Dear Cooper

**The following blog post is a little different from what I usually write. I know that a lot of people read my blog, and I usually edit my posts to include information that I don't mind sharing publicly. This time, however, I have something very personal to say to my son. My flaws are on display, something I generally try to keep to myself. I'd be fine with you all just moving on, and not reading this one. I still want it on the blog, because ultimately these are for my children to read someday. I wavered back and forth on posting this one, I admit. I'm not proud of some of it. But I am trying to be okay with being vulnerable in front of people; I am trying to believe that strength (not just embarrassment) can come from making mistakes and admitting them. If you do read on, try not to hold it against me.**

Dear Cooper,

This weekend was a pretty significant weekend in your young life. Maybe you won't remember it in great detail, and I'm only imagining that it was significant. Or maybe it's one of those weekends that will somehow stick with you in unnatural detail for eternity - I'm not sure. But it felt significant to me, so I'm going to have to write you a letter so your grown-up self can hear what maybe your 7-year old self can't.

Little man, it is no secret that your mother is crazy about you. I know you know, because when I whisper at night "Love you, Coop" you always nod and say "I know, Mama." Because I'm so crazy about you, I sometimes lose perspective; there is a fierceness in this love - hard to describe, really. I get downright FIERCE about it. Anyway - that's something to remember, please, as this letter goes on.

When you started wrestling last year, I had a mix of emotion; in some ways you seem too small to have other boys throwing you around on the wrestling mat. I didn't like it. I half-hoped YOU wouldn't like it. But your dad, he was the kind of wrestler that doesn't come along every day, and I tried pretty hard to swallow my fear because I thought that this would be something you and he might have together, and I did not want to ruin it.

I don't know a dang thing about wrestling, and I admit I've enjoyed learning from you and I have taken extreme pride in watching your dad work with you on the mat. I love him in that role. And okay, selfishly I will admit something else. I have kind of hoped that his status as a champion on the mat might someday extend to you. I know your dad has some secrets about how champions are made. Your mother, well, she wasn't a champion at anything, really. She participated in lots of things, had lots of passion and a million irons in a million fires, but it was more important at that time for her to be part of lots of things, than to be really excellent at just one. So I don't really know what it takes to be a champion. Your dad, does, though. And maybe there's a little part of me that wanted to be a little part of that champion thing, since I never did that.

So I got whole-heartedly behind this wrestling thing, waiting for the glory days that are almost sure to come. I wasn't really listening to your dad when he kept telling me, "this might not be his thing." I thought he was being modest. When he said, "I've seen it before - kids quit because they get a little beat up too soon and it isn't fun for them" - I was sure he was talking about other kids. Last year went well, but this year has been a bit of a bumpy road.

You haven't loved practice the way you used to love it. You're not all that excited about the meets. You really HATE that you can't inhale pancakes and waffles on the mornings of weigh-ins. And let's be honest - you are a teeny tiny little thing right now. You may be tall, but the boys at your weight class are stronger, and that hasn't always been great for you on the mat.

Through it all, I offered encouragement. Just keep going, keep at it, you have to work at something to become good at it. And I THOUGHT your dad would be right behind me, saying the same thing. He wasn't, though. He hung back and just watched you. And it was making me CRAZY. I would say to him, "Go help him! He needs your help." and he would just shake his head, sit down, and watch. I felt like he was somehow withholding the magic words; intentionally leaving you to flounder, while he hoarded all the answers to life on the sidelines. I was frustrated by that - but as usual, your father was just waiting and watching for a reason.

When you are in a match, you give it your all, and you are trying REALLY hard, Coop, I can tell. But it isn't coming easily to you yet, and you're not really having a whole lot of fun. This weekend, we tried the Team Tournament in Blue Earth. You were crabby from the second I pulled you out of bed to the second you stepped on the scale for weigh-ins. The happiest part of the morning for you was the breakfast you ate at McDonald's. You tried to tell me, about 5 times, that you did not feel like wrestling today and you wanted to go home.

You know what I was thinking? Honestly? I was thinking, "Oh no, we can't go home. Your grandparents are here. We already signed up. We paid our fee, we took someone's spot on the team, and we are in BLUE EARTH for crying out loud! Aaron Gudahl's son cannot possibly walk out of THIS gym and prefer to go home and play video games, for crying out loud!" That's what I was thinking. (I am writing in tears, I want you to know. I am not proud of that, but that is what I was thinking.) I covered it up with some spiel about how "we don't quit, and we follow through on our commitments" but in all honesty it was just my foolish pride that wouldn't let you pack it in and go home. That is the truth. When I sent you down on to the mat anyway, there were tears in your eyes. And iron in my heart. (And I am feeling terrible as I write this down, I just want you to know that.)

As you wiped your eyes on your tee shirt and headed down the stairs, your dad finally spoke up. He turned to me and said "No. This is not how it goes. He does not wrestle in tears. That's not how this goes." And he went down and picked you up and brought you back to the stands. He was ready to pull you out, and I was a wreck, and you were upset and overall the whole thing just SUCKED. There, can I say that? It sucked.

And you did the bravest thing. You said, "Dad, I want to wrestle." And you wiped your eyes again and sniffed and walked over to the team. After you left to join the team, I breathed a sigh of relief and chalked it up to growing pains.

But here's the conversation you didn't hear - your dad had a few things to say to me, in private, and I want you to know what they were. I'll try to summarize - but believe me, I heard every word. He said, "Sara, if he learns to hate this, I will never forgive myself. He has to WANT to be here. He has to LIKE it. We don't push, we don't decide. HE decides. Right now, this isn't fun for him. He's not strong enough to win consistently, and that might be enough right there to sour him. You know how much he likes to win."

(And that's true - you're very competitive. Once, I accidentally killed off all your Skylanders when I was trying to learn that video game and you didn't talk to me for a whole day.)

Anyway, your dad continued, "It doesn't matter to me if he ever wrestles. I know you think that matters to me, Sara, but it really doesn't. I had great experiences, I did a lot of things that other people never got a chance to do, but those were mine. I don't need him to have those same experiences - I had mine already. He might have all new experiences. And that's okay. Let's just find what he loves and get behind it."

Oh. Okay.

And I felt just humbled by that. And if I could love your dad any more than I already do, that conversation right there would be why.

And then...you wrestled. It was finally your turn, your mood had brightened and you were ready to go. Approximately 18 seconds into the first period, you took a knee to the nose, and blood like I have never seen spurted everywhere. Shawn Ehrich was reffing, he stopped the match and turned right to us in the stands and motioned us over. Coach Luke was with you in seconds and the amount of blood running down his arms almost made me sick.

And I thought, "This is what I get. This is MY fault." It took 20 minutes to stop bleeding, we had to pack it, and you were done for the day. (Maybe done for life, who knows?)

That evening turned out to be the bright spot of the night; Double Play with the Nesbits and their families - by then you were shooting pool and throwing darts and eating pizza and actually joking about the nose. So it's true that kids are resilient - you sure bounced back fast. And I might have been tempted to think, "all's well that ends well,"

But here comes the part that I want your grown-up self to hear, in case your 7-year-old self missed it. I'm sorry, buddy. I'm sorry for my ambition, that might have pushed you into a place you weren't ready for. I love you so much, and how much I love you has absolutely nothing to do with whether you are ever a star athlete or not. I don't care, I swear I really don't. And your dad doesn't care - we'll get behind whatever you choose to do or not do.

You are the boy who can name every dinosaur that ever walked the earth, AND distinguish what period he lived in. You are the boy who builds amazing creations out of Legos and K'nex. The boy who has mastered Mario Kart and Super Mario Bros, who has an impressive collection of Pokemon cards and who still falls asleep on my lap sometimes before bed. You're the boy who will ride his bike and jump on the trampoline for hours, the boy who reads Harry Potter at age 7 and who loves his Mama just as fiercely as she loves him. It's enough - you're enough. Whatever you want, or don't want, will be just right for me.

Okay, I'm crying in earnest now, and I'm not ashamed to admit it. I pride myself on having a good head on my shoulders - I like to think I am reasonable and logical and always have your best interests at heart. I think I didn't handle it well this weekend, and I resolve to do better. Thank goodness for your dad...(not the first time I've thought that.) And I hope you can forgive my pride. I'm working on that.

Love,
Mom