Sum of the Parts

Sixth grade algebra isn't just about finding the variables.
(image from The Things We Say)

I love math. Yes, this card-carrying English major has a definitive  math jones. I love math's logic and black and white answers. In a world of words where meaning  shifts with context, the constancy of math is refreshingly straightforward. An answer is right or wrong. As much as I try not to judge, having one area in my life that I can rely upon to be absolutely correct or incorrect is a relief.
   This year, Jack studied the basic principles of algebra and my math-geek heart was soothed with remembrance of the thrill of discovering The Answer. (I warned you. I'm a math nerd.) I used to make excuses for my penchant for logical equations but now I realize why I love math so much. Math is cause and effect. If this, then that. Math is karma, except the Buddhist principle of karma (cause and effect) is not quite as straightforward or predictable.

   In the karmic equation, there are far more variables  but the principle is the same. My accomplishments and actions in this life are the sum of every experience I've ever had, every person I've met, every emotion I've felt, every response I've given to every emotion. Buddhism prescribes that this moment is born from the previous moment. Think about it. This moment in time (10:42:01.51) could not exist if not for the moment directly before it (10:42:01.50) and so forth.
   Sure there's debate about whether or not time is a concept/illusion created by the human mind/condition, but let's just accept for now that there is some measure of continuum. Not that time is fixed or fluid, matter or anti-matter, but strictly speaking, there is a measure that we will call time to describe the passing of the present moment.
   The present moment passes and begets the next present moment. In so far as I have knowledge, there will always be the next present moment. Just as we know numbers can continue on into infinity, we can see that present moments may continue. The only moment; however, that I have any control over is the present and fleeting one. The present quickly becomes past and thereby, illusive.
   My life consists of an unbroken chain of moments strung together like a (Buddhist) rosary without a definitive beginning or end. Therefore, the person who you know today as Brigid is the product of every moment that happened in this life—and Buddhists would include every moment that happened in my past lives too, from beginningless time. The Brigid you know today is the sum of a whole lotta parts, all of which are in constant flux. This sense of impermanence is a comfort to me because it helps me have compassion for my ego and grants me much-needed humility.
   Although I am responsible for my actions, I am not solely to blame or to praise. Knowing that I do not exist independently from the rest of the world, I am less likely to grow too proud of my accomplishments, nor too ashamed of my misdeeds. Pride and shame are self-centered responses anyway. These feelings can only keep me stuck in the past. For example, although I typed this blog entry from the thoughts that entered my head, all of these thought impulses were informed by experience I've gathered over the past decades. Nothing that I write is 100-percent free of influence. If you've spoken with me or I've experienced or read it within the last 51 years, that knowledge is woven into every word that comes out today in this blog.
   I take great comfort in this knowledge as a writer and a person. I also tread a bit more softly as I go about my work and my life. This is where my karmic equation and the laws of math differ, because even though I know that what I write, say and do will affect other people, I can never predict exactly how. One plus one will equal two, but I cannot know for certain if the answer will be positive or negative—or both. But I do know that every action yields affects on the world around me, and with this in mind I now take a little more time to consider the variables and the outcomes before I begin to cipher.

The Devil Made Me Think It

That devilish voice whispering in my ear may 
not be my enemy after all.

Self doubt can feel like the enemy. Doubt can certainly be a fearsome foe. Perhaps you never experience it. Chances are you do.

Self doubt can cause what is known in my profession as writer's block, a type of sneaking feeling that I am a no-talent sham. In other situations and occupations, self doubt causes all forms of stuckness. Doubt causes the inability to make a decision or move forward for fear that we might make a mistake. Ultimately, doubt causes us to suffer.

More than 2500 years ago a young Indian prince named Guatama Siddhartha wrestled with self doubt—and won. Siddhartha witnessed suffering in the world around him and vowed to find a way to put an end to it. Many people believe he was successful. His tale of enlightenment holds truth to how doubts arise, their value in our lives, and the way to dispel them— if we have the mind to try. Here's my interpretation. I don't believe the tale literally, of course, but it does hold a wonderful psychological perspective into the power of thought. 

On the night of his enlightenment, Siddhartha vowed to meditate until he achieved pure awareness. As night fell, Mara, a powerful demon, entered Siddhartha's consciousness and did his best to distract him from his purpose. Knowing the weaknesses of men, Mara sent his sexy daughters to dance for Siddhartha and seduce him. But the holy man maintained his concentration.

Next, Mara send an infinite army of hideous creatures to attack Siddhartha with poison arrows. But as the arrows flew through the air, the holy man saw them for what they really were. The deadly weapons turned into young sapling shoots and flower blossoms, which perfumed the air around him. 

Frustrated, Mara resorted to his last and most deadly of weapons. He crept very close and whispered in the Siddhartha's ear, "What makes you worthy of enlightenment? Do you think you're better than everyone else? I should be the Enlightened One! I am the rightful heir. Look at all my witnesses!" 

Mara's army stood beside him, attesting to his claim.  And Mara went on and on about how great he was and how Siddhartha was stupid and inept, but Siddhartha remained centered and focused on what was real and present. "You are just a fake and a phony! Why should you become enlightened?" shouted Mara. "Why are you so special? Even if you did become enlightened, no one will know and no one will ever believe you! You have no witness! You've achieved nothing! You are a nobody!"

All this time through temptation and threat of death, Siddhartha remained in deep meditation. But now, as Mara stood before him gloating, he reached forward and touched a single finger to the ground in front of him.

"The Earth is my witness," Siddhartha whispered. 

With that, the Mara disappeared and Siddhartha attained the state of full enlightenment. He became known as Shakyamuni Buddha, The Awakened One.*

But the story doesn't end here. Mara doesn't just descend into Hell and Buddha, into Heaven. Rather, Buddha and Mara continue their relationship on earth. It seems Buddha could not exist without Mara's test and Mara could not exist with the challenge of the Buddha. In his teaching entitled The Mara and Buddha—Embracing Our Suffering, Zen Master Thich Nhat Hanh relates the moral of this story.

Years later, Mara visited Buddha and asked that they trade places. Mara was tired of always being the bad guy. He didn't want to be feared and loathed anymore. You'd think Buddha would say "Be gone demon!" but he didn't. He greeted Mara as his dearest friend. He embraced Mara and listened to his problems. The Buddha explained that it wasn't all fun and glory to be the Enlightened One either.  He told Mara of all the crazy things people did in his name and how difficult it was to practice compassion and love all the time. Mara saw his point. "The best thing is for each of us is to stay in his or her own position and try to improve the situation and enjoy what we are doing," Buddha said. 

Hahn explains that it's easy for us to think of Buddha as a flower, fresh and beautiful, and compare Mara to garbage, that is unwanted and stinky, but this is a limited point of view. "All flowers become garbage," Hanh says. "Although garbage stinks ... if you know how to take care of the garbage, you will transform it back into flowers ...  Flowers and garbage are of an organic nature because both ... are living realities. Buddha and Mara are also organic, and they need each other. It is thanks to the difficulties, thanks to the temptations, that the Buddha has overcome his suffering and his ignorance and become a fully enlightened being ... That is why the people who suffer a lot now should not be discouraged. Suffering is their garbage. If they know how to take good care of their garbage they will be able to make the flowers come back to them, the flowers of peace, of joy."

Just as Buddha needs Mara, I need those negative thoughts to challenge and help me perceive the truth. Of course, sitting with my negative thoughts and not responding to them takes effort and self awareness. But ultimately, if I take good care of my garbage, I can turn my doubt into roses.

The Mother of all Mother's Day Wishes

FTD would love me if I send roses to all my mothers.

Celebrating Mother's Day reminds me of a prayer we say at the Buddhist center called the Eight Verses for Training the Mind. (For those unfamiliar with Buddhist practice, the title of this intersession says it all. I mean, what other spiritual practice asks for help training the mind? This is why I love Buddhism. Anyway, I digress ... )

My Mom, 1972

The Eight Verses compose a beautiful prayer that asks for wisdom and a shift in perspective when encountering difficult situations and—especially—when interacting with difficult people. It's the whole "my enemy is my greatest teacher" thing. You know, realizing that people who are obnoxious or mean or otherwise unpleasant are really helping me more than people who are pleasant and kind and compassionate because I have to really work hard to overcome my aversion to unpleasant assholes.

Digressing, again ...

We say this prayer and ask to transform our minds so that we can perceive the truth. The seventh verse is relevant today:

In brief, may I offer benefit and joy
To all my mothers, both directly and indirectly,
May I quietly take upon myself
All hurts and pains of my mothers.

The first hundred times or so I recited this verse, I didn't really understand it. I thought it was an analogy or metaphor. But as I learned more about Buddhist beliefs, this verse took on a  deeper meaning. I still can't claim to fully understand it, ( His Holiness the Dalai Lama provides a commentary on this pray on his website which I linked here and above,) but what I do understand now has opened up my heart to the world—at least on my less-bitchy days.

Buddhists believe everyone has been born in various forms countless times. Therefore, the theory follows that at some time or another my mindstream (or consciousness) has been embodied as your mother, your father, your sister, your brother, your cat, your dog, your hamster. And visa versa. In sum: We're all spiritually related. (And no, not like the backwoods characters in a James Dickey novel.) This may or may not be a literal relationship. No one really knows, except maybe someone like the Dalai Lama. The point is that I should revere all beings as if they gave me birth. I should not discriminate about who I love if I am to truly practice compassion. All life is precious. All men and woman are of equal value. That's equanimity, and it's tough to practice.

In a literal—but not necessarily Buddhist—sense, I should revere all my fore-mothers and recognize that their suffering is my suffering. This is what Buddhists call karma, or action, the law of cause and effect. I am indeed obliged to the woman who conceived, carried and gave birth to me as I am to the woman who gave birth to her, etc. Likewise, I am the product of all my forefathers and and their mothers and fathers. If not for my great-great-great-great-great-great-great-infinity-grandparents, I would not be here today exactly as I am. Millions of actions had to happen exactly as they happened, when they happened, in order for me to have been conceived and my mindstream to have joined this particular body.  I revere that amazing process and how incredibly miraculous life is. When I start to think about it all ... well, it's mind-blowing.

Today and every day, I pray for the benefit and joy of all my fore-mothers and I humbly (quietly) take on all their harm and suffering. In doing so, I accept that I am the sum of the parts, the product of all that has happened and that I have a part in what will happen. My actions matter—often more than I count on or know. How I respond to life does not just affect my happiness, but it affects the happiness of all those around me, and all those around them, and so on, and so on ...

So Happy Mother's Day to my dear mother in this life and all my mothers infinitum!

Eight Verses for Training of the Mind*

With the determination to accomplish the highest welfare for all sentient beings who surpass even a wish granting jewel, I will learn to hold them supremely dear.

Whenever I associate with others I will learn to think of myself as the lowest among all and respectfully hold others to be supreme from the very depths of my heart.

In all actions I will learn to search into my mind and as soon as an afflictive emotion arises, endangering myself or others, I will firmly face and avert it.

I will learn to cherish beings of bad nature, and those pressed by strong sins and suffering as if I'd found a precious treasure very difficult to find.

When others out of jealousy treat me badly, with abuse, slander and so on, I will learn to take all loss and offer the victory to them.

When one whom I've benefited with great hope unreasonably harms me very badly, I will learn to view that person as an excellent spiritual guide.

In short, I will learn to offer to everyone all hope and happiness directly and indirectly and respectfully take upon myself all harm and suffering of my mothers.

I will learn to keep all these practices undefiled by the stains of the eight worlds conceptions, and by understanding all phenomenon are like illusions, be released from the bondage of attachment to self.

*There are many translations and this is the one we say at Losel Maitri Buddhist Center.

The Great White

Two weeks ago, under a dome of thick cloud-cover, I dropped Jack at his school at 7:45 a.m. There was talk of snow, but it was expected later in the day. If the National Weather Service declares a winter storm system is moving across Alabama at 3 p.m., you figure you have most of the day to do whatever it is you do until that happens—if it happens. I don't know what the forecasters saw on their screens, but I believe they did their best to let us know what was coming.

For days we struggled with this phenomenon. The conditions created terrible hardships for thousands of people. If my child had been stuck at his school, I would have been frantic. I was grateful that he could safely walk two blocks to his dad's house and enjoy the time off—and the white stuff—with his neighborhood friends. Some people were trapped in their offices. Others could not get to work and lost income. Cars and property were damaged. Stress and anxiety levels rose chiefly because this was a situation beyond our control. And many did what we do best when we are threatened: look for someone to blame.

In record time, the blame game began. The National Weather Service and local forecasters took the first wave of criticism. Others ranted against public officials, implying they were trying to downplay the hazard, much like Mayor Vaughn in the movie Jaws when he tries to keep the economy going despite the fact that a Great White is circling the shore. When bad things happen, we want to find someone to blame. But you can't blame the weather for being exactly what it is—unpredictable—anymore than you can blame a Great White shark for eating. You can, however, try to stay out of harm's way.

This week, another winter storm threat circled and the National Weather Service reported as best they could. Officials received the information and made the decision to close schools. Yesterday it rained. The threat remained. Schools were closed for a second day. Today, it rained again.

No snow. No school. No one to blame. In the middle of the week, in the middle of February, we're home together. Jack's not sick and he's not suspended for bad behavior. We've spent the last two days watching movies and building a Minecraft world out of paper blocks. We've slept in, talked and laughed and eaten scrambled eggs and bacon at noon. I might be getting more done if the weather was sunny and the schools were open, but I will never have this day—just as it is—again and I'm going to make the most of it.

Never Give Up

If we are demoralized, sad and only complain, we’ll not solve our problems. If we only pray for a solution, we’ll not solve our problems. We need to face them, to deal with them without violence, but with confidence - and never give up. If you adopt a non-violent approach, but are also hesitant within, you’ll not succeed. You have to have confidence and keep up your efforts - in other words, never give up. —Dalai Lama

   When I was hired as editor of Epilepsy Advocate magazine almost seven years ago I knew next to nothing about epilepsy. I did have a great interest in neurology, however. My mother had been diagnosed with dementia and, although it's a very different condition, I realized the mind's function was a complex mystery that I wanted to learn more about. Thanks to the honesty, courage and confidence of a group of people who live with epilepsy, I've learned a lot—not just about the inner-workings of the brain, but about the inner workings of the heart. I've learned what it means to never give up.
   Epilepsy is a neurological malfunction of electrical circuits in the brain. Seizures may be caused due to a congenital condition or for no reason at all. That's what makes it so scary. There's no one definitive cause, and there's no absolute cure. For these reasons, despite significant advances in treatment within the past thirty years, the stigma and misunderstanding of epilepsy still exists. (Read more all about seizures their effects here.)

  Although I no longer serve as editor of Epilepsy Advocate, earlier this month I was invited to attend an epilepsy conference with a number of my friends who I had come to know through the pages of that magazine. It was work, but for me it was also a wonderful reunion. 
   Over the years, many of these remarkable people graciously shared with me details of their seizure episodes and how those seizures effect their lives and the lives of the people they love. Some were misdiagnosed as children, accused of having seizures on purpose to get attention or thought to be "slow" or otherwise less than "normal." Some suffered from such severe and frequent seizures that they could not drive or work and became isolated. The stigma of the condition often leads to bullying, discrimination and some downright ugliness. Depression is a common co-existing condition for people with epilepsy for both emotional and biochemical reasons.
    Even after an accurate diagnosis is made, finding treatment to control seizures often means trying different antiseizure medications at various doses. If a person is experiencing multiple types of seizures that happen in more than one place in the brain, it can take years to get the right combination of meds. And sometimes the medication's side effects are as bad as or worse than the seizures. Surgery is sometimes an option when drugs fail to work. And surgery means have a part of your brain removed—scary to say the least.
    My friends have been through it all, but regardless of their individual experience, as they related their epilepsy stories and their latest accomplishments, a common theme came forth: My life is not what I once thought it would be, but it is good—or maybe even better than I imagined.
   Despite experiencing what most would consider a devastating set-back, they found the good in their situations and rewrote their own stories. In other words, they made a conscious decision to accept reality and then change what they could—their perspective. They kept going, sometimes changing their tact, but never giving up.
   One Advocate dreamed of going to law school. When the stress of her prelaw workload triggered her seizures, she had to rethink her dream. Now she's in graduate school and plans to work for a non-profit. She wants to use her knowledge and experience to help others. She has no regrets. She doesn't have time for regrets. Life is too precious.
   And there's the mom who's son has had seizures all his life. In the delivery room, the doctor told her he wouldn't survive. When he literally came back to life after his breathing stopped, she was told he wouldn't walk or talk. Today, that very talkative, active boy is fourteen and hasn't had a seizure in over a year. Going through the journey of finding a treatment that controlled his seizures was not the life any mother wants for her son, but this remarkable young man shares his story wherever he goes—and his peers see him as a hero.
   There's the minister who, at age 35, suffered from an out-of-the-blue case of encephalitis that almost took his life and left him with epilepsy. He had to relearn his children's names—and how to walk and how to read. He now teaches college and is the author of several popular books that focus on acceptance and gratitude.
   And there's the single mom of three whose first tonic clonic seizure almost ended her life. She's now back in school getting yet another degree and working as a life coach.
   Epilepsy doesn't define these people. They've found ways to go about their lives making the best of what has at times been a difficult—even life threatening—situation. They are also grateful for the good days—the days without seizures, the days when they can do remarkable things like drive a car to work or play with grandchildren or study for an exam—things they couldn't do when their seizures were not under control. (Click here if you'd like read more stories about these remarkable men and women.)
    I've learned so much from these Epilepsy Advocates. They have provided me with perspective and showed me that no matter what occurs there is a way to find the good. I hate that my friends have had to suffer and see their loved ones suffer. I hate that there is no cure. But I love these people for their bravery and their gentle yet fierce passion for helping others accept their own realities. These individuals are living examples of how facing one's problems can transform lives.

Hold the Sprinkles

Jack was six years old when the ice cream shop opened its doors down the street. He thought a piece of heaven had descended into his backyard. It became almost impossible to walk past the thick aroma of sugar and cream without succumbing to its intoxicating sweetness. Like most folks in our neighborhood, I fell thrall to the ice cream shop's oh-so-Mayberrry appeal.
   One day after school, we popped in for a cone. As Jack pondered the abundance beyond the glass freezer case, the man behind the counter doled out ice cream to a nice family of four. Each received a scoop or two of their favorite flavor and then chose toppings. I watched in awe at the ease in which the mother paid for her family's treats. She didn't once wince at the selections being made. She didn't tell her children to only order one scoop or limit their toppings, nor did she grumble and argue when the man behind the counter tallied up her total. She seemed almost—dare I say—happy to shell out almost $25 for their treats.

Jack still enjoys a good cone of Superman.

  As the family lapped at their confections, Jack stepped up to the counter and chose a flavor called Superman—which is actually less of a flavor and more of a color combination (red, blue and yellow.) The man behind the counter scooped up a mound of the sweet, frozen stuff and pushed it into a sugar cone.
   "What do you want on top?" he asked.
    "Ah ... I don't know ... " I said.
    I swallowed hard as Jack eyed the mounds of cookie crumbs, gummy worms, M&Ms and almond brickle available to top his cone. I glanced up at the menu on the wall. Of course I wasn't surprised to see that a single scoop cost $2.50. Going out for ice cream at a locally owned sweet shop has it's own merit, so I tried to set aside my usual "I can buy a half-gallon for the same price" mentality. But realizing that a spoonful of the bright-colored candy would set me back another dollar—the retail price of an entire container—triggered a deep-seated response that I hadn't touched on in a while. My distress at the over-priced non-pareils was so palatable that the nice family of four surely heard my pocketbook squeak as it tightened.
    I admit my aversion to overpriced treats is—no matter how righteous—not an enlightened response in this day and age, but it's one that's hard for me to shake. I was raised by parents who grew up in the Depression. When I was a kid, we rarely went out to dinner because my Mom insisted "we could make it at home for so much less—and it will taste better"—which was pretty much true. (And BTW, my Mom worked full-time, so it would have been a lot more convenient for her to go through the drive-thru at Wendy's.) On rare and special occasions we stopped for McDonalds or Kentucky Fried Chicken or to get a soft-serve cone from the Taste-T-Freeze. To my recollection we never sat down at a "nice" restaurant as a family when I was a kid.
   Of course, all childhood experiences are shaped by our own limited perception. I can appreciate now that my parents—wisely—decided not to spend their hard-earned money on eating out. Going to dinner at a restaurant wasn't a priority for them. They chose to spend their money on other things, such as sending their four daughters to parochial school. We were a family of six and the economic benefit of dining at home was significant.
   Today, I admire my parents' mindful spending habits. In fact, something about that frugality must have seeped into my DNA. I'm the woman whose oversized handbag is rattling with contraband candy as she climbs the steps to take her seat at the cineplex. It's not that I can't afford to buy that over-priced candy bar, soda or snack. I'm just wired to not overspend to the point of compulsion. (There are those who are worse. I know a man who carries his own individually-wrapped slice of American cheese in his pocket so he can save a quarter when he dines at Hamburger Heaven.)
   You might think my thriftiness an admirable trait, but in fact this inability to part with my money can be debilitating. My neurosis can rob me of enjoyment of a pleasant moment. I often wonder what it feels like to be one of those blissed-out, spend-thrift moms who dole out dollars for sprinkles and jimmies without a second thought. I admire people who freely and happily shell out $25 for candy, popcorn and a coke at the movie theatre without imagining all the popcorn and Cokes and candy—and yes, gallons of ice cream— that same money could buy at the grocery store. There are a lot of benefits to being mindful, but when it comes to spending money, I often wish I could just turn off my overzealous mental analysis, kick back, order the jumbo popcorn combo and enjoy the show.

   That day, standing before the ice cream counter my palms began to sweat. I wanted to say, "Yes! Load us up with sprinkles!" and watch Jack's delight, but I just couldn't. I was willing to pay $2.50 for an ice cream cone and even throw the extra fifty-cents into the tip jar, but to spend a dollar on sprinkles undid me.  Jack, oblivious to my affliction, awaited an answer, his blue eyes dancing in the glow of the sneeze guard.
   "That'll be all," I said to the man behind the counter.
    "But I wanted sprinkles!" Jack wailed.
    I sighed. What should I do? It was just a dollar! A dollar ... that could buy a lot more ...
    "Just a minute," I said to the man.
     I turned to Jack, leaned down and whispered in his ear, "Jack, those sprinkles cost a dollar. You can have the sprinkles, or you can have a dollar."
   Jack's eyes widened.
   "I'll take the dollar!" he said.
   I smiled and turned back to the ice cream shop man.
   "That'll be all," I said.
   Outside the ice cream shop as red, blue and yellow cream dripped down the front of his t-shirt, Jack proudly tucked the dollar in his pocket with sticky fingers. I wish I could say I taught my son a valuable lesson. I wish I could tell you that he took that dollar to Regions Bank and deposited it post-haste, then sat there and watched the .0002 interest turn it into ... $1.0002, but that was not the case. My inspired solution didn't do a lot to heal my over-priced-candy-aversion either, but maybe someday Jack will remember what I did and appreciate his thrifty mom—just as I appreciate mine today.

  

Salvation for a Football Agnostic

A few weeks ago, Jack borrowed my iPhone and returned it with new wallpaper. Apparently in order to shield me—or perhaps himself—from ridicule, he took down the cute photo of our cat and installed an image of an Arkansas Razorback. I honestly think he'd prefer telling his friends that his mother is Buddhist than admit that I just don't believe in football. Yes, in a state where folks are defined by their denomination in the church of SEC,  I am a football agnostic.
   It's not that I don't appreciate college football, I'm just not sure it exists for me. For example, when crisp, fall weekends roll around, I'm more inclined toward attending pumpkin patches and fall festivals than watching match-ups on ESPN. Last weekend was no exception.

Finding common ground with  Jack
becomes more of a challenge every day.
Just getting him to pose for a photo with his
Mom proves difficult enough!
 Image taken by Stacey Allen

   On Friday evening Jack invited his friend, Joe, to sleep over on Saturday night. He's almost 12 now and at the age when kids generally make plans to get together and then ask their parents. This is somewhat of a shift in power from the good ol' days when parents made playdates with other parents and then informed their child of the event. I like Joe so I didn't give it much thought. I texted his mom and we made tentative plans for him to come over the following afternoon. Jack was happy and I felt like a "good mom."
     But the next morning I began to regret my compliance. Jack would spend the day anticipating Joe's arrival, counting the minutes until Joe got there and the fun could begin. Once Joe got to my house, he and Jack would hole up and play video games, occasionally emerging to ask me to make Rice Krispy Treats or popcorn. And that's all fine and good. I really like being the Mom who makes warm chocolate chip cookies at a moment's notice. I relish being the cool Mom who lets her son have a friend over and doesn't interfere with their time together, but this weekend, I realized I didn't want Joe to come over on Saturday night.
   Jack's dad and I share custody, shuttling Jack back and forth between our homes throughout the week. But over the past two weeks, I hadn't really spent a lot of time with my son. Weeknights are now filled with after school activities and homework assignments, and the previous weekend was the middle school homecoming dance, and Jack spent the night with Joe.
  I was happy that Jack had friends and a social life, but in the process of trying to fit into the Super Mom costume I set aside my feelings and needs—and perhaps shortchanged Jack's as well. I'm so willing to please, that I often forget that being Super Mom also means saying no and doing what's best for both of us. It was only 10 a.m. and there was plenty of time to reverse my decision. As much as I don't like to disappoint anyone, I picked up the phone.

   "Change in plans," I announced to Jack after I called Joe's Mom and cancelled the sleepover.
    "Aw! Why can't Joe spend the night?" Jack asked, peering over his Kindle game of Angry Birds.
   "We'll have him over next weekend," I said.
   "Okay," said Jack.
   And that ... was that. No drama. No fits. No outrage about what a bad mother I am.
    "I thought we'd do something together,"I said. "Your choice."
   "Anything?" Jack asked.
   "Well, within reason," I said.
   We talked about going to see a movie or going to the zoo, but then Jack mentioned the Georgia/LSU game, which—of course—I had no idea was on ESPN later today.  Jack is a Bulldog fan. Sure, he pulled for Auburn and then Alabama when they took their turns at the BCS Championships, but his loyalty lies just east of the state line with the state of his birth, Georgia.

   "It's no big deal," he said, knowing my lack of interest in the sport—and my lack of cable television in my home. "But I sure would like to see that game."

   "Okay!" I said. "We can make that happen."

   Jack was happy, and, strangely, so was I.   

   "But we'll have to go somewhere to watch it," Jack said, dubiously.
   "No problem," I said. "Sounds like fun."

   We decided on a family-friendly pub within walking distance of my house. It was a beautiful fall day, warm but without the oppressive southern humidity. By the time we arrived at the pub, the game was already in progress. We sat down at a table near a large TV and settled in to watch.
   Jack brought me up to speed on who was winning and how much time was left in the quarter. He explained to me what it sounds like when a stadium full of Georgia fans starts barking like their mascot. We shared a cherry cola and Jack ate chicken fingers while I enjoyed a fried green tomato sandwich. And during the commercials we talked about all sorts of very important things; How we preferred thin, crunchy french fries to thick, steak fries; about the homecoming dance and the girl Jack asked to meet him there;  about his friend, Joe, and how he might move out of town next year because of Joe's mother's job. Mostly, Jack taught me about football.
  The game was exciting. First Georgia was in the lead and then LSU scored. Jack told me what the penalties meant and he accurately identified whether the LSU quarterback would pass or run it before he made the play. I liked watching football with my own personal color commentator.
   In the fourth quarter when LSU pulled ahead by four points, Jack groaned but did not give up hope. Then the Georgia quarterback drove the ball down the field and threw a perfect pass for a touchdown that put them back in the lead. With less than two minutes on the clock LSU took possession of the ball and I found myself holding my breath and covering my eyes in anxiety over the outcome. When the clock finally ran down, Georgia had held their lead. Jack and I leapt to our feet and cheered.
  During our walk home, we recounted the most exciting moments in the game. I realized I had more fun watching that game with Jack than I'd ever had watching sports on TV, except maybe when I watched the World Series with my Dad. As we strolled home, enjoying the cool fall evening, Jack's hand swung down and grasped mine. I smiled. If I done the easy thing and let Joe spend the night as planned, this afternoon would not have happened—this moment would not have happened. And if I hadn't given myself over to Jack's love of the Georgia Bulldogs, we would not have shared this wonderful time together.
   "That was an awesome game," I said. "I really enjoyed watching it with you."
   "Yeah," said Jack. "Can you believe Georgia won? Oh my God!"
   We walked for a while holding hands.
   "Hey, the Alabama/Ole Miss game is on now," Jack said. "Do you want to meet Jason at the Mexican restaurant and watch it together?"
   "Sure," I said. "Sounds good."
    I had to laugh at myself. I was willing to watch not one, but two college games concurrently in one afternoon. "There's nothing like a convert," my Dad used to say about those who joined the Catholic church later in life. Yep. Just like that, it was a conversion—and one worth a lot more than two points, at that. I found the best reason ever to believe in football.