mama bear

When I held that tiny bundle of pink joy for the first time, I never imagined how she would bless and stretch me.  What fierce love and longing and hope I have for her.  And while I'm more of a hot-air balloon parent than a helicopter one, sometimes my instinct to rush in and defend her kicks in.  Last night was one of those times. 

My Girl is in her second season of playing softball.  She's not a natural athlete, but she has generally enjoyed it, and she's gotten so much better this year, particularly in the field.  She's made a few outs, stopped a few balls, and stayed focused most of the time (rather than making dirt rainbows!).  I know My Girl is a quirky, stubborn one who sometimes struggles to fit in despite her out-going ways, but I've been so proud of her this year. 

She's been getting more and more upset as the season goes on, though, because she never gets to play the pitcher or first base position.  She's played all the other infield positions, but those two are admittedly the most important, and she is not the star of the team.  BUT...all the other girls her age have played pitcher at least once.  And she knows it.  So I talked with her about how to ask her coach politely if she could play pitcher, and I watched her do that after every inning for two games.  And I watched him ignore her every time.  Sometimes it was because so many girls were asking at once, and My Girl is not pushy (surprising, I know).  But sometimes she was just ignored.  Because she's not the best. 

And I wanted to roar a Mama Bear roar. 

Instead I just cried.  Literally.  In my chair behind the bench where I think no one saw me, I cried. 

Over softball for a 6-year-old!  Argh!!!  And not only that, I couldn't go to sleep because I kept thinking about it and obsessing over it.  Grrrr....

But I didn't do anything about it.  I held the Mama Bear in.  Not so surprising, maybe, but it's a little bit intentional, not just a product of my personality.  Because as upset as I was after the game, My Girl wasn't.  For the first time in a few weeks, she didn't cry about how she's not a good player.  She was perfectly happy.  So maybe she should be teaching me - get over it, Mama Bear. 

I want her to figure out how to deal with disappointment without quitting.  I want her to do just what she did - get out and play and cheer on her team and try her best even when she's struggling.  I want her to learn to fight her own battles, and fight them well, with kindness and respect and a willingness to back down when needed.

But if she still doesn't get to play pitcher in her game on Saturday, I may speak to the coach.  Mama Bear won't be silent forever!