Cut

It is almost too soon to be writing about this topic, as the emotions are still so raw and so close to the surface. But sometimes, these things are best captured when the feelings are still swirling, still right there.

No one has died. I have not found out I have an incurable disease. We have not lost the house. But on Wednesday night my son and I walked into the dressing room on the final night of hockey tryouts and received the blow that he had been cut. The room seemed to collapse on both of us.

Now, some of you might roll your eyes at this (maybe even I would have not so long ago) and think there are much bigger problems in the world than not making a hockey team.  There are; of course there are.  But at that moment, and still now, it hurts.  It hurts to see my son upset, left behind and left out. It hurts to see our friends move on without us and to be uncertain about the future.

There were no politics involved, nothing to make me shout, “Wait! This is unfair. I want justice!”  No, he just wasn’t quite ready for the ‘big leagues’. It is almost harder not to have anyone to blame.

My son walked out of the dressing room strong. My eyes on the other hand began welling up almost immediately.  Leaving the arena, I did not want to make eye contact with anyone and by the time we reached the parking lot I was on the verge on becoming a blubbering disaster.  You see, I wanted to go to the final cut so I could be the one with him to hear he had made it.  I was not the right parent to deal face to face with his rejection.

It was not until we got home, wrapped in the strong but loving arms of his dad that our little guy fell apart (at least one of us had the sense not to cry in public). Then we were all hugging and telling our beloved son – and each other – that everything was going to be okay.

Prior to this year, getting cut from a team did not really bother #8.  He was just happy to be playing the game. And damn it, I wanted him to care.  But now he does care and I wish we could go back. Not caring would make all of this a lot easier. He is almost nine now and the carefree days of sport being only for fun are fading.  He has learned the hard way that there is more to sport that just playing and that is simply a part of growing up.

This weekend, he will play for his new team and sooner than later these difficult days will be in the past. He will make new friends and find his role once again. The game rolls on and we will (try to) roll with it.

Domestic Shortcomings

Well this blog practically wrote itself. We have entered the world of competitive dance and my daughter has her first ballet class tomorrow night. I sent her with a good friend (very good friend) to purchase her ballet shoes, tights, foot undies, shorts, etc. in preparation for the season. I say very good friend because shopping at the annual dance wear sale ranks among her least favourite and most stressful activities of her calendar year.

They returned home successful. Although the trying on of my daughter’s ballet shoes became quite a spectacle when everyone gathered round to see the six year old with the biggest and widest feet they had ever seen. She’ll thank me for those later.

When I looked at the ballet shoes I was sure that there was something wrong with them because the elastics that go around her feet were only attached at the back. Now why would said good friend come home with a ‘broken’ pair of ballet shoes?

After placing a distress call I learned the slippers were in fact, not broken, but had to be sewn to fit my daughter’s (gigantic) feet.  This was not good.  I don’t sew. I used to sew; in grade eight home economics class but I cannot recall sewing since.

It was too late to ask for anyone else to do this. She needed these ready for tomorrow. I booted up my laptop and pulled up a YouTube video on how to attach elastics to ballet shoes. I wanted to have the necessary materials ready so I went to get a needle and thread.  Right. I don’t know where we keep our needles and thread. So, I had to ask my husband where he keeps his sewing supplies. In his closet I found a nice basket with a fairly large variety of needles, scissors and thread. Perfect. At least one of us can claim some competence in this area. Wait a minute. Why isn’t HE doing this???

I started the first video of a wonderful, domestically capable mother who did an excellent job of explaining and showing the process. I did have to watch the video several times and I replayed one particular part (about folding on the pencil mark) about twenty times. I apologized to my daughter who was watching me unravel and told her that her mommy had other strengths and that one day I hoped she would remember those and not this moment of shame.

I began to sew. F***! F***ing h*ll! The expletives were flying fast and furious. Who sells broken ballet shoes anyway?  But I stayed focussed and persevered. I was going to fight my way through cramping hands and pricked fingers.

An hour later and approximately four centimeters of elastic sewn, the shoes were finished. It felt good that I had done this for my daughter. We are in this dance thing together; for better or for worse or until the next pair of ‘broken’ shoes comes along. And if nothing else, I had to try and make up for endowing her with gigantic feet.