Being Parker's Mom

The sun has mostly set, just a sliver of light remains in the sky. It's the time of day where people have turned on their lights, but not shut their blinds. I am spying on my neighbors, as I walk down the street, looking for my son.

Before I see him, I can hear him. "That's not fair! We were going to punt!"

Yep, that's my boy.

Before he sees me, his friend spies my approach. "Parker, your mom's coming."

Parker glances at me, and then urgently yells, "Hurry, guys! One more play!"

I wonder how they can see the flags in the dark, but it becomes apparent that the flags are really just a formality. In a rush of energy and testosterone, all four boys pile on one another. Somewhere at the bottom of the pile I'm sure there's a football.

Parker walks home beside me, the ear flap on his winter hat half torn off, giving me a play-by-play of the game. "I really need to work on my running game. I'm practicing every night, but there's only so much time..." Daylight savings time has been a real hardship on Parker.

We arrive at the house. "Here," he says, placing his moist mouth guard in my hand, "you really need to wash this. It tastes disgusting."

Yep, that's my boy.