The other side of fear

You don't learn to be courageous by avoiding scary situations. You become courageous by facing your fears head-on.

My anxiety was so bad I could barely make small talk with the cashier and bagger in the supermarket without feeling that I was suffocating.

It was Sunday morning and I had just dropped my youngest son off at work. He is a hockey referee and it was his first time officiating an older age group. He was nervous about it, given how some parents and coaches behave at hockey games.

All season long he’d been reffing cross-ice mite games. It wasn’t super-challenging for him, but it was $30 per game, which is about double what his older brothers make per hour of work and pretty good for a 14-year-old.

Before he accepted the assignment on the scheduling app, I pointed out that it looked like it was a different age group. I suggested he review the positioning modules in the course he had to take to certify as an officiator.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.”

A week went by and then we were maybe one week out from the assignment. I mentioned reviewing again.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.”

The day got closer and my reminding increased, even though at one point I had said to both myself and him that I wouldn’t be doing any more reminding; that I was done being co-dependent with him.

Finally, we were down to 12 hours before game time and he hadn’t reviewed anything and told me he couldn’t remember his log-in. I told him all of the same material was in the manual. He told me he didn't know where it was. Since I was in the vestibule of his room (adjacent to the laundry room) where the bookcase and desk are, it was easy for me to spot the manual.

"Voila!" I pitched it to him and told him to crack it open.

The next morning was rough. The clocks had changed so his 7:00 wakeup felt more like 6:00. He got into the car without his referee bag and skates. He may have also had pirate teeth, but whatever, that is why I keep gum in the car.

“Got your gear?”

“Oh.”

As we backed out of the garage, the awfulizing started.

Him: “I can’t do this.”

Me: “What?”

Him: “I’m dead.”

Me: “You don’t have a choice at this point. At least you won’t be alone.” (There are two refs at this level.)

Him: “I wanted to tell you during the week, but you were too busy.”

Me: “This has nothing to do with how busy I am. You are in charge of your own schedule.”

Him: Mumble, moan.

Me: “Look. You’ve been playing hockey much longer than any of these people you’re reffing. You are in charge. Just keep the game in front of you and stay on the opposite blue line from the other ref.” (Though I don't always get what off-sides is, there are some other things I know.)

We got to the rink and I practically had to drag him out of the car. “Get out.”

Then I went to hunt down the rink manager and get the key to the referee room while he stood frozen at the end of the rink staring at the dimly-lit, wide expanse of ice. When I returned, the other ref was there, presumably older, since he seemed to be independent of any parent, and I handed him the key. My son followed him and I bolted.

I seemed to have taken on all his anxiety. I had to practice deep breathing and positive self-talk as I drove away, headed for the supermarket. I had a lot going on that weekend as it was, because I was preparing to leave for Florida for the week in the wee hours of Monday morning, and two nights before our kitchen faucet had begun leaking through the ceiling into my son’s basement bedroom. Just about every moment was accounted for and the repair was an added stress I didn’t need. Then late Saturday afternoon, my husband’s car broke down. I also hadn’t done laundry or packed yet. Plus, just the day before I’d had an exchange on Facebook with someone about not heckling officials at games. My position was don’t do it. “How would you like someone to heckle your kid.” His answer was, “Awwww.” I let the guy have the last word, but thought to myself, Fuckinasshole.

So there I was in the supermarket, trying to buy food for everyone for the week while I was away, and I could barely breathe, let alone talk or pray for my son. I’ll have to do that silently. God knows what I am thinking (and yes, I know He knows I swear a lot.)

I put the food away and puttered around the house, until my “Pick up G” alarm went off. Waves of anxiety washed over me anew. I got to the rink and shored myself up and strode inside to watch the final few minutes of the game.

Was that really my son handling the puck drops? He and his partner seemed to have full control of the game. I saw a few parents I knew and they told me things like:

“Oh, I didn’t even recognize G! He’s so tall.”

“G did a great job. There was a bit of an altercation, but he handled it.”

I was standing there chit-chatting when my son came off the ice and gave me a little nod.

Phew, what a relief!

Because I was still talking with another mom when he came out of the referee room, my son had the benefit of hearing a 3rd-party endorsement on his officiating.

As we went out to the car together. He told me, “I’m never reffing another mite game again!” which may or may not be true, because hey, $30 is $30.

On the way home he recounted the highlights of the games. I told him about my anxiety and replied, “Yeah, Mom, that’s exactly how I felt when I stepped out on the ice.”

I said, “Well, think about how good you feel right now and imagine if you had just rolled over and gone back to sleep and bailed out on this assignment?”

“Yeah.”

“You wouldn’t feel very good about yourself.”

“No, I wouldn’t.”

"Well, I am proud of you. This is an important turning point."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah." He had already moved on to catching up on Snapchat.

"Smile, Mom!" he instructed, as he included me in his snap.

Unfortunately, because of the coronavirus, the rest of the hockey season is postponed or canceled, just like every other activity on our calendar. We don’t even know; Everything is uncertain.