My name is Chelsey Edens. I am a 6th year coaches wife. My husband is an assistant coach for our local high school football, a head coach for the same high school baseball and American Legion ball. I am a mom of two amazing tiny humans. My oldest is 3 years old (born at the beginning of football season) and our daughter is 18 months (born during the middle of high school baseball season). My favorite things include having my husband home, pepsi icees, leggings, and naps!
He wants to be able to eat his popcorn and cheer for the team like every other parents gets to do. He wants to be able to silently (obviously in his mind, not loudly of course—after all we are still a coaching family and know how to act in the stands) question the coach’s play call. He wants our kid to learn from other coaches and not just from him.
When you graduate college—send us that announcement so we can send a gift.
When you get married—send us an invitation so we can be right behind your Momma, crying with her when we see your face light up as you see your bride walk down the aisle.
Our family is a coaching family. I will never again question that. If and when sports go back to normal, I am not saying I won’t complain when coach isn’t home to help force my 4-year-old into the bathtub, but I will know what it’s like on the other side, the side without sports.
You don’t know me yet but you will! I’ll be the crazy blonde lady in the stands. The one who some days may look put together and other days … not so much.
The rye grass on the baseball field has just started to turn green, and every day I ride by the field and think to myself, “Man, what a field! That Coach is killing it this year.” This is coming from a woman who has zero flowers planted in her yard. Don’t get me wrong, Coach has our yard looking great but it’s nothing compared to what that man can do to a ballfield. Not to mention I actually called it “rye grass.” Who am I?
Then there are nights when he rushes in the house as if he is on fire and asks if the kids are awake. When I say no his face drops and the disappointed is written all over him.
Thank you to the dad who poured his entire can of Pepsi on my son’s leg because he got into some poison ivy in hopes the acid would maybe stop a reaction.
Thank you to the parents who see me struggling to carry two children and half my house to my seat and offer to help.
The ones who scoop my three-year-old up and says, "I have him, he can sit with us tonight”.
