I am the mother in the stands dressed in the school colors who has been screaming her three sons' names at shrill, glass-shattering pitch, so loud at times that two years ago some of the junior varsity wrestlers took to imitating my cheers. I order all the photos of my boys on Kodak.com placed on the shared albums by fathers diligently capturing the moves of each teammate. I have dozens of framed snapshots of the boys in my office. I am one of those moms you might hate. I am Michele Weldon. I am a Wrestling Mom.
It’s Friday night and I am in a Coralville, Iowa hotel room, a little weary from the four-hour drive from Chicago west on 88 and then even west-er on 80, past texting truck drivers and horizontal snow winds, miles of empty ice-dusted fields and about 1,000 signs for Subway. I just finished putting six turkey, cheese and spinach sandwiches I made this morning and about a gallon of Vitamin Water in the small humming refrigerator for Colin to eat tomorrow after the weigh-ins for the Iowa City West quad against Apple Valley and Marmion.
