Bro Time

I confess, even after many years of cheering on my children’s soccer games from the sidelines, I still know very little about the sport. I think in some places it’s called football. You’re not supposed to use your hands, except when you are. And it’s the sport that David Beckham used to play. Come to think of it, maybe that last one is the most important thing I know about soccer.

But in spite of my total lack of understanding, my children have continued to play, no doubt because it keeps them connected to their late father. He coached their teams, served as an assistant coach to their teams and even played himself in an adult league. In their eyes, he was David Beckham. Which made it even harder when I had to tell my 12-year-old son I couldn’t make it to his upcoming game.

I had registered my 9-year-old daughter for a dance clinic at the same time, and I couldn’t get them both dropped off. It’s a dilemma I’ve faced countless times since becoming a single parent, and unless Scotty perfects his teleportation beam, it’s one I’ll probably be facing for many years to come. It wasn’t the first time, it won’t be the last, and yet, the guilt remains the same.

I offered him two compromises, however. I could ask our friend, Mr. B, if he could ride there with him, since he oversees the league in which my son plays. He would need to plan to be there a little bit early, but Mr. B has been known to make legendary biscuits and gravy, so perhaps he could be persuaded to hang out with Josh before his game started and share breakfast. The second option was that I could let my son’s coach know that Josh would have to miss the game due to a scheduling conflict and he could spend the morning with me.

“Well, I could use a little ‘bro time,’” my son responded.

“Okay, so you’d like to go to the game with Mr. B?”

“No, I meant ‘bro time’ with you, Mom. And maybe we could get some PSLs while we wait for Isabella to get finished with dance?”

Over the past year, my son and I have started to schedule monthly “bro time.” We also occasionally refer to it as “broskis’ night” or “fun with the brosephs.” While I’m not sure what type of activities officially qualify as “bro time,” I’ve always pictured something akin to the antics in “The Hangover.” Our “bro time,” however, typically consists of eating lots of meat, shopping for books, listening to the Beach Boys and discussing which WWE stars are rumored to be turning heel. Given that this month’s “bro time” will fall on a Saturday morning, it will probably include a quick trip to the farmers’ market, followed by a rigorous discussion of politics and religion over coffee before we pick up his little sister. In short, it will probably be the most rewarding two hours of my month. And it was completely unexpected.

Those who have survived a setback or loss know that the effects are permanent; after a few months, or even years, the dust appears to have settled, the rubble has been cleared, but the cracks in our spirits remain. As a single parent, one of the biggest cracks has been figuring out how to raise our children on my own, how to keep up with all the activities, how to be in two (and sometimes three!) places at once, and how to be both a mother and a father. I find myself sending panicked texts to my male friends, like, “He wants to know when he’ll be old enough to start shaving?!?,” and “Help! He’s freaking out because he has to go to a pool party but he doesn’t have six-pack abs!” While my friends are always kind enough to indulge my latest panic attack with an honest, sensible response, ultimately it’s up to me to figure out how to work around those cracks left behind by my husband’s death.

Shortly after losing Jeff, I read an article about a Japanese method of filling broken bowls. Rather than repairing the bowl in a way that would conceal the cracks, or even simply discarding it, the bowl would be carefully pieced back together with gold. The end result was something stronger, more valuable and much more beautiful than the bowl as it had existed in its original form.

Perhaps the same is true of our broken spirits. It’s not about avoiding cracks or hiding them from others. It’s about filling them in such a way as to make us stronger. To add value to our spirits. To transform our flawless, cookie-cutter lives into a unique, breathtaking work of beauty.

Kathy Deters