Dudes, Divas and Dodgeball

On behalf of all the mothers of sons

“Loser! Loser! Loser!”

The chant of first and second grade boys gains momentum from across the room. We’re in the middle of the second round of the annual Dudes and Divas Dodgeball tournament, and my son and his friends are out for revenge. 

My son stands near the back, one of the calmer kids in the crowd. His neighborhood bestie, however, welcomes the opposition, openly taunting his mother and me from the front line. A sly grin on his face, a sweaty red bandana wrapped tightly in his unruly blond hair, he heaves a large purple ball high into the air. I watch in slow motion as it sails over the chasm and straight towards my feet. I leap at the last second, barely dodging his advance, and lunge for the ball before another mother can pick it up.

“Get him,” his mother yells, her eyes wild. My grasp is precise. I take two steps forward and blast the ball in her son’s direction. He turns away slowly, confident that I will miss, and I gleefully watch the soft purple fabric slam into the unsuspecting side of his head.

“You’re out!” I shout, elation and adrenaline radiating through me. His mother and I exchange a high five, both of us jumping up and down. And while her seven-year-old sass cradles his head and reluctantly slinks over to the sideline, I raise an imaginative trophy and prepare to address the crowd.

“This is for all the mothers of sons! For the women who welcomed sweet, snuggly boys into their arms only to watch them grow lanky limbs that push them away. To the moms who once shared sloppy, wet kisses and repeatedly read Little Blue Truck who now chase muddy footprints around with a mop and curse loudly after stepping on scattered Legos.

This is for the mothers who have heard too many poop jokes, who have wiped one too many yellow pee stains off the toilet seat. For the women who never stop saying, ‘Keep your hands out of your pants.’ For the moms who have been head-butted and body-slammed, who occasionally daydream about pretty pink tea parties surrounded by baby dolls and fluffy stuffed animals.

For all of us mothers who pray for a time machine, who wonder if the same little boy who once handpicked us flowers will still remember to pick up the phone and give us a call when they are off at college. This is for…”

Wham. A bright red ball crashes into my stomach, thrusting me back into reality. Like play-off music from the Oscars, my speech has come to an end. I proudly raise my imaginary trophy to the other mothers, then begrudgingly trudge over to the sidelines. There I sit near my son’s bestie, smack dab in the middle of the loser chant, cheering on his mother as she tries her best to ram a big, orange ball across the court and into my sweet son’s head.

This post is part of a blog hop with Exhale—an online community of women pursuing creativity alongside motherhood, led by the writing team behind Coffee + Crumbs. Click here to view the next post in the series "Acceptance Speech".