By Stacy Bronec
@stacybronec

My son, Rhett, is stuffing his feet into the wrong shoes when he asks me if I’m going to play football with him and his dad.

I’m in the hallway on the way to my office, but I pause to look at him—the familiar knots in my stomach bubbling up. “I have a few things I need to do first, okay? But I’ll try and come out when I’m done.”

He jumps up to stand on the hardwood floor.

“Your shoes are on the wrong feet, buddy,” I say, smiling. 

“I know. I like ‘em that way,” he answers. Then, he turns and runs out the front door; Allie, my middle child, follows close behind.

“Wait for me, Rhett!” she yells. When she pulls her coat over her arms, several inches of her wrists show. 

Rich, my husband, stands on the brown front lawn; the crisp fall air has moved in. He zips his coat, and I see him shiver while he shrugs his shoulders into the collar of his jacket. Then he tosses the football back and forth between his hands. 

Rhett has a football helmet in his hand that he grabbed on the way out the door. I smile at the wedding gift—an actual football helmet from the college (to be specific, the tailgate) where my husband and I met. Rhett pulls the blue and gold helmet down over his head and rocks his head back and forth, grinning. He looks like a Bobble-Head. 

Rich slaps the top of the helmet and points across the lawn, directing Rhett where to stand. Allie runs in circles, unsure where to go.

When Rich is home, I usually don’t hesitate to take the time to be alone. But right now, I feel torn when Rhett asked me to toss a ball with him, his dad, and his little sister. I glance down at Nora, our baby, who is happily babbling on her play mat on the living room floor, and I think she will be content for a few minutes, and so I decide to take the time to myself.

With my cup of coffee in hand, I sit down at my desk and flip open my laptop. While the computer screen wakes up, I look over my planner for the coming week. Allie has dance class, her 4-year-old immunizations, and the dog has an appointment at the groomer. My finger runs over the rest of the items on my to-do list: order the next size of clothes for Allie, schedule Rhett’s haircut, finish shopping, and get groceries.

Hearing a commotion outside, I look out the window just in time to see the ball bounce off of Rhett’s helmet. He and Allie fall to the ground laughing. Rich kneels on the grass beside them with a big smile on his face. Allie stands up and slams her tiny body into his chest, then wraps her arms around his neck. His busy work schedule often means the kids go weeks only seeing him in short glimpses. Watching Allie wrap her arms around him, I know she’s trying to close the gap between them when he’s around, making up for the missed time.

Rich squeezes her, and I see him say something to her. She smiles, then steps back, holding her arms straight out. He tosses the ball to her like it’s a hot potato—not a spiraling football. He knows her hand-eye coordination isn’t ready.

I look back at the computer at the several pairs of leggings for Allie and a winter jacket (on sale) in my online shopping cart. The first snow hit the ground a month ago, and I realized she had outgrown last year’s coat.

If someone were to ask Rich the kids’ clothing sizes, he would look to me to answer. He’d also need help with Nora’s eating and sleeping schedule, immunization dates, and when our family last went to the dentist. Like many moms, I’ve assumed the role of the “family manager,” and sometimes, the weight of this mental load—the fact that I am The Keeper of All the Things—feels heavy.

But here’s what Rich does know: Rhett can throw the ball but still struggles to catch it, Allie can (mostly) catch the ball, but her throw doesn’t match the effort she puts out. Nora loves it when he tosses her into the air. He knows where the kids are ticklish and what their favorite books are. And he’s always quick to diffuse a squabble between the big kids, where I’m apt to lose my patience.

Playing with the kids doesn’t come naturally to me, but I am reminded of everything I do to keep our house running as I look over my planner. My mind runs through my ongoing ‘to-do’ list: from birthdays and anniversaries to school schedules, doctor’s appointments, and everything in between. Planning and organizing are where I shine. And a big check mark across each item gives me a sense of accomplishment.

Just then, I’m pulled from my thoughts by a thunk on the side of the house. Looking out the window, I see the football lying on the sidewalk. Rich reaches down to pick it up, then, seeing me—he waves. Not wanting to miss out, I shut my computer. I grab my jacket from the hall closet and pick Nora up from her play mat. Out front in the yard, Rich tosses the football to Rhett and then takes Nora from me while I slide her tiny arms into the sleeves of her coat. Shivering, I kneel on the grass and watch Rhett and Allie toss the ball back and forth.

Most days, I’m wound like a top—everyone’s needs and schedules swirling in my head. But now, the crisp air hits my face, the leaves crunch beneath my knees, and I can’t help but notice how my breath has slowed. My mind is quiet—no longer full of to-dos and schedules—a different kind of quiet than I keep at my desk. 

“Yay, Mom! You came out! Wanna play?” Rhett asks. He puts the football up to his shoulder; his eyes narrow in concentration.

The giant helmet slides down over his eyes, but it doesn’t seem to bother him. I picture him several years from now on the football field at our local high school—the helmet fitting him just right. 

I glance over at Rich and watch him gently toss Nora—face full of delight—into the air. It’s moments like these that I appreciate our differences—how we complement each other in our household and the ways he pulls my head out of the planner.

Despite knowing the important ways I contribute to our family, I sometimes worry I’ll regret these years. I wonder if I’ll feel like I wasted the days checking lists. But, I hope when my kids are older, they’ll know that all the meals I prepared, laundry I folded, schedules I kept, and appointments and activities I drove them to were just a few of the ways I showed them my love.

And I pray they remember the days when I sat on the grass and tossed a ball with them too.

Rhett throws the ball without waiting for me to reply. 

I catch it.

Guest essay written by Stacy Bronec. Stacy is a farm wife, mom of three, and lover of baked goods. She and her husband farm and ranch in the middle of nowhere Montana. When she’s not taking meals to the field or cleaning grain from the dryer vent, she’s doing barre workouts in her kitchen, reading, or scribbling notes to turn into stories. Stacy is also on The Mom Hour contributor team. You can find her on Instagram or her website.