When my first child was born I distinctly remember saying that I would let him play any sport except football. I also remember having some ridiculous idea in my head about not allowing him to have plastic weapons. Now he’s a fifteen-year-old football fanatic who can talk your ear off about optimal bow tension, drawing tags and the politics behind the now, back-ordered, AR-15. And this Mama has learned the fine art of shutting her trap, opening her Bible and getting a hobby or two.
During his toddler years I was so focused on my grand agenda of training first-born what NOT to do that I clearly missed the fact that Grampy was sneaking through the back-door with an agenda all his own. And this one involved putters, drivers and tees. Grampy’s scheme didn’t register with me because I was fairly certain that, although Nanny and Grampy live on a “fayn-cee” golf course, my manure-caked muck boots would probably never grace one. In fact, I’m still shocked every time the nice man at their neighborhood entrance allows my car through the gate without first making me turn around and head straight for the nearest car wash. The ridiculous distance I have to travel to even get to a golf course, combined with my child’s overall aversion to collared shirts, lulled me into thinking that his indoctrination into all things Tiger Woods would never actually stick.
Perhaps now you’re beginning to understand why my kids aren’t really lying when they say, “Mom, you live in a world of unicorns where everyone eats rainbows and poops butterflies.” And I truly have no defense, other than the fact that we Mothers sometimes live in a parallel universe. It’s called survival.
So, while I’m frantically knitting socks in an effort to cope with my fear of blunt-head-trauma on the grid-iron, Grampy is chipping away at my eldest’s character development and planting seeds of a much more productive nature on the putting green; proof positive that parents still know best…sometimes.
That’s when I stumbled upon this little known gem-of-a-golf-course called Meadow Lakes. Right here in my own backyard! And I holler at my husband, with much weeping and gnashing of teeth, “Why, oh why, didn’t you teach our kids to play golf!?!” After which, I receive a blank stare followed by a very long pause.
Okay, that whole weeping-and-gnashing-of-teeth thing never really happened, but it helps drive home my point about how I sometimes live one life for and through my kids while another, even better one, is unfolding right before my eyes, despite my phobias, biases and unicorns. And THAT, my friends, is the power of prayer.
So, this little golf course with a big heart for kids just up and topples every stuffy judgment I’ve ever held about golf courses. Everyone, from staff to instructors, encourages, trains and smacks my kid up-side the head when necessary. Kind-hearted Lori mans her post behind the pro-shop counter like the Woman-In-Charge that she is and her trusty binoculars let her know when it’s time for some well-placed instruction over the loud speaker, telling my boy to “Ease up on your grip and quit trying to kill the ball!” Rude manners are corrected, hard work is the standard and the free entertainment is listening to the twin brothers bicker on the next green about who’s ball went in the water and why it’s the other one’s fault!
Every now and then I get a glimpse of what life might be like one day when the kids are grown and I no longer have to worry about them. Finally, I’ll be able to trade my knitting needles for a set of irons and leave all my unicorns behind......
