Last night I was given the horrific opportunity of telling my son that he didn’t make the second team in six months that he tried out for.  There are no words for the agony.  

I read the email that notified me KeenanKeenan aka: Kman
Age: 14
"Special" Qualities: Door slamming, stomping and eye rolling (can do it all in one impressive motion).
Best Qualities: The softest kindest heart, hysterical and quite charming when he tries. hadn’t made the team, and I looked up at his face and a flood of memories came rushing in.  Those of him being strong enough to take his first step.  The bravest moment ever, when he gave up his pacifier.  The composure it has taken to stand of up in front of a room of kids and read his mother’s day poems to me over the years.  As I looked at his expectant eyes, I was crushed with the reality that what I was about to say would break his heart and spirit.  Somehow I managed to eek out the words, “you didn’t make it”.  

Watching his face sag and his heart break was so unbearable.  I have spent my life protecting this sweet boy from all the heartbreak in the world and tonight I delivered it from my own lips.

The saddest thing was when he said to me, “Its okay mom, I knew I wouldn’t make it”.  How?  Because I knew you would.  You worked too hard not to.  You wanted it too much not to.  Mostly because you were damn good.  Trust me, I know when you aren’t.  I’ve watched you play soccer.  Not your sport.

I stood around in the kitchen saying all the wrong things for several minutes and then looked at Keenan and said, “Do you want me to stop talking now?”

“Yes, please,” he said in a desperate tone.  

So I did something I rarely do, I shut up.  I made him a big bowl of whipped cream and handed him a box of vanilla wafers, and told him to have at it.  Then, I poured a big ass glass of wine for myself and sat in a a chair in the living and tired really hard not to cry my eyes out.  

Next time Kman.  Next time is your time. I am sure of it.