Y’know, this parenting stuff is hard.
This weekend my Bubs and his exemplary band mates won the State title for their high school division band. They broke a 10-year winning streak for the 2nd place finishers, who quickly rounded up a social media campaign claiming otherwise, fighting tooth and nail for their “right” to the title, diminishing our kids’ hard work. Sore losers.
The real crisis came for me and this parenting stuff.
The hours! The early mornings, the late afternoons, all the heavy lifting and quick pushing and uniform washing, all paid off bigly.
As a parent, I couldn’t wait to rush the field for congratulatory hugs and Big Time Momming, and there’s my boy, 6’3, relishing his moment, and my heart swelled one hundred sizes for pride in my young man, near-adult, glorious individual relishing his moment with his friends and bandmates.
Such dichotomy: revel in the victory, but from over here, because I did my job and look what happened? My baby grew up.
So I cried happy, happy tears and heart-rending sobs for the glory that is parenting.
It’s not for the faint of heart.
