Going Back

Last February, when I was having the good type of breakdown, the one that forces you to make some changes, I made a bold declaration. I was going to play soccer. I was tired of driving my kids around to their activities, without nurturing mine. Some old rugby teammates had played on a women's league team in the fall, and I thought, why not?

The first game I subbed myself out every five minutes, winded, and made some halfhearted attempts to win the ball. The real insult came days later, however, when the night after a bike ride my quads felt like they were ripping from the inside out. Apparently my lame attempts at jogging in the gym hadn't prepared me for actually chasing things. Fast-twitch muscles you say? I think not. Still, the second game I showed up hoping that the pain would lessen after I "warmed up". I took myself out of the game after five minutes, with searing pain flashing up and down my legs.

It was not the triumphant return to sports I had imagined.

Going back is easier said than done. I think the impulse is strong, when things get hard, to go back to where or what we were then. It'll be easier, I think. Or I'll feel happier.

When Ben was having his first murderous weeks in kindergarten, he wanted to go visit his old preschool. I agreed right away, thinking it would be therapeutic, and I scheduled a day for him to go back. I think he had a great time - digging in the mud, playing in the gross motor area, singing songs. But I think he also realized that all his peers that he loved and remembered had moved on, and when he went back to visit, he was the old guy in a sea of younger kids.

It took me six weeks to recover from my pulled quads, but I have managed to play the last few soccer games. It's been getting more fun as I've gotten into a new groove (I am now firmly a defender instead of a midfielder) and each week I've had to nurture some nagging bonk, like my bruised foot.

Though I wish I could, I can't go back to those pictures of that care-free girl with the short brown hair. The fact is, she wasn't as care-free as I imagine, and that's the point. Trying to go back will just divert me from the new journeys ahead. That isn't to say that we should never go back - sometimes we need to, just to see how much bigger (older! wiser!) we've become.

When have you gone back? When have you wanted to go back?