For One More Day...

I am reading the book For One More Day by Mitch Albom. I am really enjoying it and it makes me think a lot about my relationship with my own mom and my relationship with my children.

What an amazing concept isn't it? To have one more day with someone we love? I would chose my brother, or my Grandpa Mac or maybe my Grandma Pat. It is a perfect thought.

Anyway, in this book "Chick" keeps recollecting memories from his childhood. Memories of when his mother stood up for him, and memories of when he neglected to stand up for his mother. We all have those memories, and in adulthood we even feel the pains of guilt that come with them.

I remember once when I didn't stand up for my mom.

I played softball throughout my childhood and I loved it. One year I had a hot shot for a coach named Brenda. Brenda was young and cool and she could play some ball. I probably put Brenda up on a very high pedestal... I have no doubt I did. At the end of the season, the moms organized a mother/daughter softball game. I remember laughing at the notion that my mother-the woman who didn't even own a pair of tennis shoes-was going to play ME in softball. Impossible.

Brenda decided to be on our team-the softball players, and not the mom team-the women who had come to every single game and cheered us on and yelled things like "Whadda ya Blind?" at the umpires. Thinking back now, she really should have helped out the parents... but what did she know? She was young and a hot shot. I will never forget what happened when Brenda went up to bat. She knocked the ball wayyyyy far out into the outfield... and who do you think was playing left field and had to run and run and run after that ball with her little white Keds and her polyester pedal pushers? My mother. I can still see her running after the ball and then trying with all of her might to throw it in... it didn't get too far. Brenda scored with a home run off of my mother's inept softball abilities and we won.

I laughed at my mom that day. While I was laughing something inside of me was worried about her. Worried she may hurt herself with all of that running or throw out her back with her attempt at a throw to second base. But I laughed.

I hate that I laughed. My mom came to every single softball game I ever played in from the age of 9 all the way through high school... I think she even made a few in college. She brought jugs full of water and extra coins for the ice cream man. She was there when I wanted her, but even better, she was there when I didn't want her.

I hate that I didn't stand up for my mom. If I ever run into that Brenda (who I am sure is working at the town bowling alley and smokes 3 packs of Virginia Slims a day) I would tell her that she should have played on the mom team.

I should have cheered for my mom... I gotta go, I have an important phone call to make.