My son started middle school last September, and with it came a whole new selection of extracurricular activities to choose from.
I was hoping he’d pick band as an option, being that I’m a sax player from way back.
But this wasn’t the case.
It’s weird, this stage as a parent.
I’ve been demoted from being his favorite person in the whole world to someone who sits on the periphery of his life and supplies him with meals.
As a result, I developed a deep-seated need to reconnect and at the start of grade seven, became obsessed with the idea of becoming more involved with the school.
I did a stint with the Parents Association, donated baked goods for a local fundraiser, and even sorted bottles for soccer. But none of it satisfied me. I knew I had to do something big in order to reinstate myself as a hero in my son’s eyes.
And then it came to me: Cross Country Track. I ran like the wind back in the day and knew this would be the perfect way to recapture a little of the glory.
I was going to be a cross-country track and field parent coach!
On my first morning, I outfitted myself accordingly: Nike jacket and matching nylon pants, new shoes, sweatband, the works. First impressions, after all, are vital and there was no way I was going to let on to the other parents that I hadn’t so much as broken a sweat since sometime around 1993.
The gym wasn’t open when we first arrived, and as soon as I parked the car, my son jumped out and fled.
God forbid someone make the association of him with me.
He ran over to join a cluster of kids and I was left alone to face a smaller group: The Parents.
I didn’t know people in their forties could look that fabulous. That buff. All so casually confident in their faded sweatshirts and well-worn running shoes.
I tried to muffle the sound of my nylon pants as I made way toward them.
