Yesterday I was sewing along on my Christmas gifts (more on that later…like December 26th because I don’t want to spoil any surprises) while listening to the last few chapters of Girl, Wash Your Face by Rachel Hollis. Sidebar: I loved the book so much that I’m restarting it today after finishing it only yesterday only this time I plan to take notes! Anyway, in one of the last few chapters Rachel spoke about not enjoying her membership in the kingdom (queendom?) of soccer moms. Yes! Finally! Tell me more! Rachel has her reasons…and I have some of my own.
Years ago the girls played softball. They started with T-Ball which was, perhaps, one of the cutest and funniest sports experiences for our family! T-Ball started just after The Sandlot (a movie, for those who live under a rock) had been in heavy rotation at our house. Lillian thought that every time at bat should start with the tapping of dust off of each pink cleat and pointing her shiny pink bat into the outfield…to call her shot like The Great Bambino. It was hysterical!
Cute T-Ball led to full-blown softball with multiple practices, two-ton gear bags, and double-headers in the Florida sun. Um, gross. There’s nothing good that comes from sitting on a metal bleacher in a thousand percent humidity while roasting in the blazing sun like a sausage on the grill. And, when you add in the shrieking psycho parents? Untenible. Not cheering parents, mind you. Shrieking ones as big as houses plowing down concession stand cheese fries and screeching for their kids to run faster. I quickly learned that having earbuds and coconut oil was the only way to survive. The earbuds were to block out the parents. Help me gangster rap! The coconut oil served two purposes. The first was to increase the chances of a good tan. The second was that in the small chance of breeze then my olfactory senses could be carried away, albeit briefly, to someplace with crashing waves and a cocktail waitress.
Ah, good times.
Recently, James decided to try out basketball. It’s a school sport (read: no expensive club team dues and minimal gear). Practice is nearly every morning at 6:30. He gets up cheerful and excited to start his day with basketball. He is having so much fun!
Last night was the first sixth grade basketball tournament. Jamie and I walked into the middle school gym just in time for tip off. Perfect timing. We watched from the periphery (my favorite spot in a crowded gym with two games happening simultaneously) but soon decided that we better move down to the bleachers so James would know we arrived.
Once we sat down, my peripheral hearing was immediately violated by a hollering dad. Ugh.
Move number two six! Move your feet!
Get down the court blue, go!
You’re the biggest kid out there you better get the ball!
Stand there number one five, right there, put your arms up like this! (*thrusts hands into the air from the front row of the bleachers)
I reached into my pockets…earbuds! Oh thank goodness! As I was thrusting them into my ears I told Jamie to speak up or touch my arm if he needed to say something to me. He smiled and shook his head. He knows.
Later last night as I was scratching James’ back before bed I asked him what he thought about that shouting dad. I wondered if he was as annoyed as I was. I wondered if he was going to say that he wished that dad would leave the coaching to the coach. I wondered if he wished for earbuds too…
I thought he was really helpful.
He told me after the first game that I’ll be a great ball player one day if I keep listening to the game like that.
I liked how he told me where to stand, he was right.
Oh, Ok. Cool. A different perspective from my eleven-year-old. I may have a thing or two yet to learn…and I’m certain number one five can teach me.
PS: Yes, the socks don’t match. We gave that up a long time ago. They’re clean, and that’s good enough for us!