Violent isn’t really the word. Physically active isn’t really it, either. Isn’t scary enough.
The Hubs picked up Emma from riding yesterday. Just as a matter of filling up dead air space as we waited to leave for Ben’s wrestling match, I asked, “How was Emma’s riding today?” See, yesterday was the first day I hadn’t ridden with her since August. When he didn’t look at me right away and started with, “Well, when I got there…” my eyes started getting wide.
“She came off, ” I said quickly. “Was she spinning or running? She was running, wasn’t she?” He rolled his eyes.
Yes, she fell off, apparently. She said she “flew” off. Said she remembered her hand getting tangled in the reins first, then the horse’s mane, then her opposite foot coming out of the stirrup, then hitting the dirt. I remember the first time I fell off, too, just like that. It’s a slow-motion memory. But, she was fine. Jumped right back on and kept going. Later, she said she was glad I wasn’t there. Said I would have squealed. On the inside, I started squealing back at “Well, when I got there…”
And, speaking of squealing….
I went to my first wrestling match. Ben is on the JV team. First time ever. Talk about sensory overload. The outfits? Whoa. The slamming on the ground? Double whoa. The gasps from the Mama Section in the stands? Bring on the Xanax. It was violent, but controlled. It was rough and tumble, but with finesse. I do not understand the rules or how you score points, but I have a new respect for the sport. And, if that boy had not removed his entire body from the entire backside of my boy’s, I was going to have to go get the plastic bat-like thing from that cute timer girl and do more than just tap-tap that referee.
Maybe Control is the word I’m looking for regarding yesterday’s activities. Emma certainly controlled herself enough to climb back up in the saddle with no apparent hesitation. Ben controlled himself enough during his match to have no penalties and fight a fair fight. And, I controlled myself enough to:
1) not drag Emma in my lap to hug, kiss and cuddle her for an extended period of time
2) not drag Ben out of that gym for wearing that leotard in public
3) not punch The Hubs in the nose for his unspoken or undiscovered role in the day’s activities.
So, yes. Control is the word. And, as long as I can stay in a warm and padded room until the memories fade, I’ll be fine. Until this afternoon when Emma rides again and Ben wrestles again.
Lord, help me. And The Hubs.