Samsmom: Life, Joy, Loss and Loving your Mitochondria

I came in hot today. I didn’t mean to.

I had packed banana bread and a thermos of coffee to be shared with family at my Phews football game. I showed up at the game a little late but not overly late- I was on time (ish) for my standards. I met Phew’s other Grandparents in the parking lot and extended an arm to help Phew’s grandma down the stairs.

I was here, I was present.

And then I got to the field. And I saw someone from the other team throw down a player from Phew’s team and toss him down again.

And then I realized it was Phew.

And. I. Lost. My. Poop.

The Phews were once asked which relative said the ‘F-Word’ the most and it was resoundingly me. They shook their heads at the question like ‘Are you kidding? Of course, it’s He-He.’

I saw Phew go down. I saw this big kid slam into him, and I lost it. I fuck!ng lost it. I let the F-Bombs fly. “Are you fcking kidding me? What the Fck? Open your eyes, Ref! Unnecessary Roughness! That’s bullshit”
I may have tossed a couple more expletives in there.

Of course, I said this right on the field, with my Pops, Phews, other Grandad, and many other families standing beside me. I was still holding the banana bread, a thermos of coffee, and an extra jacket (just in case someone got cold). But I wanted nothing more than to storm that field and give this other player the smackdown.

And then Phews Grandad turned to me, “Heather, that was a legal play.”

“Well, that’s some bullshit; that’s what that is.” And then I went to pass out banana bread and coffee. Because I may be many things, but coffee must still be passed.

But I couldn’t shake the feeling. Eight hours later, I can still feel it in my belly. It was a hard game to watch- the other team was taller and bigger, they should have been in a different division, and the refs were terrible. I yelled and used all my f-bombs; I’m surprised I didn’t get kicked out.
I wanted to play. I wanted to kick the poop out of this man-child team

“Put me in coach!” I yelled out.

They never put me in.

Yes, because 53-year-old Aunt Hehe would have made a difference.

My Phew played so well. It was a tough game, but he kept his composure, played hard, and blocked this 10-foot-tall man-child that looked like he should be in college.

Phew never lost his cool.

After the game, we were standing in the parking lot. A player from the other team walked by. Phew made a point to walk over, fist-bump him, and say ‘good game.’

Holy snozz balls, I’m so impressed with this kid.

I went home and did laundry. I find sorting socks quite soothing, and I needed a little downtime. I thought about me and my auntie-bear reaction. I thought about my family and my brother and how we all feel a little vulnerable right now. And I thought about this big decision we are making on Tuesday as a country and how all might feel a little ramped up, protective, and willing to storm the field to defend our young.

And I thought about my Phew, crossing the parking lot to fist bump and congratulate the opposing team. He knew exactly who he was at that time and how he wanted to show up.

Tonight, I am taking a page from the book of Phew, and I hope the country does too- no matter what the outcome, we can all cross the parking lot.
Even if we do say a lot of F-bombs.