Tag Archives: sports

Sam and the America’s Cup

Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire…Sam and the America’s Cup.  Little did you know how synonymous these two two stories were.  In Harry Potter, said hero must travel the maze, navigate a quagmire of nasty magic, and win the goblet (aka, the big cup).  In Sam and the America’s Cup, Sam must watch the race 24/7 on TV (all the while exclaiming and poking me, I might add), travel to San Francisco, and watch a bunch of boats navigating around the harbor trying to win (you guessed it) a big cup.  You see what I mean?  Basically the same story.

After a week of nodding unenthusiastically every time Sam wanted to show me these 13 story boats traveling at nearly 50mph (in person I would’ve loved it, but on an iPad, ehhh) I got a great big surprise last night.

Sam got home pretty late.  I had put both kids to bed, cleaned up, and was watching Orange is the New Black in a semi-comatose state on Netflix.  “Hey.”  I said tiredly.

“Hey.”  he said back, plopping down next to me on the sofa. “I’m flying to San Francisco tomorrow to see the America’s Cup!  I’ll be back around 9.”  

I narrowed my gaze.  “This is for work?”  

“Oh yeah.  Totally.”  (we both knew this was total bullship*)  “I leave at 7 in the morning.”

“Uh-huh.  We need toilet paper.”

I won’t bore you with the rest of our high-octane evening, but it’s a little after 7 and Sam is off to watch sailboats.  I meanwhile am herding cats today.  

Where did I go wrong???

boat1 boat2boat3

* I’m working on toddler-appropriate cursing

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Stuck on the Sidelines

My 2 year old takes swim lessons.  They’re 15 minutes long with a private instructor and I sit by the side and watch.  I sit by the side and watch.  When did I get old enough to sit by the side and watch someone take swim lessons?  I still remember my own mother coming to my soccer or lacrosse games.  I played.  She watched.  Rooting with the other parents – the other old parents.  Observers rather than participators.  In my youth, it never occurred to me that I would ever be relegated to the sidelines.  I see now how young my mother was and wonder if, watching me, she felt the same.

It struck me yesterday as I observed my own child, I’m not ready to be benched for good.  I don’t feel as old as the woman wearing my skin.  But what can I do?  It’s not my turn anymore.  It’s their turn to play and win and fall and learn.  And it’s my job to sit there and watch as they do it.

I don’t want to grow old.

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