Note: This blog was written the Sunday before the school year started.
My husband and my son have been on the driving range for an hour.
I know this because I have been spying on them from my car.
About twenty minutes ago, it started to rain, and I thought they would stop. But they didn’t. They kept on whacking dem balls, oblivious.
I never thought this day would come.
When my son was 9 months old and just starting to walk, my husband decided May would be a lovely time to get serious about the game of golf and join a local club.
I remember being furious and feeling completely abandoned. I’d imagined the two of us taking turns watching our teetering toddler as he endlessly padded down the tile floors. But then I became a golf widow, and I lost my husband.
I suppose, at the time, the golf course was a better lover. After all, she was beautiful, well-maintained, undulating, and brimming with splendor. All of that gorgeousness was in sharp opposition to the new-mommy me. When our son was 9 months old, sometimes I looked downright ragged; sometimes I was mean; some days, I didn’t shower, and I was cranky when my husband came home. I offered no new vistas. At home, every day was the same thing: Diapers, feedings, naps. Or – heaven forbid – no naps.
My husband promised that it would get easier, the parenting gig. And it has. Our 11-year-old son is easy-going, funny, eager to try new things. He is kind, loyal, open-minded, intuitive and imaginative.
And I just watched him whack a golf ball farther than I have ever managed to hit one. The ball flew long and straight, right over the flag.
So he is starting to golf.
It’s kind of cool. Something he can do with his dad.
Maybe one day they’ll go on a guy trip to some fabulous location together and bring their clubs. Talk about guy stuff.
Watching them enjoy themselves as the rain pours on their heads, I realize, it’s time to stop being pissy about the golf thing.
Because they enjoy it.
Even in the rain.
I don’t have to be part of everything. As long as I can meet up with them for dinner, I’m good.
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