94

Ninety-four didn't mean anything to me 1 week ago. It isn't the number of M&M's I just consumed (maybe close though). It isn't the number of days until Christmas (I don't think). And it isn't my waist size (unless I keep eating m&m's). It is, however, the reason I will join hundreds of other mothers and squint my eyes for two hours 3 days a week for the next 2 months. It is Carson's football number. It is an odd feeling to watch someone I know every inch of; someone I have watched, fed, loved, fed, obsessed over, and fed for eight years, throw on a jersey and a helmet and get lost in a sea of identicle football droids. I see him, I blink, I lose him. So 94 is my lifeline to my little droid. I am not allowed on the field. He doesn't need the cute red igloo I filled with ice water and wrote "Beck" on, because "Mom, the coach gives me water." For two hours his coach slips on my size 8.5 shoes and Carson's allegiance is to him. As I sit back and watch #94 follow instructions to run at high speeds into immobile objects knocking out anything in his way, I wonder "What happened to my shy little guy who still wants me to walk him into school and make sure his nightlight is on?" How quickly we can change who we are to match the company we keep. We tell our kids "Don't forget WHO your are and don't forget WHO'S you are." Do I do that? Do I remember that even though the Little Ceasar's pizza guy forgot to write down my 10 pizza order that I specifically called in 2 hours early to make sure that the unenthusiastic teenage manager had plenty of time to do his job. Do I do that Even though I took time to plan my day around a 5:30 on the dot pick up giving me just enough time to get home to the 17 people aggitated with hunger and awaiting my arrival? No one, not the manager, not the 12 trainees eagerly awaiting instruction and a"Little Ceasar's" t-shirt, not the nurse clutching her keys and a $20 in line behind me, knew that I belong to someone. I did though. I knew that Someone knows my number by heart and is squinting at me, hoping I wouldn't forget that I promised to belong to him and live my life for him (even among fast food employees who don't appreciate my schedule or timely service).
As I watch Carson run over for a drink he helps somene up and lets them in front of him in line. He gives me a thumbs up. He didn't forget today. Hope he never does. Wish I had 94 more just like him.