Mothers' Day

 The first Saturday in May was … a lot. I’m not gonna lie as the kids say. 

Despite both of our children being licensed and capable drivers, my husband escorted our daughter back to college for the start of a new trimester, while I ferried our son to the various venues around the region where he would be tested and measured: one for higher than high school education, the other in feats of strength and speed in track and field. 

We had reversed the activities of the previous weekend when the girl had driven hours with me to a different city and the boy had driven his father to distraction. 

 Each leg of our respective journeys required at least three hours of “hurry up” and three hours of “wait” time. 

That’s eleventy-billion hours for those of us in our middle-ages. 

Not to brag, (totally bragging) I feel quite certain I am more suited than my husband to navigate the arduousness of this journey. Not only do I have the remnants of my younger, “carpool mom” stamina, but I have also been cross-training for various fun runs since 2014. I am literally “happy” to spend an hour or three running in circles around my former alma mater while "et filius" is inside taking his SAT.

*Note to those who might be willing to join me on the first Saturday in June when your kid might return to my alma mater to try for a better set of grades. We could form our own kind of running club dedicated to taking the last laps for dropoff and pickup

I’ve already done the legwork. I know the track is locked so we’ll have to run the grounds. I have Garminic proof that an entire lap of the school and its parking lots will get us a mile, which will quickly add up as we wait for our test-taking kids to resurface. 

No pressure. 

I only compete against my husband, who will call in intervals, wanting the play-by-play from the “match,” he is missing and to tell me how traffic is moving at the pace of snails.

He may complain about the monotony of the interstate, but he will soon gloat that he has won the lottery of city driving by finding a legal parking spot centrally located and within walking distance of the girl’s dorm and their dinner reservation. 

When we arrive at the meet, I find a parking spot and the boy starts his warmup. He has shooed away the butterflies from his test-nervous stomach and welcomed them into the belly reserved for field events and concessions stand snacks. He then shoos me away for being a gadfly, flitting around in a frenzy offering water and sunscreen. 

To smooth over the rough edge of his teen admonition, he spreads a layer of concern, asking me to stand out of sight distance for my protection. Throwing sports can be a dangerous lot.

He finds it hard to throw if he sees me in the line of trajectory. 

Oddly, I find myself unable to watch. 

I see him enter the circle and take a stance away from the direction of the throw. I look at the ground as he swings counterclockwise and back three times before releasing the discus into the air. 

I look up as it flies out straight across

the field. 

His smile as he lopes out to retrieve it tells me he is happy no matter what the line official reads off the now-taught measuring tape. 

“83’.1 - and a new PR” 

He resists pumping his fist in the air but the smile stretches further across his face.