After her volleyball game last night, my daughter teased me that I'm not competitive enough because I kept saying how well both teams played. I responded, "Ahem..." gesturing to the opponent's player walking ten feet in front of us with her mother. It didn't seem like a good time to rant about which 80 pound teen was better.
Tuesdays are crazy for us. We have volleyball, lacrosse, then a different volleyball game. To watch my daughter, then son, then same daughter play sports isn't something we've always done. This year, they have sports they attend without complaint. For years, it felt like we'd pay a registration fee and then start praying for rain until the season ended. I'm the one who prayed hardest. I never pushed them to do anything except unload the dishwasher and give It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia a chance. But this season has been different.
To watch them play games they choose to attend-- to move and be healthy-- seems a gift that is easy to take for granted. They are 13 and 15 now. I see them doing physical things I didn't teach them. They have skills others helped them learn, or they figured out on their own.
I remember baby books told us that infants don't realize they are separate beings from their mother. As they get older, they separate and it's good and healthy. But at some point, they start doing things with their bodies you are unable to do and you think, "Where the hell did you learn that move?" The experience is fascinating in a way.
When my daughter says I'm not competitive, she's sort of right. It's because I've been zoned in on my own kids during their games. It's like there's a spotlight on them, and for a hour, you get to watch and marvel at them without them saying, "WHY ARE YOU STARING AT ME? I ALREADY TOOK THE DOG OUT."
Last night was different.
I zoomed out a bit and noticed the entire team of kids working together. I heard the coach and the parents calling out all of the players' names. And I realized this is a powerful gift. They are being seen and supported by other adults.
We all want to know we are here. We are seen. I heard strangers call, "That's it, Courtney! This time you've got it, Kaylen! Stick with it, Chloe!" I like to hear our loud, northern lacrosse coach yell "Where's your man, CJ?!" and "Walker go the center! No the top! No the top center!" I'm not sure I or the players know what this means, but they start moving anyway, and there was something very affirming about hearing people I don't even know saying, basically, "You are here! We see you! We are with you!"
With the other part of my mind, I immediately think of kids who are unable to be in a group setting for health reasons. I think of the special needs adults I work with at the library. I wonder if their parents want every opportunity for their child to be seen, heard, affirmed. Of course they do. It feeds our hearts and souls.
I think of my friends John and Tim coming to the library in their Special Olympics medals the week after they compete. I've always known the value of the event, I just never thought about the power of hearing other people call out the kids' names. What a gift.
I'm slow. I learn everything later than everyone. I am okay with that.
Noticing is the beginning of learning hopefully.