts in my head.  I'm sure I'll never do justice to it, but I've told myself it has to be written down for my sake and my babies, if nothing else.


It has been a year since I last posted, though if you could read the outstanding drafts I've kept in my head I'm sure you'd be impressed with the year we've had.  But I'm so busy with the living of it, I haven't much time for the telling of it.


The first day of school has once again come and gone.  My little ducks are in 3 different schools this year:  elementary, middle and high school.  HIGH SCHOOL!!  I know.   (Also note the absence--for the first time in over a decade--of preschool.  I know).  I've got daughters in 2nd and 4th and a son in 7th.  Last year, the boys (first day of preschool, first day of middle school) took center stage.  This year it was the oldest and the youngest--freshman in high school and kindergarten, respectively.  My babies--the biggest and the littlest.  How momentous.


Typing it now, many weeks removed from the first day, I feel a bit sentimental again, but at the time I was a bit less so.  Partly because the whole kit and caboodle of them were so darn ornery and destructive in the last 2 weeks of summer (and I'm not even home with them!  God help us all if I were!) that I nearly kicked their cute little uniformed fannies out the door on the first day.  "Go on," I would have said.  "Grow up.  I need you OUT OF THIS HOUSE!  Only 9th grade and kindergarten and.... whatever the rest of you are starting?  WHAT IS TAKING YOU SO LONG TO GET THIS OVER WITH?" 


But 3 weeks later, watching them settle into their routines, I'm still a little shocked over the pace of this whole thing.  At the rate we're going, I'll be moving Clayton into college before I finish this post.  Slow.  It.  Down.  (And also, clean up the kitchen and pick up your own darn socks once in awhile.  But I digress).

From the beginning, they have both felt as if they didn't belong to me.  Surprises both, and both bursting into lives that were (we thought) settled and relatively certain (ha!)  Both of them taught us so much.  One started this reckless ride, the other reminded me that motherhood--and life--is nothing if not humbling and, oftentimes, rather shocking.  Both altered my body and my perspective enormously.  With her, I threw up for three months, feeling as though I were sharing my body with a hostile alien.  With him, I gave up on any notion of control, once and for all, felt my spirit break and be spectacularly renewed as we redefined our marriage and our family around just one more. 


Both are fair as the sun.  We never looked as though we belonged to one another, their pink and white skin, blue eyes and white gold hair nestled against my brown shoulders and nearly black hair seemed sort of silly almost.  Or, like my brother in law once said upon seeing me in a photo with my very fair Irish cousins.  "Dawn looks like the Mexican babysitter."  Indeed.


When I was handed both in the delivery room I remember a moment of pause, "That one can't be mine," I thought.  And I spent weeks afterward searching for some genetic indication that I had contributed some tiny thing to their biology.  Later, as their personalities emerged, I kept looking.  She with her timid, eager to please attitude, he with his brash, rowdy charm and incongruous shyness.  Neither of them quite matched.  It was a stretch to find myself in them. 


But oh, how I loved them--love them still.  You can't love any of them best, and I don't.  But there's a special place for the first and the last.  A big chunk of my heart that I'll never share with anyone else belongs to them.


So, Grace has started high school and Clayton has started kindergarten.  High school!  Kindergarten!  I know I should feel more weepy and sentimental, and I do, sort of.  But I also feel like I used to at the end of each pregnancy--like it's TIME.  A friend of mine once told her unborn son, "there ain't room in here for 2 of us" and that's sort of how I feel about keeping them in middle school and preschool.  There isn't room in those places for them anymore.  They've outgrown them.  By extension, I guess, so have I.  We are running out of space and patience and (ahem) grace where we are right now.  Birthing ourselves into the next phase is sort of painful, but it's NECESSARY.


Clay needs the structure and the chance at independence.  He needs to get up every day and wear shoes that tie and go to Mass with his class (with no one to hold him!  And he can't go to sleep! And he can't take off his shirt!)  He's ridden the baby train long enough.  It's time to get off at kindergarten station and start the journey (for real) to big boy town.  No more excuses.


I can't really think of much more to say about Clay.  Last year was the big step--moving out of his beloved in home daycare and into full time (all day every day) preschool.  This year, he moved from downstairs to upstairs and has to wear a uniform.  (He is so CUTE in his uniform--but it is such a relief to see him in something besides ninja turtle and minion t-shirts that I can't even muster much nostalgia).  He has one of our favorite teachers in the school and is so blasé about the whole thing we are all issuing a sort of collective shrug about the launch of his academic career. 


And Grace.  Oh, Grace.  As she matures I keep having to learn again that motherhood ain't no Hallmark card.  How did I end up with such an unsentimental, straight shooting, scientifically literal thinking child like Grace?  I thought maybe, maybe there might be some poetry there somewhere.  But come to find out, it was a mathematical equation--a complex one well beyond my current ability to solve--but an utterly logical one for all that.  I have these fantasies about her and I giggling over lattes and sharing heartfelt moments as she matures.  Instead, I try hard to provide the stability and organization--the supplies and the clean uniforms and the permission slips--and not to feel hurt by her lack of outward affection.  All teens are that way, right?  And under it burns a love so fierce and urgent, it is all I can do not to throw my arms around her lanky form and weep.


The night before school started, I went up to her room before bed.  She was coloring and watching Netflix.


"Hey," I said and sat down on her bed.


"Hey," she responded, glancing warily over her shoulder.


"So, are you ready for school tomorrow?" I asked.


"Yeah," she said.


"Are you nervous?"


"No."


"Excited?"


"Not really."


"How do you feel?" I asked.


"I don't know.  It's just school," she said.  "Can you leave now?"


I stood up and took her face in my hands.  (See, these are things I do because one, I am a sentimental fool and two, I read too much, and that is the sort of thing mothers do in books).  Grace sighed and looked up at me with a sort of studied patience.  My eyes filled with tears.  Her face doesn't have the clear, bright complexion of a toddler anymore and her mouth is full of braces.  She stands nearly as tall as I do.  But I could so clearly see the precious face of my sweet baby girl in that irritated teenager staring back at me.  I kissed her heartily and left.  I learned awhile ago that sometimes the most loving thing you can do is walk away.


So every day, she walks into high school and further and further away from me.  The first day ended at 1p, and I had an important meeting to go to right after lunch.  I tried to talk Chad into picking her up, but neither she, nor he, saw any reason why the babysitter couldn't just do it.  If I thought it made even the slightest difference to her, I would have changed my plans.  But it didn't, and I'm glad.  She was confident and ready, which means I'm doing my job.


And Clay is big and he walks and talks (dear Lord how the child talks) but, like his teacher told me last year, "he's kind of a big deal around here" so I know he's got kindergarten totally covered with that machismo and charm. 


The others are flourishing--begging me not to pick them up until the very last moment at extended care so they can spend more time with their friends, doing homework and complaining about school lunch and cranky teachers.  They keep signing up for so many sports and activities that I'm sure I won't have a chance to slow down long enough to lament how fast these family years are racing by. 


They never really belonged to me anyway.