This is not a sentence I anticipated writing in this blog. Unless it was some kind of punchline or something. My new fandom: Grade Six High Jump. It’s a highly underrated spectator sport.
Generally, I consider sports Glen’s department. Not because I’m sexist, because I just don’t like them. At all. Though, I think C looks pretty adorable in her little cleats and shin pads. But I’m not allowed to say that out loud.
Glen is quite happy to preside over soccer season. On wet January mornings he downgrades from “happy” to “determined-to-set-a-good-example-by-not-bitching-in-front-of-the-children-and-focusing-on-the-resorative-power-of-Tim-Horton’s-hot-chocolate.” Which is still pretty impressive in my book.
Likewise, Special Olympics is his gig. It is his special Daddy-daughter time and as a reward, he got to march in the BC Games opening parade with B last year. He basked in the reflected glory of her adorableness. Walking around waving at the crowd is DEFINITELY her event.
I drive to dance, spackle on the stage makeup and cement hair into a bun. I attend therapy sessions and play enunciating games until my “SSSSSSSS” is down right creepy. I dress up in costume, drill memory verses and teach sunday school.
I do not do sports.
Our division of labour has worked well for us. But today I was the only one who could attend L’s very first track meet. I wasn’t sure I could pull “Fan Mom” off.
Glen tells misty-eyed stories about a team mom and her infamous cowbell. She would bring it to their 6:why-the-hell-is-anyone-up-at-this-hour o’clock hockey games. Apparently, the unholy racket she created inspired them all to greatness. It seems that to the prepubescent boy annoyingly-loud-and-obnoxious is equated with a vast reservoir of maternal love.
I don’t do cow bells.
My alternative strategy: Capture The Moment. I was determined to get a great shot of her sailing over the bar. Sadly, I am a terrible photographer. Also, not a pressure player. So I totally fumbled the ball.
Bam! There’s two sports analogies in one paragraph – totally rocking this sports fan thing!
I did manage to get a picture of my own finger and a video of myself fiddling with the iPhone.
Jiggle, jiggle. Grimace. “Oh shoot, I missed it. Good job L!” It’s a memento she will no doubt cherish forever.
I fear my inner cheer of “Don’t be the worst, Don’t be the worst” MAY not have been Fan Mom worthy. But she did make it to the second round, so it must’ve worked. She knew she could/should have done better. She just wanted a ribbon, but she wasn’t utterly devastated.
I’m not sure if my Pep Talk was up to snuff. “I’m proud of you for being here. It’s hard to perform when people are watching. You’ll do even better next year… yadda, yadda, yadda.. Also, I don’t think your Dad ever made it over the bar…like… ever. So you are totally the best in our family.”
Maybe I’ll make her a Family Champion ribbon to hang on her wall, along with the picture of my finger.
She was thrilled when her friend won second place. She was glad to have made the team. She was simply content to be part of the day.
I’m not terribly concerned about whether she can get her 11-year-old butt over a plastic pole, but that’s something I’m cheering about. She’s a good sport and a team player. That’s a win too!
So here’s me, Fan Mom of the year. L! L! She’s our girl! If she can’t do it, that’s just as well!