Published: June 23, 2008 10:50 am      

ONE BAD MAMA: Family life columnist skates away to join Derby City Rollergirls

In early February, I fell prey to an addiction that's sweeping the country. Mothers of all ages are falling under the power of a dangerous old sport made new: roller derby. Fans from all walks of life admit once you've been to a bout, you'll come back for more. For me, watching was not enough — I was compelled to try this sport for myself.

Not your grandma's roller derby, this updated version of the sport is known as Women's Flat-Track Derby, and our local Derby City Rollergirls (DCRG), aspire to be an official member of this popular association (WFTDA). In about 300 leagues across the country, thousands of other moms like me are now experiencing the speed and excitement of high intensity skating, being whipped through the pack, and wearing really interesting clothes.

The following is an account of my descent into the beautiful madness of roller derby, and its effects on our family's life:

LATE JANUARY 2008

My husband's birthday is coming up, and I want to take him some place cool, for a surprise. I am historically bad at planning these kinds of things, and am delighted to find a small mention of a roller derby match in a listing of local events. Steve and I rarely go on dates, so each time we do, it's a big deal, logistically. By the time we've made arrangements for the kids, it's so close to the day of the bout that I decide we'll save the handling charges and just buy tickets at the door.

FEB. 2

Even though the listing said “doors open at 5:30,” we screw around having pizza on Bardstown Road and don't arrive to the Kentucky State Fairgrounds' West Hall until 7 p.m., at the start of the bout. We are two of the 500 or so people turned away from the bout. Dejected, I mope for the rest of the evening over the amazing surprise I'd managed to keep a secret, now blown. We return early to pick up the kids, and I sit down at my in-laws' computer to research this roller derby thing — if it's so hot it's selling out in Louisville, it must be incredibly hip. I feel the familiar dismay of no longer finding myself in the know on all things indie cool — a condition whose onset directly correlates to becoming a mom.

FEB. 5

DCRG went on to slaughter Evansville's Rollergirls of Southern Indiana in a landslide victory of 189-63. I know because I have been reading everything I can find about them on the net, non-stop, for the past three days.

“You should try out for the team,” a friend says, jokingly.

“Don't encourage me,” I say, thinking of broken legs, broken teeth, time away from my family, what this would teach the kids about taking care of their bodies ... but I can't stop thinking of derby pseudonyms. What would I call myself, if I did skate? I start a list.

FEB. 10

The kids and I curl up on the couch and watch the DVDs of A&E's defunct reality series, “Rollergirls.” Even though it is banked track skating, I can't get enough.

“Are you going to skate, Mommy?” Sam asks, matter-of-factly.

Stephen, who I have woken up at night to talk about the insanity of this compulsion, shrugs and gives me a knowing look.

I have been messaging Kimmy Crippler, one of the team's pivots, on myspace. She is encouraging and supportive. It has been 25 years since I skated. I am scared, but have given up pretending I'm not 100 percent sure I want to try becoming a roller derby queen.

FEB. 20:

My girlfriend's kid got sick at the last minute, so she can't come with me to Broken Hearts and Body Parts, an open skate the DCRG are throwing. Still, I have a sitter, I have my hair up in pigtails, I have selected a snazzy white tee shirt to glow-glow-glow in the blacklight of the rink, and I am ready for a mom's night out. I know I will probably meet some of the girls on the team, not to mention Kimmy, to whom I am bringing unicorn stickers as an offering of friendship.

I wonder what my mother and father-in-law think of me, leaving the kids to go do this. I talk to them about what wonderful exercise it will be. They give me that same knowing smile that their son has been wearing.

“Go skate, Mommy,” Seamus says, giving me a sloppy kiss and hug before I leave. I feel excited and sick.

At the rink, Kimmy skates in some kind of championship boxing belt, and other girls on the team whiz by me. Sweet Mama and Mel O'Drama do icecapades moves, whipping each other around and laughing. I am clumsy as a new foal and fall a total of seven times before the night is over.

As I get used to being on eight wheels again, I begin to skate faster and faster — still not going as fast the Rollergirls, but I'm moving at a nice clip. I chat with a few girls, but mostly it's me, alone, and I'm fine with that.

The feel of my feet inside the boot, the rhythm of moving, the way my body is leaning produce in me a kind of meditative state. I start to think of things that are bothering me — a recent incident in which a schoolmate of my son's put a peanut into his lunch, knowing my son is deathly allergic. I do not freak out, but find that the skating gives me time to think calmly about solutions for managing my son's care, in the classroom environment.

The whole night, I stop for a total of 10 minutes. The rest of the time, I am gripped by euphoria and endorphins. I have not only figured out how to deal with my son's classroom peanut situation, but also solved the rest of the world's crises. I am Zen Mama, and before I head home to retrieve my babes, I promise a woman named Maul St. Matthews that I will begin DCRG Rookie bootcamp the week I return from our vacation to Florida.

MARCH 9

As I leave the house, the kids ask me where I'm going. “Skating,” I tell them. I feel somewhat selfish and silly, but I go — I said I would. More than that, I really want to.

MARCH 10-12

Sore. Sore. Sore.

The boys are roughhousing, and it no longer irritates me. After all, a little roughhousing never hurt anybody. Wait. Maybe it does, but, c’mon, it's fun!

MARCH 16

Second week of bootcamp, and I'm ready to order my own skates. It's a chunk of our household budget, and I feel guilty. Shouldn't I be buying a bike for my oldest? How about using this money to buy a deep freeze? There are a million things my kids, husband, and household need. Do I really need a $250 pair of roller skates, and $100 worth of gear? I comfort myself with the knowledge that I've been finding roller derby costume pieces at the thrift store.

Am I teaching the boys more than how to be a thirtysomething wacko? I decide I am modeling bravery, individuality, self-motivation, athleticism, determination, and the joy of having fun in this life.

MARCH 17

The boys meet a new friend of mine, RuthLizz. Petite and sporty, she meets me after work at Clarksville's Skate Odyssey, the site of our practices. I try on her skates while the boys wait for me to do something like they've seen on TV.

“That's not a rollergirl, Mommy!” Sam exclaims.

“Where are her tattoos? She doesn't have things stuck in her nose!” Seamus says. “Izatta rollergirl, Mom?” Sean asks.

Not only is RuthLizz suspect, but the rink in Clarksville does not look like what they saw on the Rollergirls DVD.

“You will have to dye your hair and get tattoos on your skin and pierce your face,” my oldest explains solemnly, after RuthLizz, the boys, and myself have traversed Hot Topic in search of outlandish skating accessories. I seize the teaching moment and explain to the boys that I will stick to my own personal style. I tell them I might dye my hair, but explain that tattoos and piercings aren't for everyone. I hope that someday they will hear this message inside their own minds, in the face of negative peer pressure.

APRIL 1

I am openly telling people about my roller derby problem. I volunteer at school to demonstrate how safety gear works, and give my son's classmates some tips for not skating over one another's fingers. My 6-year-old proudly introduces me to two classrooms of kids who will be attending the fieldtrip to the skating rink. “This is my mom, she's a rollergirl.” I am dressed in jeans, a T-shirt, obnoxious socks on the outside of pants, and enough padding to completely disguise any trace of my shape, yet I feel like a rockstar as 50 sweet little faces look up at me, expectantly.

At home, our laundry situation is worsening. After buying nothing but little boy clothing for seven years, I have started collecting funky socks and hair accessories to complement my alter ego's style. The piles of laundry are looming higher than ever, and now feature items with a skull & crossbones motif. The symbol reminds me that life is fleeting, that I can't try roller derby after I'm dead. It's now or never. Laundry will always be there.

APRIL 7

We get the schedule for Sam's baseball season. Steve changes his work schedule to accommodate both my skating and our son's league. I struggle with pangs of guilt, taking so much time for myself — a whole six hours per week!

Realizing that this is a gift of love, I relax into the support my husband offers and vow to stop feeling guilty for skating. I am more than just a mom, more than just his wife and business partner. If I'm going to have something to give back to others, I have to be involved in activities that feed my soul, as well, and skating does that for me.

I'm not getting any younger — for me, it's now or never. I thank God for the 20th time for having such a supportive family.

APRIL 13 & 14

I am exhausted after five weeks of practice three days a week. Taking care of the kids is more than I can manage, but I do my best. Now the dishes are piling up, as well as the laundry. Barely able to pull my weight around the house, I run on pure adrenaline at practice.

APRIL 16

We learn hitting at practice. We've already been bumping into one another lightly, but now we're actually throwing our bodies at each other trying to knock each other down. I've been in my new skates for a couple of weeks, and I'm still not balancing so well. Exhaustion overtakes me, as does as a skater named Hildegard Von Bangen.

I go down and think about staying down. My son's voice rings in my head. “My mommy is a rollergirl!” I get up and skate after Hildegard with a vengeance.

“That's the look I want to see on your face!” cheers Maul St. Matthews. Hildegard will knock me down again, but I experience a personal victory, regardless.

APRIL 17

The exhaustion is not letting up, so I re-evaluate my nutritional and caloric needs. I order some new vitamins and begin taking better care of my knees. The health food store clerks openly wonder if I'm stalking them.

Over seven years of parenting, I have paid increasingly better attention to what my family eats. I have removed allergens from our diet, and made the switch to mostly organic food items. We have our own organic vegetable garden, and I'm always sneaking veggies into the kids' dinner. Now I find myself also counting how much protein they are getting, and seriously cutting back on the amount of sugar coming into this house. Not only am I adequately-fueled for my grueling practices, but my family is eating better, as well.

APRIL 20

We go for a family walk, and Steve digs out his RollerBlades. He is smoother on them than I am in my tennis shoes. I wonder if the right member of the family is playing derby.

APRIL 26

I find a pair of second-hand RollerBlades for my oldest child. I promise to take him skating, soon, and continue to look for smaller pairs for the other two boys. I am touched beyond measure at the enthusiasm my family has for this activity, and how much they want to do it together.

In a recap for the television show “Wife Swap,” I learn of a family that is too addicted to drag racing to do their laundry, who has resorted to throwing clean clothing on their pool table to sort through. I briefly wonder what the producers of “Wife Swap” would think of me, before putting on my skates to go roll around the block.

APRIL 27

Rookie Assessment Day. The boys ask if they can watch. I am too nervous and it's not allowed, anyway.

“We want to watch you skate, Mommy,” my oldest protests.

“Right now I have to go take a skating test.”

Sam's not a big fan of tests. “Have fun, Mom,” he says.

At the rink, I am so nervous, I visit the bathroom four times before we begin.

There are two pages of skating skills we must demonstrate proficiency at. I fall down doing some of the basics, and incorrectly perform some of the falls I've had down pat for weeks. Later, when we skate the small oval WFTDA-sized track, I lose count of my laps. At the end of the assessment, a veteran named Sk8 Ninja tells me I skated 24 laps in the time designated to skate twenty. Even though I fell so many times during assessment, and was in pain, I feel cooler than Fonzi. She tells me I am a natural born pivot, and I am thrilled. I vow to work on my speed and balance, and we adjourn for margaritas. I have passed!

Looking down the table, I see the smiling faces of women dressed mostly in black workout clothes. Some have wildly streaked hair, others wear quirky glasses or sport interesting facial piercings. There are tattoos everywhere you look. Some of the girls are moms, like me, most are not. We are all brought together for the same purpose, and I feel as though I have found my tribe. When we leave this table, we will return to our lives as nurses, teachers, therapists, doctoral candidates, activists, hairdressers, waitresses, students, and more. Always, though, we leave a piece of our heart on the track. This shared love for roller derby brings out a camaraderie between us I have never known my entire life.

APRIL 28

Now officially in “Fresh Meat” status, I am allowed to scrimmage with the veterans for the first time. They leave me in the dust or knock me off the track, when they aren't coaching me. My head spins. Learning curve, here we go again!

I have found the woman I want to parent my children. I am that woman! I knew I'd always done a thoughtful job of parenting them — thinking being my full-time pursuit, it seems — but moving beyond thinking to something very physical has built my confidence as a human being considerably, and I believe my kids are benefiting from it.

Leslea M. Harmon is a freelance writer and a wife and mother in New Albany. She can be reached online at lmharmon.com, or via e-mail at Leslea.Harmon@gmail.com