"You never know how much you'll miss them until those cleats get hung up for the last time."

To this day I still don’t know what compelled me to open my front door when an Amazon delivery man rang my doorbell on that random Saturday night.

99% of my doorbell rings go unanswered or ignored yet there I was, standing in my open doorway stuck in a conversation with the Amazon delivery man.

At first I was irritated.

Couldn’t he see that we had just come home from a long day of football?

I had things I needed to be doing. I didn’t have time to stand in my doorway talking about which local pizza place has the best greek salads or what the best route to the highway is on a Saturday night.

But the longer he stood there talking to me, the more it became apparent that he NEEDED to be there talking to me and I NEEDED to hear what he was about to say.

He peered over my shoulder and into my dining room.

Scattered all over the room behind me were the markers of my current stage in life.

Football pads and helmets were stacked on top of my dining room table.

Athletic cups and mouth guards were tossed next to empty water bottles on my china cabinet.

Sweaty smelly jerseys were strewn over the backs of my dining room chairs.

Football cleats had been left wherever they were kicked off on the floor and string bags had been thrown wherever open space could be found.

It was a scene of total and complete chaos but was a scene familiar, nostalgic, and comforting to the Amazon delivery man for it was a scene from his own past.

As he stood there taking in the state of the room behind me, tears began to fill his eyes.

The hum of the Amazon delivery truck in the driveway began to fade away.

The brand markings on his uniform and on the package of dog allergy meds he held in his hand slipped from my view.

Eventually all I could see and hear was a parent who loved his children deeply - a parent who could be a future version of me.

And it broke my heart.

"My two boys played football too...Well, I had two boys. I lost one in the military. He died."

Pausing to take a deep shaky breath and rocking back on his heels, he shook his head and said "You never really get over it. They say you do. But you don't. You think about them when you're driving around. You think about them all the time."

With the back of his hand, he wiped away a tear and held my gaze for just a beat longer.

"You never know how much you'll miss them until those cleats get hung up for the last time."

His words hit me right in my heart.

In an instant, nothing else mattered.

The mess on the table. The stench of the uniforms. The desperately overdue showers for my teens. The hurried pace of this stage of our life.

None of it mattered.

I had just received one of the most important deliveries of my life from this Amazon delivery man - perspective.

Someday soon, he had reminded me, those cleats that litter my floor will be hung up for good.

The scene behind me will no longer be one of complete chaos.

And I'll miss it all.

I’ll miss the messy house.

I’ll miss the long days.

I’ll miss the grumpiness after losing games.

I’ll miss the sheer fatigue after full weeks of practice.

I’ll miss seeing them play every weekend.

I’ll miss being a part of their lives in this way.

I’ll miss it all and so will they.

Life will change and we can’t predict where it will take us.

One day our Saturday nights might be filled with delivering packages instead of rehashing football games and connecting around my kitchen island.

So, for now, maybe it’s best to keep answering the unexpected doorbells.

We never know when a little perspective may be waiting for us on the other side.

Can you feel it?

I know I can.

The tide has come in and the storm is raging again.

Life has returned to the pre-quarantine pace - and I can’t catch my breath.

Every day feels like I’m running a 5k and the finish line keeps moving. On this race route there’s no one handing out free cups of water. There’s no one cheering me on and offering me encouragement. There are no breaks. If I slow to a walk, I’ll surely be run over by the herd of runners around me.

Life is back to how it was and here we are - racing full steam ahead and this week proved that my family and I are very much out of practice for this pace of life.

Bat bags left in wrong cars.

Sports water bottles left on car roofs.

Evenings were spent scrubbing grass stains out of white baseball pants, washing uniforms, and being reminded that our dog has an affinity for athletic cups.

There are no more family dinners. We now eat at 4pm or 9pm or in the car.

Mail gets stacked anywhere there is an open space in my house and the dogs are angry that they have to actually be alone in the house for longer than 30 minutes again.

Last night we even had to have a family meeting to figure out how we all can manage all our necessary commitments next week - (hint: we can’t do it without a clone or two).

It feels like too much and I thought we swore we wouldn’t be here again.

But as I watched my oldest laughing at first base the other night, watched my youngest warming up with his team this afternoon, and watched my husband coaching with his friends again, I realized that while this fast paced life is exhausting, leaves me breathless, and makes me feel completely unprepared most days, it also is a crucial part of my family’s existence.

This pace of life leaves my boys standing together in our kitchen late at night swapping stories of their practices and games.

This pace of life creates connection for all of us.

This pace of life creates opportunities for growth for all of us.

So tonight as I watch yet another game from the outfield, I’ll remind myself that every frantic second of this stage of life right now is worth it because this pace of life is where my family is most happy.

Can you feel it?

I know I can.

Today my high schooler needed a ride to football practice.

There used to be a time not so long ago when I would have to arrange a ride for him with a mom of one of his friends, annoyingly verifying it at least three times with the mom, and then reminding my son what time he was getting picked up, what to bring, and to make sure he said thank you.

Today he arranged the ride himself with a friend, got himself ready, and went to practice.

I wasn’t needed anymore.

There used to be a time not so long ago when I would go to those practices, my camping chair and bag full of snacks regular staples in my trunk. The other parents and I would sit for 2 hours every day watching our boys’ struggles and admiring their growth.

Today he went to practice without parents and with coaches I’ve never personally met.

I wasn’t needed anymore.

There used to be a time not so long ago when I would roll my eyes and sigh loudly as I made my way through our house after a practice, helping stray socks find their way to the hamper and stinky shoulder pads to the drying rack.

Today those stinky pads got put where they belong, without me having to help.

I wasn’t needed anymore.

There used to be a time not so long ago when that same high schooler was a shy little boy, stepping onto the field for the first time - timid, lacking confidence, scared, and so very excited.
Today that little boy stepped onto the field for probably the 1,000th time - a young man, confident, brave, and so very excited to tackle the world on his own.

I wasn’t needed anymore.

There used to be a time not so long ago when this mama couldn’t imagine a time when she wasn’t needed.

Today that mama knows that she will always be needed in someway - maybe not for rides or picking up socks or support at practice - but surely for other ways.
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A mother’s love will always be needed.