March Madness

There was a huge upset Saturday at my daughter's badminton tournament. That is, if "upset" is to be broadly defined as something unlikely, or, at the very least, unexpected. My husband and I sat together amicably for several hours; not a drop of blood was shed.

When my older daughter called to check on the progress of her sister's matches, she thought she had heard me wrong when I told her dad was right there. "You're sitting with dad???" I could hear disbelief mixed with panic; the last thing she'd want for her little sister is for her parents to have a fist fight in the gym. "Okay, then," she said when I confirmed that she had indeed heard me right. If she has access to anxiety pills, my guess is she popped a few.

Although I'd like to think the brief abandonment of our months long unholy state of acrimony is a harbinger of peaceful times to come, I know that would be unduly optimistic. My son had rightly been horrified last week when he joined us at his sister's first match of the season. Joined us in the sense we were all in the same gym. My son and I sat with all the other parents. My husband chose a seat as far from me as possible; he was practically out the door. Mea culpa, at least in part. I had brought up something his attorney had done that really pissed me off. He didn't react very well.

When my son asked me, later in the week, to stay away from another match, not just because it wasn't worth watching but because dad was planning to go and our unpleasantness was unfair to his sister, I considered myself duly chastised. Apparently, this time I wasn't the only one who received a reprimand. My son can be reluctant, at times, to rock the boat for his own sake, but for his sister's sake he gave his dad an earful.

So there we sat, shoulder to shoulder in folding chairs that we periodically moved to get a better view of whatever court we needed to see. I had, as instructed by my daughter, brought with me a huge bag of popcorn, some animal crackers, and a Gatorade to tide her over for lunch. I felt a bit outdone by the cooler full of homemade baguette sandwiches and gourmet cookies dad had brought, but I overcame my feelings of inadequacy pretty quickly and enjoyed the feast. He was always better at preparing food; I was always good at eating it.

We chatted about things parents chat about, and even some things that regular people chat about. I made him laugh, though he was quick to assure me he no longer found me funny. When we parted, I told him it had been nice chatting with him. He probably thought I was being sarcastic, and he responded in kind. No surprise; no "upset" there.

The March madness will continue, no doubt, giving way soon to a fair share of April foolishness. Maybe our relationship will be like spring in Chicago, marked by false starts and stops, but eventually progressing into a season of clemency.