I would like to introduce all of you to my child, Rugby. I love Rugby so much, and not in the way you love your favorite movie, or a treasured heirloom. My love for Rugby is instinctual, a fact of life, a matter of my being, like freckles or scoliosis. This love is not a choice, and my resulting commitment is no longer a manifestation of this choice; it is a sensation on my skin, a dull ache in my muscles, a duty, an inevitability, a gift.

When my child has been gone for a while, I feel like I am missing one of my appendages. I know all of me is there but my nerve endings search continuously for an amputated part of my whole. When I see Rugby again it’s like breaking the surface of the water and taking that first gasp of air. I squeeze him a little too tight: I missed you so much!

Sometimes I talk excessively about Rugby to my family and friends who don’t have a Rugby of their own, and they are polite, but I know they don’t understand. They don’t see how all-consuming a child can be, how it requires your constant attention. It is a lifelong commitment; it is not something you can just half-ass!

Can’t you just leave Rugby for one weekend? It’s my wedding!

Unthinkable.

Sometimes – and admitting this does make me feel ever so guilty! – in the midst of my adoration, I resent Rugby. I was young when Rugby came into my life and he has aged me. He takes so much of my time and energy. There is not a day that goes by that my heart isn’t overwhelmed with gratitude that Rugby came into my life, but just once it would be nice to make a decision without taking him into consideration. To take a vacation and not bring him along! To make an irresponsible purchase without worrying if those funds could have been used to pay for something he needs! To not have to make career choices based on my ability to be at his beck and call! To not have to always put him first.

I know that soon Rugby won’t be around every day anymore. He will always be there in some capacity, but each year I’ll play a smaller role in his life, watching more and more from the sidelines, embarrassing him with exaggerated stories about his childhood. I will fill my days with empty nest activities like all mothers; I’ll travel for the hell of it, read more, volunteer, drop fifteen pounds, have a savings account, accumulate a respectable wardrobe; I will revel in my wide open evenings and weekends, but the freedom will be bittersweet. One day I will be struck by the realization that I am no longer easing gingerly out of bed as part of a painful morning routine, but this newfound sense of wellness will be accompanied by a sort of longing, a conflicting feeling not unlike the one I imagine my own mother experiences when she awakens to an impeccable house unmarred by open cabinets and dirty dishes. I will make the most of this next stage in my life, I will feign total satisfaction in my new activities and goals, but nothing will make my heart fill, my adrenaline pump, my world burst with life and purpose like it does when Rugby calls.

“Alumni game? Of course I’ll be there sweetie! You know I wouldn’t miss seeing you.”