Kiss My Fire – Maternal

Walking through the gates of my son's high school, I was immediately overwhelmed by the energy in the football stadium. The crisp air gave off notes of fall and fans roared in the stands. I bubbled with excitement but noticed that my enthusiasm didn't make me nervous. I've spent decades containing and controlling my energy in situations like this, so there was no reason to fear missteps. I didn't think there was any threat of an embarrassing outburst, like in college, when I exploded across a room to release my enthusiasm about a class. I was greeted by a frustrated roommate who pushed me onto a couch. “You can’t rush in like that and interrupt people,” she growled.

But I should have been a little more careful. All because of a part of my personality that I thought I had banished a long time ago.

Earlier today, I promised my son that when I got to the game, I wouldn't admit that I knew him. I wouldn't even look in his direction. I'll be there to support our family friend, senior year cheerleader.

“I think I’m coming to the game tonight,” I told him hesitantly, knowing he would consider it a violation of his territory.

“Fine,” he sighed resignedly. “You can come.”

When I arrived at the game, I reviewed the limits by lowering my head, calmly heading towards the stands where the other parents were sitting. This is Grady's school. Stay together.

As I passed the student section, I heard my son's voice coming from the front row.

“Hey mom,” he said.

I looked up and smiled at him.

“Hey G,” I said quickly and continued walking. I was a little surprised but happy. It's goodI thought. I am cool.

I should have walked to my seat. But right after I passed him, I had another thought. I'm going to take a picture of him with all his friends. For the sake of posterity. I'll stop by quickly and take a photo. I will be subtle. He won't even notice.

Yes. I know. This is where it all falls apart.

I sprinted past the student section, waving my phone in front of me, blindly tapping on my screen. Then I realized I had to cross past the student section again to get back to my seat. I ran past him a second time, looking away from the stands. Maybe if I didn't see him, he wouldn't see me.

When I got to my place, I was mostly convinced that I had succeeded. But as the game progressed, I felt a pit in my stomach. Maybe I shouldn't have tried for the photo. Perhaps I had been a little too enthusiastic. Memories raced through my mind, coming up from the dark corners where I had buried them, memories of other times when I was too hyperactive and embarrassed myself. I saw myself at the age of nine at a friend's birthday party. As the group sang “Happy Birthday,” I bounced behind her dancing wildly. She scrunched up her face, grimacing at me before blowing out the candles. I never wanted anyone to make a face at me again.

By halftime I was regretting my decision but still hoping my son hadn't noticed me. After all, there was a football game and hundreds of students cheering to keep my son's attention.

At home after the game, I plopped down on the couch next to my husband, who paused the television.

“How was the game?” He asked.

“Very good,” I said.

“Have you seen G?”

“Yeah,” I said, not making eye contact. I grabbed the remote to start the show again. An hour later, I heard my son before I saw him.

“Mom! What were you thinking?!” he shouted from the front door.

“I'm so sorry,” I stammered, half-laughing, half-crying, getting up from the couch as he walked up the stairs, with my husband looking on in confusion. When we heard his bedroom door slam, shame filled me. I was sad about embarrassing my son, but worse, distraught about the hyper-ness I had worked so hard to suppress. I was always that super kid, always embarrassing in front of others.

I realize now that the actual details of this event are not the worst a mother can do to her son. For example, I didn't take off my clothes to run on the field. But at home, as I absorbed my son's frustration, I was flooded with vitriolic thoughts that attacked me. It was an unforgivable mistake.

A few years ago, at a women's retreat in the hills of Malibu, a small group of friends gathered to share a word or vision that came to us from each other. The word I was given was “fire”.

“Mandy, you have fire in you,” my friend said. “And you must let it burn brightly.”

Another friend agreed. “Yes, you have a fire and it’s like a powerful energy that makes you unique.”

Even though I would have preferred to avoid embarrassing my son at the game, I remembered that word “fire.” It was the fire bubbling within me as a mother, so overwhelmed with love, that inspired me to capture a glorious moment of my fifteen year old boy surrounded by his best friends on a Friday night at a football match in high school. My decision was driven by a burning desire to have a tangible reminder of our shared history.

Then I started to wonder if maybe it wasn't situations like the football game that fueled my boundless energy as a little girl, a little girl who felt so much love for people, for places and experiences that I thought I might explode if I did. I don't express this energy.

The other day my son said to me, “You know, Mom, I'm not usually embarrassed by you.

“Yes!” I replied, jumping up and down in the kitchen, as he rolled his eyes at me.

I appreciate his comment, especially as I continue to embrace the most alive parts of me. However, I will probably avoid high school football games for a while, at least when my son is there.