Phelps’ mom on motherhood, the Olympics

While her son Michael thrilled the world with his record-setting eight-gold-medal performance during the 2008 Beijing Olympics, Debbie Phelps caught the public’s attention as she and her two daughters cheered Michael on from the stands. In her book, “A Mother for All Seasons,” she shares how she overcame adversity and supported her son's Olympic dreams. An excerpt.

Prologue: Team Phelps
With all the various hats I wear — as a woman and mother, an educator for more than three decades, now a middle school principal, and as a lifelong learner — I’ve never felt there was anything wrong with letting my emotions show when the situation calls for it. And that’s just as well, too, because I don’t think there’s much I could do to hold back my tears whenever I’m genuinely moved, humbled, proud or inspired — although I do seem to become a waterfall at the most inopportune occasions! These instances happen with such frequency that behind-the-scenes in our family and among fellow members of Team Phelps they’re affectionately referred to as “DP Moments.”

I’m pretty sure my amazing children — Hilary, Whitney, and Michael — all started calling them “Mom moments” early on: as in, “Oh, no, Mom’s got that look, here she goes, get out the Kleenex!” The name was probably diplomatically converted to “Debbie Phelps (DP) Moments” by Peter Carlisle of Octagon management — not only one of the most brilliant sports agents in the business but also someone who is very sensitive in his own even-keeled way. Or they could have been branded by none other than Bob Bowman — one of the winningest swim coaches of all time who plays a few roles on Team Phelps, including mentor and training strategist extraordinaire. Michael just calls him the “mad scientist.”

Of course, it doesn’t really matter who came up with the term because I’ve certainly been blessed with a great abundance of DP Moments — as I hope all of us have. And I love every one of them! What matters, I believe, is that we don’t take them for granted or let them pass by without stopping to embrace and celebrate them — whether it’s with cheers, tears, homemade decorations and elaborate festivities, or simply with silent appreciation.

I’m not just talking about the unbelievable peak moments when diplomas are received, wedding vows are exchanged, when gold medals are won, or when new life is brought into the world. I’m really talking about breakthroughs of all kinds — like those smaller, less publicized moments when limits have been pushed and life lessons have been learned. And to do this, we sometimes have to embrace those instances when we (or our loved ones or our teammates) fall short of our goals or encounter obstacles. After all, if we don’t acknowledge the disappointments and the tough times too, I don’t think we can ever fully enjoy the triumphs.

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So there we were in Athens, waiting for start of the 400 meter IM as Michael finished his pre-race stretching. Whitney leaned forward, taking it all in. Not as openly emotional as her sister perhaps, she was equally as proud and as intense about the race that was about to begin. She and Hilary each had their own histories of high expectations as competitors, but now their focus was on Michael. It had been Whitney who in her teens had not only qualified for the Olympic trials in 1996 and 2000, but who had also set a standard of discipline and focus in the pool that raised the bar significantly for her brother. Did I wish I could have done something to help Whitney make it to these games as a contender too? Absolutely. Then again, I knew nothing in the world could take away the joy that shone on her face the instant Michael dove from the starting blocks to take an early lead in the first fifty meters of the butterfly.

I didn’t have a single moment of relaxation during this race — even after the split at the first wall put Michael a full-body length ahead of the field. While he was favored to win, the 400 IM is a notoriously challenging event that demands ultimate precision and leaves no room for error. Nonetheless, as he kept up his pace, I did start to feel a little bit of joyful confidence surface above the other emotions competing for my attention. I knew Michael had two factors going for him — his uncanny ability to know his body’s energy reserves, plus how and when to tap them to their utmost, and the fact that he had come armed with a gameplan, a master vision for each and every event. And he’d rehearsed these in his mind and in the pool over and over, finessed to a one-hundredth of a second.

The one glimmer of concern, out of all four strokes to be swum in the 400 IM — fly, back, breast, and freestyle — was the breaststroke. If any other swimmer could catch up with him from out of the formidable field for this event, the hundred meters of the breaststroke would be the only chance for another contender to surge ahead. You never really can predict the outcome of what’s often called a breaststroker’s race.

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Because of the clear delineation of roles on Team Phelps, I was fully aware that Michael and the relentless Bob Bowman had a strategy to counter any potential vulnerability. Whatever that was, I trusted their planning implicitly. And in my role as the Mom on the team, my only job — as it had always been — was simply to be there with all my heart, all my being, and witness him come into his own, however that was going to play out.

Well, as basic as that sounds, when it came to making it to the Athens games as a spectator and cheerleader, there were a couple of close calls that almost stood in my way. The first of these had to with a potential work-related conflict that came up when I had to choose between accepting the offer of my dream job — being made principal of my own schoolhouse — or coming to the Olympics. There wasn’t even a second’s hesitation before I turned down the offer. True, I had spent close to thirty years in the Maryland public school system — as a teacher and administrator with experience in a wide range of demographics — working toward just such an opportunity. But at every stage of ascending the ladder in my career, family still came first. That balancing act wasn’t necessarily easy, however, particularly after my husband Fred and I divorced in the mid-1990s.

In time, I would come to appreciate the many lessons that I’ve been fortunate to learn as a single mom. But to deny the heartache along the way — for all of us — wouldn’t be telling the full story I’ve chosen to tell. In fairness not just to myself but to everyone impacted on some level by divorce — adults and children — I have to note that most marital breakups are painful. We were no exception.

Although turning down the job didn’t weigh on me in the least, I was very concerned about the failing health of my mother — or, as she was lovingly called by her grandchildren, Gran – who, at age eighty-five, was battling an aggressive, rare type of cancer. Two years before she had been told not to expect to live more than a few months to a year — a year-and-a-half tops. As the second-born of her four children, I should have known she would defy those odds. Still, I couldn’t avoid the thought of her being at a critical stage just as we were leaving for Greece. But no sooner did she settle into an assisted-living facility, her health and spirits rallied. Clearly, she was holding out for her dream to be realized — to live long enough to see her grandson swim in the 2004 Olympic Games.

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Talk about setting a high goal! And as the overachiever that she was, she even went after it with style. With her energetic, vivacious personality, Leoma Davisson hadn’t wasted a second in becoming the social butterfly of the whole facility. As we got closer to Athens, not only was Mom doing well, but she managed to gather together all her fellow seniors to watch Michael swim in the meets leading up to the games. She even attracted local and national media who wanted to get the story of Michael’s grandmother and her Olympic highlights. If ever there was a member of Team Phelps cheering the loudest for Michael from a distance, that had to be Gran.

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