1. the year I became a sports mom
for the love of the bench-huddled mothers and the children we cheer on together
For my last three posts of 2023, I am reflecting on the theme of this substack in three parts: 1. Mother. 2. Lover. 3. Self. In the New Year, I will be following up on this column (I have heard from many of you since it was published and am looking forward to elaborating) and addressing some of the questions I received through your emails from this post. I will also be publishing the most glorious guest essay that circles back to my #HowILeft series from 2021 — an area I will be exploring more in depth in the New Year as well, both here and in the braid chat for paid subscribers.
As always, I put my most personal work behind a paywall as means to protect myself and others.
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On Saturday mornings I make the coffee to-go. Revie folds her uniform, freshly washed on the bench, her knee pads and socks in a sort of militarized order. We are always early because she must always be early.
We are early to practices, too.
“Come on, Mom. We’ll be late.”
“No we won’t be.”
“You’re right. But we won’t be REALLY early and we have to be really early.”
Like all parents with multiple children, I am on different clocks with each child. I have one that is always running late — for whom I must text the carpool group chat that I am so sorry we will be there asap. I have another child that refuses to go anywhere until we are backing out of the driveway and comes running, like clockwork, with her shoes in her hands. And then there is Revie. Who is always ready, with uniform hand-ironed. Knee pads, freshly washed. Always early. Must always be early.
I carry my coffee in a giant mug because coffee tastes better in porcelain than it does in metal. I can’t describe why it just does, so after years of drinking coffee through to-go cups, I now just drink it an open container and pack wet wipes for when I inevitably spill all over myself.
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