Proud

Dear Elli,

It's been awhile.  I know, I'm sorry.  It's been a crazy year.  

I just want to say right this very moment how proud I am of you.  As a parent, you're never really sure whether you're doing a good job.  You try and try and try to do the right thing for your kids, but you're never sure you're doing it right.  You're always half convinced you're doing some kind of irreparable damage and just generally screwing the whole thing up.  Well, I guess maybe that's just me.  Maybe some parents feel sure they're doing it all right.  If so, I'm not one of those parents.  

You've been raised a little differently from some of your peers.  I've gone against the tide of public opinion fairly frequently since I started this parenting gig almost 13 years ago.  And there have been many times that I've questioned myself.  Like maybe I'm too hard on you sometimes.  Push you too hard.  Maybe I'm too open with you.  Or don't intervene enough in situations that are difficult for you.  Maybe I'm too tolerant of some things.  Maybe I'm too much and not enough of pretty much everything.  

But despite whatever I'm screwing up on a daily basis, you seem to be pretty resilient to it.  Don't get too full of yourself, though.  We still have a long way to go.  But, kid.  You're pretty freaking amazing so far.

This past year, you've grown by leaps and bounds.  Physically of course, but really I mean your character.  Your grit.  Determination.  Taking ownership in your own success, and your own failure. And your willingness to push past your comfort zone and challenge yourself to do some really cool shit.  

I could talk for hours about all the things you've done over the past year, but there's one particular thing that finally prompted me to write this letter.  Some people will probably find this kind of ridiculous, but I don't.  I think it's amazing.  

You decided to run track this year.  Lots of kids run track.  That's not amazing.  But you running track is pretty amazing.  In fact, I almost fell off my chair when you told me you were gonna do it.  Because for your entire life, you've hated running more than anything on the planet.  And on top of hating it, you weren't good at it.  At all.  Like, not even a microscopic speck of natural ability.  For most of your life, your running style has resembled that of a newborn calf trying to stand up for the first time.  Very difficult to watch.  Is that mean?  I'm sorry.  I told you I question my parenting all the time.  But it's absolutely true.  

So anyway, you started running track.  I never watched a practice because you're in 7th grade now and I think it's a little psychotic when parents of 7th grade athletes hover around school sports practices all the time.  You're too old for that.  And I have a job.  So I had no idea what kind of progress you were making.  

So you came home one day after practice and told me your coaches made you a distance runner.  You, the ultimate hater of all things running, are a distance runner.  Holy hell in a hand basket!  I honestly thought your coaches might be on drugs or something.  But okay.  Whatever.  I'm down for anything.  

Elli, this is the God's honest truth:  I showed up to your first meet with no idea what to expect.  I was prepared for the absolute worst possible scenario.  You not being able to finish the 1600.  I thought it was a real possibility.  And I was mentally prepared to see you in tears, feeling humiliated.  

I severely underestimated you.  I'm not proud of myself for that.  But I'll never make that mistake again.  

Your form was almost perfect.  You looked fantastic.  And you finished not only the 1600, but also the 800 after that.  In less than 30 days, you went from a newborn calf to a legitimate runner.  Holy shit!  

You weren't super fast.  You didn't blow away your competition.  But you blew away my mile time.  You run a way faster mile than me, and while that doesn't make you an elite track star by any stretch of the imagination, it absolutely blew my mind.  

You've beaten your best times every week since that first meet.  You're literally a faster runner every single week.  That's pretty amazing.

But that's still not even the reason I was moved to write you this morning.

Last week, you were having a tough meet.  Dad and I weren't able to make it, and you weren't feeling your best.  

Halfway into your 1600, you started to feel  sick.  Too much water before the race.  But you didn't stop, or even slow down.  Your coach was right there, cheering you on.  And you proceeded to puke.  In front of everyone. 

I honestly cannot think of a more horrifying experience than vomiting all over the track while competing in a public sporting event as a 7th grader.  It's embarrassing.  And miserable.  And it feels awful, physically and mentally and emotionally.  I would've quit.  As a 7th grader especially, I would've started crying and quit running.   

You didn't.  You puked all over the track, and you kept running.  Not for a few meters, either.  For another half mile.  

And then you came back later in the meet and ran your fastest 800 ever.  

I've never been more impressed in my entire life.  My biggest regret is that I wasn't there to witness it myself.  But that's part of my pride, too.  You're growing up.  You're your own person.  And you don't need my presence to be great.  You're great all by yourself.  

Damn, that feels deep.  Probably because that's the whole entire goal of being a parent, and it's happening before my eyes.  

I'm so proud I could freaking explode.  

I will never underestimate you again, kid.  I can be pretty bad ass sometimes, but I think you've got me beat.  You are a way badder badass than I've ever been.  And I've never been so happy to be beaten in my life.

I love you.

Mom