I do not often forward emails.  I don’t even usually open ones that have a “Fwd:” in the subject line.  So few have been worthy (meaning made me cry or laugh out loud or think about something in a different way).  This one cut the mustard.

“The first testicular guard, the “Cup”, was used in Hockey in 1874 and the first helmet was used in 1974.

That means it only took 100 years for men to realize that their brain is also important.”

After my morning trail run yesterday with my dear friend, Karen, I felt as though we had reached a certain level of comfort and ease. Don’t get me wrong, going up that first hill always feels like I have not exercised in years (why??), but after several months showing up for one another three or four times a week, it was becoming, overall, less demanding, dare I say, rote.

For me, these early morning runs are not just for my physical health. Lively and transparent conversations pepper the whole hour excursion, not only to ward off snakes, coyotes and other wild creatures (‘effin nature), but also to delve into our lives, issues, relationships, and dreams. It is a true physical – therapy combination.

But I felt like it (and I) was ready for the next level. This thought kept permeating my mind…all day. And for whatever reason, yesterday was a rough day. My kids and I were not getting along. I couldn’t get certain work issues off my desk. My relationships with significant others in my life seemed stagnant, even repeating the past. And I felt like nothing was moving forward, that we were all stuck swimming in the same bowl of crappy soup, having the same conversations, arguments, and dealing with the same issues that have been going on for months, years even. It was all so frustrating, so undemanding of any creative thought or action, so, so, so, rote.

I was having this thought, once again, driving to the trail this morning. And once again, I felt like I was going to die hiking up that first hill. Arrrgggh! I powered through it, like I do. Karen and I talked, like we do. We ran the flats, hiked up the hills, and walked the down hills careful not to slip and fall on asses, like we do (like I’ve done). At the top of the trail, we stopped to look at the beautiful view of the West Valley, like we do.

On the way back down, however, something shifted. On one of the “up” hills, Karen took off running, and I was right behind her. A whole new level of power, of energy emerged…running up the hills, hard and fast and continuing the run until the next down did not make me feel like I was going to die. Instead, this sudden burst fed my need to achieve more, to demand more, to break away from that which was familiar.

We upped the ante. We created a shift in our routine that will force it to change forever. On my way home, I become conscious of the reality that I need to burst out and take off on the other “up” hills in my life. That I can either keep feeling the struggle every time I encounter one, and just power through it like I usually do, or I can create my own surge, run it and overtake it. By demanding more. By breaking the rote routines and habitual ways of thinking. By getting out of my comfort zone and discovering the power that shows up, when the ante is upped.

Kathleen Melton is on vacation. This is one of her favorite essays.

I am not sure how it started. It must have had something to do with how cute those white baseball uniforms are. Or the serious look on his face as he approached home plate, or the sly glance into the stands to make sure I am there. To make sure that I am watching and cheering him on. Whatever it was that inspired me, I hollered very loudly from the stands, “I love the Batter!” I could see a smile cross my son’s face. He heard me! From that moment on, a ritual was born. Every time one of my kids goes up to bat, I am there, shouting out to them, “I love the Batter!”

The initial looks that I got from some of the parents in the stands ranged from disbelief to envy. “I can’t believe that he lets you do that!” I heard this several times at the start of several seasons from both moms and dads. To me this was normal – it’s just little league, after all. To them it was unbelievable. “My kids would never let me yell that out to them!” “Really?” I wanted to ask them. Hmmm. I did not, however, let their reticence deter me or influence me. My kids liked it. That was enough for me.

Flash forward a couple of years and a few divisions upward to when my oldest started on a major league team – a team with a whole new set of parents that I did not know. During his very first at bat of the season, he walked out of the dugout toward the plate and without thinking I yelled it: “I love the Batter!”

Whiplash! Two dads quickly turned to look at me and asked simultaneously, “Seriously?” I do believe my face flushed. I had not thought about it. It did not occur to me that he might be too old for that now, too mature. That he might face the ugliness of teasing or (gasp!) being embarrassed by your mom. There was no one around for me to turn to that was familiar. I was surrounded by these new parents who had a different set of “parental bleacher rules and regulations.” An anxiety attack started to grow in my stomach. And tears started to sting my eyes. I felt like I was at a 5th grade girls slumber party and I was the one who didn’t belong.

Defensively, I repeated it to myself, over and over, “Seriously? Seriously?” Argh! Finally, I’d had enough of it in my head. This is my kid. He still loves it and I will hold onto it for as long as I can. And by doing so, I allow him to hold onto it as well. Jeez. Just because they are nearly as tall as us and are smacking the ball over 200 feet and are texting girls and wearing deodorant doesn’t mean that they aren’t still kids. Our kids. Who want and need the same thing that all kids do. Someone to cheer for them. Someone to support them. Someone who will always be in the stands calling out their name. Loving them no matter what – homerun or strike out or somewhere in between. No matter what.

When it came time for him to bat again, my stomach churned and I felt a wave of self-consciousness. But I could not let him down. I could not let our ritual down. “I love the Batter!” I screamed! And I saw the edge of a smile under his helmet. And the turning heads and gaping mouths of the parents in the bleachers. I sat a little taller. Clapped my hands a little louder and cheered! For it is in this instance where I felt cheering mattered most. Where I was going to define what worked for me and my son – regardless of what others thought.

Now, surprisingly, at the end of the season, all (or most of) the parents do it. It has become something that the whole team has become a part of. When my son gets up they holler, “Your mama loves the Batter!” And to their own kids they holler, “I love the batter”, “It’s your day,” and on and on. We holler it to the coach, to each other’s kids, and to others in the stands.

Cheer for your kid, out loud. Cheer for yourself, out loud. Cheer for others, out loud. Just find your voice and cheer. We all need it, everyday. And when you hear someone yelling at drop off, “I love the fourth grader!” or at a play, “I love Darth Vader!” or anywhere at anytime, that will be me, the mom that feels no pang of anxiety for cheering for her boys. Now. Or in the future. For when they are in high school and college and even in their professional lives, they will continue to inspire me and I will continue to burst out “I love the _____________!”Whatever it is they want to be.

At the end of crawling on knees through mud tunnels, running through waist deep disgusting lagoons, and running for 3.1 miles at the OC Mud Run, Kendall made a profound observation.  ”You know mom,” he said, “even though you have been running and training and all I have been doing is sleeping, I did not need to stop during the Mud Run.  You did.”

I looked at him silently, contemplating his face.  There was no malice or teasing.  It was simply an observation on his part.  And, it was embarrassingly true.  ”It just proves,” he continued, “that sleep is the best medicine.”  I thought about this while I studied his face and realized he was absolutely right.  If I scheduled my life around the necessary amount of sleep, I am certain my life would be more, more, what? Stable? Predictable? Peaceful? Manageable?  I can’t find the right word – maybe because maybe there isn’t just one.  Maybe because there are so many words that would apply if I slept more.  And maybe because I am just too tired to think.

As the Lakers move into game four of the NBA finals, one embarrassing moment from five years ago is being retold and relived by my kids over and over. My only choice is to sit back and blush…

My kids and I pulled into a local gas station to fill up the car and get snacks. They stayed buckled in the car (doors open and windows down) while I ran inside to find something healthy for them to eat. Once inside, I quickly made my selections, got in line and waited. And waited. And waited. The cashier was too busy engaging the customer in front of me to do his job. Looking outside dramatically at my kids in the car, I tried to appear pressed for time, but not rude. I was not succeeding. I was also too frustrated and rushed to listen in on their conversation. The cashier finally whipped out a paper and pen and asked the man in front of me for his autograph. I could no longer keep quiet and jumped into their conversation…if for no other reason than to let the cashier know I was there, waiting.

To this very tall, athletically handsome African American man, I blurted out, “What, are you a famous basketball player or something?” He smiled, I think. Probably at the gall of this exchange (again, it was meant as an innocent question, just so I could find a way to pay for my kids’ snacks). “Actually, yes,” he replied. “Oh!” Not the answer I was expecting, then “Would you please come and say hi to my two boys? They are in the car – and they love to play basketball.” He agreed and we left the cashier inside with my unpaid pile of snacks on the counter.

The minivan doors were completely open so it was easy for the boys to have a conversation from their buckled seats with this “famous basketball player or something.”

“Boys, this man is a famous basketball player, um,” I hesitated, as I did not know his name. I looked at him and he could see what I was searching for. “Lamar Odom,” he said. “Omar Lodom,” I repeated quickly to make sure the boys heard him.

“Kendall plays basketball, Omar,” I said and watched as he bent his tall frame down to their height and engaged them in conversation. Which ended with, “It’s Lamar.”

“May we have your autograph?” I was so excited to add it to my collection – which consisted solely of a Shaq signed basketball. He agreed and more than graciously occupied my kids in basketball conversation while I hunted for something to write on. I eventually found a blank card and a pen and handed it to him, thanking him.

“Now you can tell your coach you have met Omar Lodom!” I excitedly said to my two boys who were deeply enthralled with this man. “It’s Lamar, ma’am,” he corrected me again, nicely. It must have been the “ma’am” thing that threw me (I’m much to young to be a ma’am!) as I did it again, soooo not on purpose. “Thank you Omar, for talking with my kids.” Then to the boys, “Won’t it be exciting to tell your coach you met Omar Lodom?” My boys shook their heads yes, shook Omar’s hand, and thanked him profusely.

And as though he wanted my boys to get the significance of this moment in their brief basketball careers, he put is hand on the mini van roof, leaned in a bit closer to my kids and said slowly, “Boys, tell your coach you met, Lamar Odom. Lamar. Odom.” Kendall and Kamden smiled, realizing I had been mispronouncing his name over and over. Lamar smiled back at them as though part of a conspiracy. I blushed. Apologized. And thanked him for the autograph and for his time. And apologized and blushed, again.

Driving away and chattering about who we just met, we realized that Kendall’s favorite two hats were a Clippers hat with ODOM written on the front and back and a Miami Heat cap with Odom on the back. The latter of which had been worn out and retired. It was not until that moment that we all made the connection. And the boys were mortified. As was I. But in that moment I was so appreciative of how graciously the “famous basketball player or something” handled himself and this housewife driving a minivan with two young kids buckled in their booster seats.

The next day there was an article in the paper. Lamar Odom had just signed with the Los Angeles Lakers. “No way!” My boys exclaimed. As I read the details of his deal, I realized this might have been one reason he was in such a generous mood with the cashier, with me, and with the boys. The other being that he is indeed kind and giving.

This story lives on in my household even though my kids have stopped playing basketball and turned to soccer, baseball and fencing. Basketball may roll around for them again, but until then, we are adamant Lakers fans and in particular we root for our friend, Omar Lodom, err, Lamar Odom. Go Lamar! Go Lakers!