While drinking my coffee this morning, I got a simple text message from Rock Star. “U coming?” He was at a wrestling meet in a town 45 minutes away, and we were in the midst of a snowstorm. Eight inches was predicted. No, we hadn’t planned on coming. But if our son wanted us, needed us, by golly, we’d hitch up our dachshund to the dog sled and be there! (Not really. Our dog would never do that. He’s as lazy as they come and built like an overdone bratwurst.) “We’ll be there!” I texted back merrily. A simple reply came back: “Bring Subway.”
So we loaded up the minivan and set off through the snowy wild. This could be fun! On Prancer! On Vixen! The more we drove, the more ferocious the blizzard. The car slipped and slid all over the unplowed icy roads, because this is the Midwest in January. And the state of IL is never prepared for snow. Our officials are always taken completely by surprise, and don’t begin sending out the snowplows until March. The Big Guys that are in charge of snow removal have never heard of The Weather Channel and apparently don’t look out the window. (We also have embarrassingly buffoonish governors, as an aside. If you are considering a move to the state of IL, heed my advice: Don’t.) But I digress.
The white-knuckled drive took an hour of Scary Near Death Experiences, and then a pit stop to Subway to pick up proper protein for Rock Star. But it was all worth it, when we finally arrived at the high school and saw how much Rock Star appreciated his Subway. We, his Loving Family, were dismissed with a nod toward the bleachers. Tossed aside like garbage for a Roast Beef Minus Mustard and Onions.
And then I watched in horror. Boys in less attire than Tarzan were tussling on the mats, holding each other in headlocks and looking fit to snap vertebrae. They bent themselves in pretzel-like positions, limbs flaying every which way. The nurse in me was aghast. The mother in me was horrified. I couldn’t watch. I was too full of angst. I had to leave the gym and eat nachos and text a few friends. If there’d been a bar within walking range, I’d have indulged in a soothing glass of wine. When it was Rock Star’s match, I closed my eyes and prayed.
But he survived and did well. And I survived. But did not do well. It was excruciating for me. It ranked up there with watching my daughter break up with her long-term boyfriend. There are many things I do really well. Being a Wrestling Mom is not one of them, I discovered today.
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4 comments:
I've obviously never been a wrestling mom but I was a wrestling dad. It was all I could do not to dart out on the mat myself and squash that kid trying to beat up on my kid! I restrained myself ... but only because Debbie kept me distracted with chocolate. She was a great wrestling mom. She even learned the point system. But then ... she worked in a BD classroom.
The closest I got to wresting was reading (198 Pound Marriage and pretty much every other book by that Garp guy), but it's hard to think of the doctor bills and pain that may ensue as they rush into the fray, I know. Hang in there.
Maybe I need to bring chocolate next time.
Oh, my friend at work's son just wrecked his knee last weekend at a wrestling match - doc said it will be surgery! He did this a couple years ago playing football and it's the same knee!
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