Questions

They always say that women fall for men that remind them of their fathers; does that mean lesbians fall for women that remind them of their mothers? I've had to come to terms with that a little bit because (after a year of adamant denial) I have admitted (at least to myself) that my girlfriend is an awful lot like my mother. My mother was a frustrated jock growing up during a time that girls were discouraged from playing sports; there were almost no opportunities in the small town in which she grew up for a girl to play the sports she loved. When I was young, I can remember mom always playing softball for our church league, throwing the football around with the kids in the neighborhood and being front and center when there was a basketball or football game on. She carried this on by encouraging my brother and I to play sports and finally being one of the most enthusiastic fans at my son's football, lacrosse or hockey games. In the summer, she could often be found in her john boat fishing. My father, on the other hand, had very little use for sports (although he did enjoy watching hockey now and again), preferring to spend his time gardening or woodworking in his shop. My girlfriend is a wonderful woman who grew up playing basketball and would have played football had her mother let her. Football season finds her in front of the tv, yelling at the current football game; summer will find her out on her boat fishing or kayaking or playing basketball or tennis (with her favorite girl, of course). My mother and my girlfriend like to fly under the radar; don't rock the boat, don't upset the status quo. My father and myself are more likely to be in-your-face, outspoken and stubborn. So, if my girlfriend is like my mother and I'm like my father, maybe it's just that the dynamic works, despite the gender of the people involved. Maybe it's just a good fit.

Strong

I wrote this in September 2009 when my oldest child - Shaner - broke his leg during football two-a-days right before the season started.



I was strong as I sped to the football field. I was strong as I watched my husband carry our 6'1 230 lb linebacker son to the car. Strong as I drove him to the ER, listening to his screams and cries - this young man who doesn't believe in pain, who certainly never stopped for it. The young man who broke his nose the previous week while playing hockey and went to his doctor's office to get a release so that he could play football. My child - who won't even take a Tylenol. Strong through the exam and the x-rays and finally, as they moved him to his room. The room that he'd spend close to a week in while his friends started their junior year and prepared for the football season. Strong as I sat with him - night and day - trying to ease the pain as best I could, knowing it was useless. As they wheeled my baby, my first-born into surgery and through the four hours...shaking the doctor's hand, seeing the x-rays of his rebuilt leg. Strong getting him home and getting him settled; praying to find some magical position that would make him comfortable.

Strong until I stood in the middle of Dicks Sporting Goods looking for the only thing he wanted for school - new Nike socks. As I stood there, surrounded by football cleats, as I'd done so many times before with him, I stopped being strong. I cried. I sat on a bench and wept. It was so unfair; he should be standing there, excitedly picking out his new cleats, eagerly anticipating his first year of first-string on the varsity squad, explaining to me why he needed that $100 UnderArmour. Instead, he was home, in bed, in pain. I cried for the pain he was feeling, for everything he would miss out on this year, for the guilt I felt - when he came home on his break between two-a-days, he had said he didn't feel good...that he didn't feel like going back to his second practice. I wish I'd made him stay. I cried


Then, I came home, and again, I was strong.