What was said mom to do?

There once was a nine-year-old who asked her mom for a lacrosse stick. And goggles. And to join a cute team of other nine-year-olds.

Which meant cleats and a uniform and driving back and forth to three practices a week and God-knows-how-many games.

It made sense. Her older sister played. Her two older brothers played. Lacrosse equipment littered the garage, the kitchen, the trunk of the car and the talk around the table.

What was said mom to do?

She was exhausted with all the laundry, the cooking, the driving, the homework, the music lessons, the mayhem of motherhood.

Said mom, who was awful at making good boundaries and had the illusion she was supermom, responded with “yes.”

She loved sports. And who knows? “Maybe her final child had a chance at the big leagues” (whatever the heck that means when it comes to women’s lacrosse).

A fancy stick was purchased.

Along with pink goggles (a two-pack) and black cleats with a pink stripe.

Forms were filled out along with a hefty check written.

Practices were driven to, back and forth, back and forth, back and forth.

Cheering happened at games and mom friendships were formed on sidelines.

The little girl loved it.

So did her mom.

Year after year, the girl grew and played and grew and played.

Fancier sticks.

Bigger goggles.

Straight-up black cleats (no more pink stripe).

Special lessons.

Elite teams.

Very very soon (like a minute in mom years), the nine-year-old was donning a nylon mesh pinnie and headed to high school tryouts.

After a week of running and catching and dodging and attacking, the news came. She had made Junior Varsity.

The not-so-little girl loved it.

So did her getting-older mom.

More practices.

More driving.

More special and elite this-and-that.

More money.

More time.

News the following tryout year was even better. Varsity as a lowly sophomore. Varsity.

The season was long. And hard.

The coach was rough. And knowledgeable.

The girl was in shape. And very very busy.

The big girl loved it less and less.

The couldn’t-wait-for-the-next-game mom loved it more and more.

The announcement came one end-of-winter morning.

“I’m quitting lacrosse, Mom. I want to focus on my music. I want to help in the church sound booth.”

Said mom gathered herself quickly and tempered her aghast look (hopefully).

What was she to say? To do?

This was not what she wanted. Or expected. This would make her sad. Very sad.