At this point in my parenting career, I was feeling solid. I’ve served a solid nineteen years, I’ve got to have seen most everything, if not all, right? I really felt confident that my 10 hour weekend kitchen shifts to prep for the upcoming week was Olympic-level Momming if you will. Certainly, I was working at above average, right?
Then my kid presented ‘Bulking Season’? Not familiar? No fear, let me tell you about this glorious time in a sports mothers life.
Bulking Season is the sweet spot of downtime between the end of winter sports and the beginning of fall sports training. If we were naming the season accurately it would be dubbed, “The Season of Doubled Grocery Bills, Stinky Car Rides, and the Preparation of More Legumes Than Any One Person Should Ever Have to Cook or Ingest”. Not as catchy, so I get why we stuck with Bulking Season.
My children approach Bulking Season with the same drive and tenacity that they approach most things in their life – full throttle, no plan, and unwavering certainty that Mom is going to figure it out.
Last summer my son first approached me to discuss this addition to our family cycle. I asked the one question I needed an answer to, ‘What does that mean for me?’ Emphatically he assured me that this mission to gain 20 lbs of muscle over 12 weeks would not affect my day to day. What I know now that I didn’t realize then, is my son, the child I nurtured from my body, the person I would give my life for, is a freaking liar.
A liar!
The truth of this season is, I am tasked with hours of research, planning, and the execution of meals carefully crafted to maximize their nutritional needs. Just so these buff hellions can eat like it’s a Nathan’s Hot Dog contest and my kitchen is Coney Island. They haven’t tasted anything in weeks. There is no chewing, no savoring, they barely sit. They just consume, grunt, consume, grunt in satisfaction and then workout.
This morning, I woke up before the sun to pack their containers of second breakfasts and first lunches, and then, sat in a hot box of bean farts in the drop-off line. I know there will be a time when I savor these moments and reminisce with a tear in my eye, but the only tear in my eye was the result of a fart so pungent I forgot my name for a moment.
So, here’s to Bulking Season and limitless farts!
Author: Patrice Craig
Patrice Craig is a long-time Annapolis Mom bringing her New York sarcasm to the joys of parenting. Momma to many and two dogs, she may not have all the answers but she has a lot of opinions.
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