Social Currency

and the plight of a vengeful Thundercat.

Prepared to have your minds blown.

Ready? Here it goes….

(Insert drumroll sound effect )

I am not a boy.

What?! But you have such big penis…

I know I know. And yet, here we are.

I am indeed a woman. And have literally no expertise when it comes to boys. Or men. Their more grownup counterparts.

But I have a son.

I volunteer for school events just to spy on him.

That’s normal right?

Don’t answer that.

It came to my attention today, as I sweated through my mildly inappropriate gym clothes at my children’s field day, that the currency in boy world is athleticism.

If you are sporty. If you like sports, if you can throw a ball well and grunt something vaguely aggressive while you do it, you are cool. You are good. You garner respect and admiration. Other boys want to hang with you. They will pass you the ball. They’ll ask you to join in on whatever sport du jour is on the menu for the day. They sniff each other out. Those without any god-given athleticism are quickly weeded from the pack. A threat to their batting average. Or whatever other sports-appropriate analogy fits in here. There is value in that. The fraternity of the sports kids.

My kid is not that.

Of course, we don’t lead with a hefty dose of sports in our house either. I only signed up for soccer in the 1st grade for the pretty blue t-shirts and free orange slices on the sidelines. My dad was the coach and would shout things like: “Courtney! You run like a girl!” as I trotted absentmindedly down the field. I’d wander off the field, clutching a freshly picked bouquet of droopy dandelions to inform him “But Daddy. I am a girl.” Eventually I’d find my way back in the game, only to become distracted by a bee. Or dirt. Or my shadow. And now we’re making shadow puppets with the bee…should they tap-dance? They should definitely tap dance. Tap dancing bees and shadows on my call! A five, six, seven-

“Courtney! RUN!”

But daddy. I’m sweaty.

Eh, too late. Games over.

Is it time for my victory orange slice?

I left field day, still sweating through gym clothes not entirely appropriate to wear around small children, and feverishly texted my husband something like “Get your balls out! We’re training Oscar!” See how sporty I can be? Ball talk. The Heisman Trophy. LeBron James. Fore!

I erased the text.

Mostly because my husband would undoubtedly send me a picture of his scrotum. And I’m sitting next to a priest.

Don’t ask.

But also because…was this the move? Pushing my son into an arena he has shown little to no interest in? Of course there is no harm in expanding my son’s skill set. Perhaps we will learn, after chucking balls at his head all summer that he is a surprisingly agile lacrosse player. Or tremendous at enduring concussions. Either way.

I couldn’t help but recognize that my desperation to curate some 8 year old, male version of Sporty Spice in my son, was really just a knee jerk reaction to my own shit. So deeply I feared my son ever feeling rejection, an enviable part of childhood, that I jump at any chance to create buffers to protect him.

Yes of course, as a mother, protecting our children is kind of one of the main things. Feed them, clothe them, keep them from rusty bear traps..blah blah blah. But this level of protection isn’t just for him. In fact, in all honesty, it’s way more for the little Courtney who, despite my bribing and questionable witchcraft, still lives inside me. Who was terrified of being left out. Rejected. Told no one wants to play with her. Seeing my son’s vulnerability instantly sends me spiraling. Quick! Stop it! Save it! Throw a baseball bat at it! Wait! Don’t do that! The baseball bat just clocked him in the eye. LET’S WORK ON CATCHING FIRST! BUT WHATEVER WE DO, DON’T LET HIM BE VULNERABLE!

Am I projecting my narrative on my son, too much?

You betcha.

Doesn’t make it hurt any less when I watch kids ignore him when he tries to engage in whatever sporty-sport game they’re playing?

Not even a little.

For the amount of work I’ve done on myself, nothing can take me down faster than watching one of my kids face possible rejection. My self-awareness and years of therapy mean absolute piss if I find out he’s been excluded from stupid Brian’s stupid-head birthday party. I go from serene Buddha to weep, vengeful Thundercat in seconds. I mean, I just called an 8 year old a stupid-head to his face. Just so you know what you’re dealing with here. A 46 year old, vengeful, Thundercat.

It’s a gift.

A gift that keeps on giving. Because I’m apparently no closer feeling at peace with my own inner outcast today than I was at 12. I can detach myself. Allow my son to navigate without my interference, aware that this is his journey and his alone. Be there if he needs me. Know that whatever is ailing him, does not mean that he’s doomed to repeat my own personal trauma. Love my son for who he is. Not who he is through my own personal filter.

Seems like a good place to start.

But if it’s all the same to you, I think I’ll go buy him that Lacrosse stick.

She’s totally healed, guys.

FORE!