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Weldon, Colin, Brendan photo by Barb Levant

I have two teenagers at 16 and 19 and a post-teenager at 21. But any therapist or any book on parenting will tell you it is part of them growing up, creating autonomy, achieving their independence, separating from you. And you from them; it is a reason so many empty nesters move to condos with small bedrooms and little storage space.

Even in families you assume have no internal friction or cause for upheaval, there are private moments in that household when the ride is bumpy. And if you are a single parent, there is no other shock absorber available.

In the past 15 years of raising three sons by myself, there have been plenty of nights when I cried in my room after the boys were asleep, saying over and over, “I can’t do this alone.” And there were miles upon miles driving alone in the car when I cried, fresh from an argument over the phone with one of the boys over curfew or chores or whatever.

And when I got home, I would read a son’s apology in a text. “Love you,” is how each one signs off. I text back, “2.”

There were nights, weeks, years when I was depleted from conflict over homework or groundings or even just attitudes; that I was angry their father chose to leave them, to disappear physically, financially and emotionally. It is such an egregious, aggressive, unnatural act of omission.

Mostly I was astounded that any parent would think such a decision was even an option from any menu of choices. That it was deliberate, that it was planned, that after more than six years of complete absence has not yet woken up and said to himself in the mirror, “What have I done?” and try to right his wrongs.

But then I remind myself that he left his sons because he knew I could do it all. And that the boys would always come first for me. And he was right.

Lately I cry more, most likely it is because of the Femara I take now after my breast cancer and the Tamoxifen I took before that, before my last surgery. The side effects of those cancer medications are mood swings that can turn me into a hormonal witch’s brew of sensitivity and vulnerability. A distinct brand of bleakness happens when I am overtired. Things look worse then; with some rest and perspective, I can bounce back, see more clearly, be more positive, more like myself.

I know I could not have weathered the boys’ high school years without Coach Powell, all the boys’ high school wrestling coach, in their lives. I simply could not; he is so much to all of them—mentor, friend, role model, confidante, father figure-- not just to my sons, but also to scores of young men from all brands of families. His mark on my sons is permanent.

The other day Coach Powell called to see how I was, knowing from Colin that things had been rough at work and that my relationship of six years with a man I loved deeply had just ended.

“Just checking in,” he said.

It is the outside support for my sons that keeps me afloat as a mother. Whether it is from Coach Powell, the other wrestling parents or my brothers and sisters, this family knitted together by circumstance, chance or relation has circumvented many sidesteps and welded a bright future for each of my boys.

No matter how many books or articles I read on raising boys and young men, it felt that no matter what I said or did, I didn’t have it exactly right. From birth they were always boy-boys, alpha males, rough and tumble, igniting new energy every second, acting first, questioning later. What came out of their mouths and popped in their heads most of the time never occurred to me. I wondered why they couldn’t sit down and relax, why they always had to be in motion. And why they would need to go, go, go, go, run, run, run when I wanted to relax. Why couldn’t they be more like me?

Because they can’t. Because they aren’t. Part of it is gender, a lot of it is gender; I am different from my sons in the ways they act and think and behave. And it is part of many reasons why I adore them.

When the boys were very small—under 5-- I used to put at least two of them in the bathtub at once for the evening ritual; it saved time. Bathtime was never a calm affair; they were always jumping up, flopping down, throwing rubber ducks and squeeze toys, making beards of the bubbles and belly flopping to see who could make the biggest splash. But I loved it. I loved how they smelled like rain and lavender and chamomile depending on the shampoo; I loved touching their smooth, small arms and shampooing their perfectly shaped heads. They were so happy at times the perfection filled me.

Colin, me, Brendan, Weldon at Paul's house

When I watch them now as they compete or even as they stretch in the hallway at home on the way out the door, they are men, their arms and legs sculpted and muscular, swoll, Colin calls it. Though the time I have known as their mother has not gone quickly, it renders me awestruck that I have been gifted the privilege of being a part of and witnessing them become such strong men from such small boys.

So many moments I would not trade for any experience, no really, not even for something like a trip to Paris on an expense account or a gorgeous pair of shoes that don’t hurt.

It wasn’t until I was handed a cancer diagnosis and so selfishly and fearfully imagined myself erased that I saw the full picture of who is around me and whose arms are around my sons. There are my doctors I was lucky enough to have treat me, who save lives as a career, and who make it their duty to treat the whole patient with kindness, diligence and understanding.

My parents, though they have been gone for years, are still with me every day. I live in the house my mother bought for us, sit on the raspberry silk couches from her home, pray for her help and feel her hand on my shoulder so often I can swear it is a physical weight. My father, too. He is there in Weldon’s stretches of gentleness, Brendan’s dimpled smile and Colin’s hug good night. My brothers and sisters provide emotional support and even financial bailout at times, and always a clearer path through.

Your children can make you cry, yes, but they can make you humble. They can broaden your existence, and inflate even the most narrow moments with lessons of surprise and laughter and yes, tears. I am not raising my sons alone and I never was. I just couldn’t see it so clearly before. But I see now; it is crowded around us.

Happy Mother's Day. Though only Colin will be home (Weldon is studying abroad and I pick Brendan up from college on Monday), they are all with me, as they are every second of every day.

Jake Venerable on Coming Back to The Team

In March 2010 Ellis Coleman, a 2009 OPRFHS graduate, won a bronze medal at the Junior International in Bulgaria as part of the USA National Greco-Roman team. The three-time Illinois state medalist talks in this interview about the impact Coach Powell has had on his life, this sport and his family. With an overall high school record of 166-9, or 95 percent wins, Ellis was a two-time national Greco-Roman champion. He now trains at the U.S.Olympic Training Center in Colorado Springs.

By Amy McCall

My 14-yr-old son, Evan, is one of those kids you just can't help but
liking as he's always smiling, never has a cross word, gives 115% and
always wants to do his very best. His middle school wrestling Coach
saw all this and more and has helped Ev develop a love for a sport he
was born to do.

Evan started wrestling 1.5 yrs ago, at the beginning of 7th grade. He
weighed 103, but wrestled at 119 so he could get mat time. We didn't
keep track of his season since it was mostly a learning period and
let's face it, when you're wrestling 15 lbs over your weight for the
first year, it ain't gonna be pretty.

We hung in there and came back the next year weighing in at 119 and
ready for business. I didn't watch any practices so imagine my
surprise after our first match when my Evan took to the mat and looked
as skilled as any choreographed dancer doing a performance. My jaw
literally dropped!! Where was the kid that wasn't sure where to place
his hands? The kid that did nothing last year but scurry around to
keep from getting pinned. That kid was long gone and what was forming
was a wrestler - one that you could tell got it. One that had a desire
to learn it and do it right. As the season progressed, Evan developed
quite a following. The parents cheered when he came out, this time
instead of grinning ear to ear worrying about getting a hot dog after
the match, he was focused and determined. He wanted this.

Evan ended his season in Jan, 2010 by winning the North Florida 119
Weight Class championship. He had a record of 22-0 with 18 of those
wins being by pin. His sweet spirit never changed and he always
portrayed the ultimate display of sportsmanship.

While waiting for his final match at the North FL tourney, I was in
the stands and happened to look over and found my boy off by himself.
I watched for a few minutes and then the tears started when I saw the
calmness and sincerity he carried on his face (yes, I know there's NO
crying in wrestling!). Whether he won or not, he was my champ for
having evolved into this incredible competitor.

After he won the match and we were on our way home, I showed him the
pic and asked what he was doing during that time. He said, "I was just
praying that I would do my very best because I wanted this with all my
heart."

Whew...ok, so there's crying in wrestling.

Amy McCall
(Mom of Evan McCall, currently wrestling for the Fleming Island
Wrestling Club, Jacksonville, FL)

How Dr. Lauren Streicher Operates and Why I love Her

The team's athletic trainer called me at work about 3:30. I needed to get Colin to the emergency room as fast as possible. On the Tuesday after sectionals, what was initially thought to be a shin bruise, was now a dark purple, hot, swelling, gross mass, the size of a mango, or a small eggplant. And it was quickly spreading past the circle in indelible black marker the trainer drew on Colin's right leg with the time: 3:00 .

I left work within minutes and got to the hospital an hour or so later. We waited a while with the other dozen or more patients, including the 8-year-old girl encouraged by her mother to practice her recorder in the ER waiting room. Anyone who has had a kid in elementary school has had to listen to the scales crucified on the beige, plastic, cheap flute. Every sick person cringed. No one had the nerve to be direct.

But Colin asked the mother politely to have her child stop.

"No one wants to hear that right now," he said.

She balked.

"It's beautiful, but everyone in here is sick."

The little girl remained silent and a few others thanked Colin for his bravery. We were ushered in to an ER "room," and soon after the doctor saw Colin, who explained he was a wrestler, he was admitted for overnight intravenous antibiotics and observation. It turned out to be MRSA. It was very dangerous. In small amounts, MRSA is manageable. It's in your nostrils, it's on all the wrestling mats. Every sport battles with the contamination. Some sports more than others. Wrestling is one of them.

The quick version is the doctors lanced the wound, it was extremely painful for Colin, in spite of the morphin and the local antisthetic shots. The doctors extracted about 10 cc's of yuck, and yes, Colin took a video on his phone. He just might show it to you if you ask.

The best part is Coach Powell came to visit him. About 9 o'clock that night, after he had a long day of teaching and coaching. He had time for one of his wrestlers.

"You have to get better, Colin, you're a key player."

Colin didn't get better quickly. While he didn't qualify for individual state, he did not get to go with the team to Champaign, where his teammates, Chris and Nick Dardannes and Sammy Brooks, each won first place medals. Benny Brooks took third. Charlie Johnson and LaQuan Hightower were contenders. Colin had to keep his leg elevated with warm compresses. Sitting in the cramped stands for two days would make him even sicker.

Ben Brooks, Chris Dardanes, Sam Brooks, Charlie Johnson, LaQuan Hightower, Nick Dardanes

Colin missed wrestling in team sectionals on Tuesday, where Oak Park prevailed. He was hoping he could be well enough to wrestle at Team State in Bloomington this last Saturday. He wasn't, he could never have passed a skin test. By the time team state rolled around, it was scaling and still red.

But he wrapped the wound and went to Team State on the bus with the team. We lost to Minooka. But Coach Powell talked to the boys, many of whom were extremely distraught. And like he always does, Coach Powell gave them perspective.

I drove home with Brendan and Liam's mom, Danne. Brendan was on the phone with one of his teammates from the 2009 team.

"What did Coach Powell say to the team?"

"I didn't get to hear it," Brendan said. "But I bet it was really great."

It was a very good year. I put the sheet cake I brought with me to Bloomington in the freezer. We won state last year and I bought a cake for that too. We ate it as champions. This year I was careful with the wording, not wanting to be arrogant, presumptive.

"Congratulations for a Huskies style year."

The cake will stay in the freezer until the end of the year banquet where Powell acts like Powell and shows all of us why we belong to this wrestling family. It will be in a few weeks when all of us can look back with a little distance and completely agree on why this all means the world to all of us.

Caryn emailed me the photo.

I didn't see it until I had already landed in San Francisco, a trip to visit three undergraduate students on media internships from the Medill School of Journalism.

Colin is absolutely glowing. He won first place at 119 pounds. I left for the airport from St. Ignatius High School at 2 p.m. to catch a 5 p.m. flight out. I saw him get his first two wins. I knew he would be the champion. Still, I didn't see the smile in person.

There is very little I can do for my 16-year-old son in his life to make him smile that widely. His favorite meal after a tournament--maybe-- a joke, a small gift, a verbal reminder that I love him immensely. But he is responsible for that moment of intense pride. It wasn't handed to him, he didn't inherit it, it didn't land on him when he opened the window. It certainly did not come from me. And I get chills witnessing the satisfaction he reaps from the fruits of his own determination.

Colin won regional champion at 119 pounds last week. At noon, his older brother Brendan, called me on my cell from his college dorm room in Indiana to see how Colin was faring. Just then a "restricted call" clicked in on my call waiting. It was his oldest brother, Weldon, calling from Madrid, where he is on study abroad, seeing how Colin was faring. Odd to say, but it was a wonderful family moment.

Some families go on cruises. Some families have picnics. Some families play board games. Mine is a wrestling family. My sons compete on the mat by themselves. Perhaps the other two boys are there watching from the sidelines. Along with all the other mothers, I sit in the stands. Sometimes I take the brothers' calls asking what is happening on the mat. And everytime I am in a warm high school gymnasium somewhere in the Midwest, I hope that on this day, one of my boys has a smile that reaches from here to the end of the world.

That day it was Colin. And yes, it was a very good day for me.

Watch a video of the wrestlers at Oak Park and River Forest High School as they work out in the weight room.