My computer died. This is my excuse for not writing in nearly a month. Of course, my track record has proven that my plan for writing once a week hasn’t really panned out. You’d think that I’d have millions of stories about my adventures in single parenting. And I do…..just not written down. There’s plenty of material: the pains of holding slumber parties, tug of war’s in what exactly needs to be done to earn an allowance, the balancing act in when to pay certain bills so that none are actually overdue and your bank account is happy at the same time, the magic of creating time with your kids when all your time is spent at work….. There just isn’t enough time in the day to actually be able to sit and write. Lately I don’t even see my home in the light of day, only being there long enough to sleep.

My daughter came to me several days ago with a packet of papers, waving them excitedly. “Mom,” she said. “Basketball tryouts are this week. Can I try out for the team?” I immediately bristled, poised to say no, unsure of where I would even find the time to accommodate something that most likely would have me picking her up in the middle of my work day. But I was brought back to my own childhood, waving the same packet of papers at my mom, hoping against hope she’d say yes.

In 7th grade, I was your usual awkward pre-teen. My worst subject was Physical Education. I was the slowest runner, I had awful coordination, I was the girl picked last for the teams. But something changed when it was time to learn basketball. I don’t know if it was all those afternoons I spent shooting hoops in the front of my house just for something to do, but it must have paid off. I surprised even myself with my accuracy. And I wasn’t the only one who noticed. The coach pulled me aside one afternoon, shortly before tryouts were to commence. And he asked me to tryout. I knew the significance of this. This particular coach was hard as nails. He favored those kids who were naturally gifted at sports. So naturally, he pretty much ignored me. So for him to come to me requesting that I tryout, this was huge.

“So Mom, can I? Please?” I asked her. I knew it was asking a lot. With three kids under driving age, and with each of us in different activities, I knew that she was already busy. But this was something different, something for me. I was already trying to think of all different solutions to how we could make this work, when she gave her answer.

No.

“But Mom! I could go home with Emily! Or I could walk to Grandma’s house! I really want to do this!” I pleaded.

“Honey, we just can’t. I can’t have you relying on other people for rides because you can’t guarantee that you can make that happen. We’re so busy already, and I am really feeling like a taxi service. The answer is no.”

I left the room defeated. At that age I hadn’t yet learned the fine art of persistence. Shortly afterwards, I gave up shooting hoops as well.

And here we were, almost 20 years later, my own daughter stood before me, the packet in her hands, hope in her eyes. She was a lot like me at that age. She lacked the gracefulness that seemed to come naturally to most girls. She preferred blues and greens to pink. She’d die before being caught in a skirt. And she feigned disinterest so as not to appear overexcited about anything in particular. But there she stood. And I could tell. This was important to her.

“Please Mom? Can I?”

I smiled. I took the packet from her and glanced at the times. “We’ll make it work,” I told her. She bounded away, full of new energy.

And I will. I’ve already talked to my boss about the season starting. I’ll split up my lunches so that I can pick her up after practice and just bring her back to work with me while I finish up my day. On game days I’ll get off early when possible. It will work.

Of course, I know I cannot possibly say yes to every single request these kids make of me. After all, there is only one of me. Now that I’m older I understand that my mom had to draw the line somewhere to not be stretched too thin. I did learn an important lesson that year, though. About a month later my younger sister tried out for cheerleading and for Track, employing her friends to drive her home when our mom couldn’t. The difference? She didn’t ask if she could try out.

Email me your bitter sob stories about your awful childhoods at winecountrymom@winecountrymom.com