Parenting is full of surprises, some of them more pleasant than others, but one of the great joy lies in watching your child come into her own.
Now that Catherine is in college, Basil and I are treated fairly often to glimpses of the person she is, the grownup she’s becoming. We sometimes look at each other and offer a little high-five. Maybe we didn’t do such a bad job after all.
Some of these glimpses are downright confounding, though.
Take this past week: Catherine, who played church league volleyball under duress and prayed to sit the bench, who never took part in any other organized sport, and who eschewed PE like the plague throughout middle and high school, decided she wanted to play rugby at Hofstra. (Yes, rugby.)
She went to an evening practice, pronounced it fun and said she thought she’d join.
We’ve seen this movie before with other activities, so were surprised at the plot twist. Yesterday, she was up at 5 am, and heading to practice by 5:30, posting this evidence on her Instagram account.
Remember, this is the child who hates cold weather (it was in the 20s yesterday morning) and rises before noon only if it is absolutely required. (She took a harder math class last term rather than get up for the easier one that met at 8:30 am.)
Yet after running a mile and doing a bunch of conditioning exercises yesterday morning, she was full of bubbly text-messages about how much fun she had, how nice the other girls are, how she thought she’d be back at the gym on her own before the next early-morning practice on Thursday.
Back in the dorm, she reverted to type, got back in bed and slept til 10.