Lacrosse | Lisha Writes

Slick dropped a bombshell on me the other day: he doesn’t want to play lacrosse this year.

Waiting for the shot.

He had a list of very good reasons for his decision; all driven by his desire to make good grades and have choices when he has to pick a college next year. And while I was really proud of him for having such clarity and perspective at 16-years old, I was very disappointed. For me.

Lacrosse has been our family’s social hub for a long time now. The Trailblazer started playing at age 10, then Slick joined in middle school, and we’ve had at least one kid playing every season for the last 9 years. These families have become some of our closest friends. We travel with them, cheer during games with them, and collectively hold our breath when our boys take a knee for an injured teammate.

How can I NOT be a part of it?

How could he ask me to break up with MY friends.

And what would I do with myself every weekend from January to April???

I paused for a moment, and then (of course) gave him the supportive answer he was looking for. I told him I was very proud of him for having the courage to realize he was ready for a change, and to chart a new course for himself. I told him redirecting one’s future is a skill many adults don’t have, because they fear change more than they fear continuing down the wrong path. I hugged him and sent him off.

Then I went in the back yard and tried not to cry.

He's so adorable. Don't tell him I said that.

Because when you leave a circle of friends, they move on without you. I know I’ll still see them, but when they start sharing the funny story about what happened at the tournament in Mississippi, I won’t be a part of it. And because my feelings are so damn sensitive, I’ll pull away to avoid feeling left out. And I’ll miss my friends.

I’m so proud of Slick. He amazes me with his maturity and vision. I had neither at 16. (Or 26 for that matter.) And I know that he is on a path that will lead him to great places, so if studying harder is the ticket there, then I’m on board with that.

I wonder if the Mathletes have a parents’ club?

There are a couple of things I just don’t do. I don’t cut grass. I don’t climb on the two-story ladder. And I don’t buy cups. I’m talking about athletic cups, not the kind you drink out of.

The only illustration I'm using for this post.

One of my kids returned home from a week at the beach with a friend’s family last night. He looked exhausted and had a beautiful tan (obviously no SPF 100+ sunscreen applied). I knew exactly what would happen without my intervention, so to avert crisis this morning, I gave him two tasks: unpack your bag from the beach, and get your lacrosse bag packed and in the foyer. (Lax camp began this morning.) I even gave a deadline. 9:00 P.M. I was very proud when (a few minutes before 9:00) he went out to the garage to gather his gear.

He returns with the bag, then goes to his room, and begins making noise that indicates he’s looking for something. Soon thereafter, he appears downstairs and asks if anyone knows where his cup is.

Now, as his mother, I feel it’s my job to stay on top of certain things. I make sure he has clean underwear and socks with no holes no more than a few holes. I keep shampoo and soap available, and provide meals. But I will not be responsible for his cup. I just won’t.

Mr. Wonderful remembers seeing one in his closet, so goes to help him look. I’m having no part of this search — just shaking my head and fetching a wine glass to be an observer. They find one. My son announces that it’s too small.

I just walked away.

If any other male made that statement I’d have been on it like gravy on rice. There are sooo many punch lines. But this is my kid, so it’s a little creepy going there.

As it was now too late to go buy a “bigger one” I listened as his dad asked him if he could manage for the first day of camp with the one we found. He said he could. This afternoon I’ll hand him some cash and send him in to Academy Sports to go resolve this issue. By himself. Because I’m not going to get into a discussion about what size cup he needs. Ever.

P.S. For the love of all things sacred, please don’t tell him I wrote this.