Wrestling Gives Mom the Glory

Parents understand that as far as awards for “best performance in a leading role,” the trophy goes to, well, there are no trophies for parenting. I love watching the Oscars, especially when someone stands at the microphone and tearfully thanks his or her mom and dad. I would imagine it feels pretty great to be internationally validated as the mom who changed the Best Director’s diapers. Most of us realize from the outset, though, that the rewards of parenting have little to do with recognition. It sure is nice, though, when someone happens to take notice.

My friend Kel Coleman-Potter lives in Poneta, Indiana. We both write columns for our local newspapers and try to incorporate worldly themes in our work, but we often end up writing about our kids. We have resisted being pegged as “mommy” columnists. The truth of the matter is that everything I find worthy of writing somehow relates to my children. Whatever our purpose in life, being mom always tempers our dreams and reminds us that even when editors reject us or agents rebuke us or the muse refuses to inspire Pulitzer material, our kids have a way of making us feel successful in the ways that matter most.

Kel shares tales of her two sons, Aaron and Ethan. They are close in age to my son and daughter. They are boys full of all that makes young men both a blessing and a challenge to parent when adolescence descends and blood pressures rise. Kel marvels at how the baby boys who used to cling to her with adoration and sticky fingers now relegate her to a less lofty position as dispensable old Mom, that troublesome woman who insists on a good breakfast and a decent bedtime. Sometimes, this parenting gig proves fairly thankless. But then, out of nowhere comes serendipitous gratification, an unexpected and complete verification that having kids is a magnificent endeavor.

Kel found hers at a wrestling match.

Wrestling, a sport older than the Olympics is a very big deal in Indiana and in schools throughout the Mid-West. Matches pit two opponents against each other. The winner is the one who either successfully pins his or her opponent to the mat or scores the most technical points. It seems Kel is always running to a practice or a match. There is the constant struggle to keep wrestling gear clean, accessible and in good repair. And then she has that gnawing, endless worry of impending injuries and the sting of defeat.

Ethan, relatively new to wrestling, embarked on his third match with two losses under his belt. Competition can be fierce, so Kel sat among the crowd of onlookers with a familiar knot in her gut, the same one that formed whenever her older son Aaron competed. Any parent who has perched atop bleachers and digested the churning ball of agony that forms when your child loses a game understands how sometimes it’s just too hard to watch. But within a matter of minutes, Ethan toppled his opponent and wrangled him into a position that landed the novice his first win.

The referee locked arms with the champion, as is customary. But he delayed proclaiming the winner until he located Kel in the audience. He positioned Ethan so that his gaze met that of his cheering mom among the throngs and, finally, threw her young son’s hand in the air.

Yes, we know that winning is not everything. In the grand scheme of things, a box of medals or a shelf of trophies ultimately means that you were acknowledged for winning in an instant. They are tangible ornaments of momentary glory. But the award presented to Kel by that referee was the kind of lasting recognition a mother cherishes for the long haul. “Here. Look. It’s your boy. Good job, Mom and Dad. You win.”

It’s not the trophy or the title that makes for lasting keepsakes. It’s the feeling you get when no one is watching, when you sit at your computer and try to write of consequential things, the very life of life. Our children, if we love them right, give us all the notice we need.