Most parents would be very excited, perhaps even a little relieved, to see their child commit themselves to the rigorous mental and physical demands of competitive sports and, ultimately, make it through to the final cut.

[blank stare]

"Did you hear what I said?"

I am not one of those parents.

"Oh yeah, yeah, I'm just, like, wow!"

See what I mean?

"Congratulations, sweetie!"

Of course, I'm happy for her.  Like her younger siblings, she's played recreational soccer up until the 6th grade.  However, rather than going pro (heh) and playing for the middle school, like most of her friends did, Heather had a hard time finding a comfortable place.

"Did you get a chance to speak to your coach about, you know?"

Then, she got sick and, well, being able to sit comfortably, in class, or excusing yourself, dozens of times during the day, without question, or embarrassment was a blessing.

"Yeah, she's totally cool with it."

I thought about writing a note, explaining the situation to her coach.  Even dialed her coach's number, before hanging up and finally deciding that this is perhaps one of those times when life should just be allowed to run its course.

"Are you okay with it?"

Honestly, um, no.  Quite frankly, I am scared to death that my child is going to land flat on her ass and, you know, this time, not be able to get up.

"Oh yeah, yeah, I mean, the surgeon said it was, like, okay."

She played her first game, yesterday.  They won.  6-0.  I survived it.  Barely.  Still.  I'm not looking forward to Thursday for two reasons:

1. She has an appointment with the surgeon to see if her condition (for lack of a better word) requires more surgery.
2. They play the meanest, nastiest field hockey team, ever.

For now, I'm keeping up appearances, like there's absolutely nothing wrong with her playing field hockey, or my suggesting that perhaps it would be a good idea if she wore the protective gear, for the rest of her life, thankyouverymuch.

Later.

"Can I dye my hair red?"

She is the only one of my kids [knocking on wood until knuckles bleed] to have gone through surgery, twice and, as much as I feel awful saying it, it couldn't happen to a tougher child.

"And then could you, you know, dip my ends in black?"

After all, she was born on a Wednesday.

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