Everything it's crocked up to be

I never thought I'd be a crockpot parent, standing around a semi-circular reef of slow cookers dishing our molten meals to hungry athletes during a weekend wrestling tournament. 

But I have matured into a more versatile human being, able to dish out hot meatball sandwiches in a single glop; dig out the last can of Coke from where it hides in the bottom of the ice chest, and unapologetically make change for fifty-dollar-bills using singles and fives. 

No filthy sink trap is beneath my abilities or my dignity to unclog.

Each break, measured in minutes as I made a mad dash from the cafeteria to the gymnasium -- hoping to catch a glimpse of my kid moping the floor as either the custodian ... or the mop -- alters my job description upon my return.

I'm positively gleeful at the prospect of scrubbing pans.

Today is a good day. Maybe even the best day. A day I wouldn't trade for a deep tissue massage or a nap. 

A day spent watching kids -- win or lose -- shake hands before and after they go to their respective corners. Celebrating a win isn't something that's allowed on the mat, even a surreptitious arm pump will get a player sanctioned. 

So as we sit in the stands, our son is on the mat, tying his home team color around his ankle, bowing his head as the ref gives instructions. His opponent lowers his stance and extends a hand. My son's meets his at the same level. 

The whistle blows and they grasp each other around the head, dancing around for a moment until one breaks free of the other. 

They go again, circling, getting each other around the head, shoulders, waist, and knees. A tangle of bodies slaps down on the mat. The ref's hand raises a hand signaling which player gets how many points. Squirming from under another arm takes points away. This dance continues until shoulders stayed pressed for three seconds, or one has enough points when time runs out. 

We have been used to our son lasting only seconds in the rings until he is pinned by a matched opponent who is stronger and more aggressive. Lately, he's managed to crawl his way out of cradles or push himself pins. 

Lately, he's been able to come up for air the moment a boy from the sidelines taps the ref on the back with a pool noodle, and the buzzer sounds. His dad and I collectively inhale, too. 

We are on the edge of our seats as we watch our boy make progress. The whistle blows again, and again he gains the advantage, proving to himself his worth as an opponent. A hail Mary move, and with seconds to spare, a pin. 

He contained his excitement as required as the referee raised his arm. We did not. Nor did the parents of his teammates. It seemed like the whole crowd went wild. 

This single win weighed heavily. 

It's amazing how much I loved that moment and all the ones that came before it, including tripping up and down the bleachers, awkwardly hawking 50-50 raffle tickets and leftover puffed rice marshmallow squares.

Of course, the boy's smile as his team engulfed him in bear hugs is something every parent needs, too.