Moving

Our son, Mason, loved playing baseball. Hold the bat tight, no happy feet, and make a mean face were his three rules of batting. At one point, he expressed profound frustration with his mother and me because his middle name is Fielding (another story) and not batting. When he became old enough to play organized baseball, the “draft” had him worried. He didn’t fret about whether someone would pick him, nor was he particularly concerned about what teams his friends would be on. Instead, he was worried about his dad. You see, I am a deeply committed Red Sox fan. I suffered for years with my hometown team snatching defeat from the jaws of victory time and time again. Bucky Dent, Ed Armbrister, and Bill Buckner still haunt me. I also had — well, still have — a not-so-mild chip on my shoulder about the Yankees. Like any good parent, I passed on my feelings about them and anyone else wearing pinstripes. The night before the fated draft, Mason asked his mom if I would still cheer for him if he was on the Yankees. “Yes,” she said emphatically, but I am not sure how convinced even she was. His second and third questions were whether he would need to move, literally, to the city where his team was from and would we follow him.

Raising children brings with it numerous moments when they step out into new experiences. The blessings and the curse of high expectations in any community is a double-edged sword. We want our children to thrive and excel in areas that are often most familiar to us. We channel our dreams and aspirations, consciously and unconsciously, into our words and our actions. More often than not, this is a good thing. Pride is intoxicating for any parent; being on the receiving end of a parent’s pride is even more so. We need to be careful, though, to make sure our children understand that our love for them is unconditional. While we will never stop being ourselves, we will embrace them as they explore who they are and what inspires them.

When Mason received his college acceptance letter, I thought back to that night before the little league draft. This time, our roles reversed, I hoped for a moment he might consider allowing us to move with him. I know that letting go is part of what we sign up for when we become parents, but our hopes and dreams for them matter — a lot. What is also true is that they will listen to us more carefully when they know our love for them matters more to us than our expectations of them.

Mason is as rabid a Red Sox fan as I am, and he teases us for being the ones to move across the country to a new team. Perhaps the next draft in his life will bring him west. Any team will do.

JWB
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