Trust the process

I have survived the rugby season. This may not seem like a big deal to all the lovers of that game that you play with an egg-shaped "ball" and take off people's heads if they get in your way. I breathed a sigh of relief when my son aged nine at the time, decided that in spite of being at a school that seems to give birth to Springbok rugby players, he would not be going to rugby camp. I cheered for this strength of character that allowed for going against the flow, for being different. I wondered if he would be able to stand up to the inevitable peer pressure.

And believe me, the pressure has been there over the last few years, however subtle it may have been made out to be. I just don't get the game. And I cannot watch it - I see spinal cord injuries happening (a throw-back to my previous life as an occupational therapist). I have tried - a few years ago I got caught up in some of the patriotism when we won something, but I could not sit through the match. (I have to admit, at the risk of being ostracised, that I have yet to see the "tear-jerker" Invictus).

Well, last year there were some rumblings about maybe playing. I pointed out that he would have to make a choice between rugby and his other commitments - horse-riding, hockey, tennis, music, etc. and he decided that perhaps he didn't want to play so badly that he would give up another activity. I did suspect that the desire was in part due to his admiration for a certain teacher. 

This year however, he came out quite strongly about playing and also was very certain that he would manage all his other activities. Now, a little background here, this is a young man who when he was four years old told me that he would not be doing more than three things during the week, and that included school. I was never able to arrange play dates with other mothers without consultation. "Why did you say he could come and play? I had someone yesterday. I can't be busy two days." I take some blame for this need for balance - he was two years old when I started doing aromatherapy, yoga and meditation. He sometimes would find me cross-legged on the mat and come and quietly join in. 

In hindsight, I think a surge of testosterone has been at the heart of this need to suddenly be macho. He turned 13 at the beginning of the year - seems to be all arms and legs and has achieved his goal of being taller than I am. As the season comes to an end I realise that he has managed to play hockey twice a week, rugby twice or thrice and go horse-riding on a Friday afternoon ("because it is a good way to end off my week"). And on a Sunday morning he starts phoning around to organise a soccer game on the field nearby, with maybe some tennis thrown in. What happened to not being busy for two days in a row? 

He chose not to go to Sweden last week because amongst other things, there was inter-house hockey to end the season. "Of course, you know hockey is my thing", he said. "Oh really?", I replied. "Yes", he casually threw over his shoulder, "you know I won't be playing rugby next year." Well, I didn't, but I gave a mental leap into the air. As always, he has known exactly what he needs.