Frisbee Golf on Mother’s Day

Frisbee Golf on Mother’s Day

Photo by Priscilla Du Preez 🇨🇦 on Unsplash.

It wasn’t a brunch reservation or a bouquet.

It was a park, a metal basket that clinked, and three bright discs my kids swore I’d figure out once you get the wrist.

The grass was still damp—the kind that darkens your shoes in a single step.
Couples drifted by with strollers.
A teenager practiced trumpet under a shade tree, not quite on key.

My sons debated forehand versus backhand like it was philosophy.
My daughter called the first throw and grinned at me like we had all the time in the world.

I wasn’t there to be taken care of.
I was there to be with them.

No medical updates.
No careful text about maybe canceling.

Just the small courage of showing up and letting the day be ordinary.

My first throw wobbled, pancaked, and died six feet in front of us.

Laughter—mine first—broke the careful quiet we’d all been tiptoeing around for years.

We reset.
I tried again.

The disc lifted, curved, and—miracle—kissed the chains with a clean, bright ring.

We didn’t talk about the hard years.
We didn’t need to.

They coached my grip.
I teased their footwork.
We argued over what counted as “out.”

And somewhere between holes three and seven, the air eased—
presence without pressure,
love without leaning.

By the time we looped back to the car, my shoulders were warm, my steps steady,
and the old instinct to apologize—
for slowness,
for limits,
for needing anything—
had gone quiet.

I had brought myself.
And it was enough.

Later, when I thought about it, I realized what had happened.

I wasn’t measuring the day in risk
or distance from crisis.

I was measuring it in laughter,
in clinks of chain,
in the way their faces softened when our eyes met.

This is what the return looks like—
not grand gestures,
not perfect health.

Just a Mother’s Day in the park,
a borrowed sport,
a shared rhythm.

The tether slipping back into my hands,
light as a disc,
true as its arc.