The Writing Mamas Daily Blog
Each day on the Writing Mamas Daily Blog, a different member will write about mothering.If you're a mom then you've said these words, you've made these observations and you've lived these situations - 24/7.
And for that, you are a goddess.
Friday, June 22, 2007
Winning
I started doing triathlons a year before my daughter was born. Now five, she’s been cheering me on at events since she was in diapers. Hearing her yell “Mama! Mama!” while perched on her dad’s shoulders has often helped me ignore my throbbing feet and weary legs long enough to make it to the finish line.
In the last couple of years, though, she’s figured out that triathlons are races. And races have winners. The simple pleasures of spotting mama in a crowd of competitors or grabbing my hand to dash across the finish line with me no longer satisfy her.
“Did you win your race, Mama? Did you win?” has become her standard greeting when I scoop her in my arms for a sweaty hug after an event.
My response is always a disappointing “no.” Typically, I finish somewhere in the middle of my age group. I attempt to console her with what I hope is a wise explanation:
“Honey, it doesn’t matter if you win as long as you try your best and have fun doing it.”
She usually squints suspiciously at me and says, “You mean you lost?”
Not really, I think to myself. But how do I convince her that, for an almost 48-year-old woman with bad knees, painful bunions and an arthritic right hip, just completing a triathlon is a victory? Or that, after years of feeling self-conscious about my body, the fact that I’m comfortable enough to don a bathing suit and expose my less than perfect physique—chubby knees and all—to hundreds of strangers means more to me than any medal or trophy?
I have hope that my little girl may one day appreciate athletic events for reasons other than winning. We recently attended a Memorial Day celebration featuring a variety of old-fashioned races. My daughter was eager to try them all.
She fell flat on her face in the sack race. She tripped with each step she took in the three-legged race. And she flopped in the grass like a freshly caught fish when her arms gave out in the wheelbarrow race. But she was beaming as she stumbled or crawled across the finish line—dead last— in each event. And she couldn’t wait to do them all again.
By Dorothy O’Donnell
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In the last couple of years, though, she’s figured out that triathlons are races. And races have winners. The simple pleasures of spotting mama in a crowd of competitors or grabbing my hand to dash across the finish line with me no longer satisfy her.
“Did you win your race, Mama? Did you win?” has become her standard greeting when I scoop her in my arms for a sweaty hug after an event.
My response is always a disappointing “no.” Typically, I finish somewhere in the middle of my age group. I attempt to console her with what I hope is a wise explanation:
“Honey, it doesn’t matter if you win as long as you try your best and have fun doing it.”
She usually squints suspiciously at me and says, “You mean you lost?”
Not really, I think to myself. But how do I convince her that, for an almost 48-year-old woman with bad knees, painful bunions and an arthritic right hip, just completing a triathlon is a victory? Or that, after years of feeling self-conscious about my body, the fact that I’m comfortable enough to don a bathing suit and expose my less than perfect physique—chubby knees and all—to hundreds of strangers means more to me than any medal or trophy?
I have hope that my little girl may one day appreciate athletic events for reasons other than winning. We recently attended a Memorial Day celebration featuring a variety of old-fashioned races. My daughter was eager to try them all.
She fell flat on her face in the sack race. She tripped with each step she took in the three-legged race. And she flopped in the grass like a freshly caught fish when her arms gave out in the wheelbarrow race. But she was beaming as she stumbled or crawled across the finish line—dead last— in each event. And she couldn’t wait to do them all again.
By Dorothy O’Donnell
Labels: Dorothy O'Donnell
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