My son, Eli, was a reluctant soccer player. He loved the camaraderie and didn’t like the level of effort and hardship of the actual “play.” He was one of those big, athletically gifted kids that coaches salivated over, and then spent the rest of the season trying to instill the “killer instinct” in a kid who was better suited to be the team’s chaplain.
Whatever Eli lacked in competitive lines was made up for by awakening a latent, primitive pride in his mother. You’ve got to be a little tough to even sign up for football in Minnesota: us moms, Halloween right around the corner, standing in the slush, wrapped in blankets and in snowmobile suits, wearing orange knit caps shiny or whatever is in the back. from the truck (I once gave a horse a blanket), watching our 5th graders fight bravely. I guess you could say it builds character, or something.
One thing it does build, for sure, is an introvert’s ability to get to the playing field, set up his folding chair, make sure his toddler is settled on a blanket with a few toys, trade banter with the other Rebels moms. and then undergoes a Hulk-like transformation from mild-mannered mother to bloodthirsty Valkyrie.
That a classical musician, charm school alumnus, public servant, and true lady of the church could transform into an aggressive, screaming wacko who ran the length of the field as if carrying the ball really baffled me. Who was this person, anyway? Was it a tie to the ancient queens who, like Olympias, the quintessential conniving and overinvolved mother of Alexander the Great, would stop at nothing to ruthlessly promote her son’s rise to glory ahead of her rivals? Is it the nature of mothers to promote our offspring as if the fate of the Empire depended on it?
I always knew that I would do anything to protect my children. I didn’t think the same primal instinct would extend to promoting them as well. There was clearly something about me that made me act out of my comfort zone without even thinking about it. And to my horror, the behavior didn’t stop at energetic enthusiasm. I found myself making fun of the opposite moms. I uttered a couple of swear words under my breath when the ref or ref, whatever football is, made a bad call. I almost made an unladylike gesture, but caught myself before the finger flew. I had the potential to be one of those parents!
This awakening shocked me as much as it intrigued me. My personal code of conduct had no room for unsportsmanlike behavior, and I sympathized, somewhat contemptuously, with the aggressive role model of the stage mom. Well, as Walt Kelly, the creator of the Pogo comic strip, rightly said, “We have seen the enemy, and he is us!” Intellectually she knew that bad behavior, even bad behavior born of the best intentions and motherly love, was not going to benefit Eli in the slightest. I liked the thrill of cheering for the team, but I didn’t like the confrontational behavior I saw developing in myself. He had to find a way to reconcile the Amazon warrior queen with Lady Astor.
Learning to appreciate the primary origin of behavior was the first part. He was still a wonderful person. A wonderful person who loves her boy madly, but he doesn’t have to GO crazy doing it! A mother’s primal instinct allows us to listen to the boiling water in the next room, to know how not to push the swing too far, to respond to the cries of the newborn that cause the milk to flow. This is something wonderful. Take care of it and be thankful for it.
The competitive nature of motherhood, well managed, is also good. We worry if our kids aren’t doing as well as they could and push them for their own good. We try to position them in places that benefit them. We look for injustice and call it out when we see it. The same spark that makes us want to stop the crying baby allows us to advocate for it later. My own mother intervened when I was not chosen for the concert choir in high school because she knew she had a great voice and was already taking private singing lessons. She thought that the director had not been aware of that. I went to concert choir and majored in vocal performance in college. However, we have to choose our battles wisely. Sparks can start fires.
Thus, I learned to love my inner Olympia, without resorting to betrayal, murder and chaos as she did. I respect motherhood in a way she never had before, realizing the powerful drive we have to promote our offspring and the responsibility we have to “keep it clean.” My son’s preschool class made paper plate angels one Christmas. The angels were all lined up on a table when I reached to pick it up, and I whispered, “Oooooh, look at all the beautiful angels!” My sweet 3-year-old corrected me, “No mom, they’re Mudders.” This sidelined Mudder is determined to be more angelic. I have to run… I thought I saw a bad call.