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Oh God ... I’m a Cheer Mom
While I do not relish the thought of spending the next three years sitting in bleachers suffering whatever potential weather conditions the universe cares to hurl at us; holding a video camera to capture the spunky one’s gyrations, kicks and yells; struggling with concession stand food with my nine-year-old in tow; driving all over hell and back with at least six squealing cutie pies overtaking the radio controls of my vehicle, I will support my currently ecstatic daughter throughout her cheerleading career. What choice do I have? She made it! She made the squad! You might think I’m carrying on about her “making the squad” a bit dramatically. I assure you, I’m not. If you lived through what we lived through last year when she didn’t make it, you’d understand. OK, so last year, when the letter arrived, thanking her profusely for trying out (with no mention of appreciation that she pulled every muscle in her legs and arms), but with apologies that she just didn’t have what it took to beat the intense competition, my daughter went into the first of a yearlong bout of teenage meltdowns. (This was the worst one, to be sure, and all since then have been mild in comparison, thank God.) She started off easy … crying, feeling sorry for herself, wondering why she “never” got a break in life and deciding that she wasn’t going to school the next day because she couldn’t deal with her friends in the face of such humiliation. Within twenty minutes, this had escalated into massive hysteria, blaming ME for her lack of athletic ability (?!), deciding that life wasn’t worth living and attempting to throw herself off the balcony. Considering we live on the first floor, I wasn’t too concerned about broken bones but I held on to her for dear life anyway, breaking a nail and straining my back in the process. I WAS, however, concerned with her attempt to then swallow an entire bottle of what was left of the Advil. Thankfully, she had already gone through plenty of the stuff in normal doses after she had over-done the cheer lessons in the few weeks before the ill-fated tryouts. I lost another nail trying to dig a handful of pills out of her mouth. She still had her braces on at that time … lovely. OK, so she made it through that meltdown, eventually went back to school and somewhat got over it.
For
the next year, she systematically wooed every cheerleader who had
made the squad, became their best friend, badgered each one
relentlessly to teach her the cheers and began a half-assed campaign
of learning how to do toe touches and sporadically attending dance
classes to be ready for this year’s tryouts.
Even with all this, I still didn’t expect her to make it.
She was up against 54 other girls, all of whom had been in
gymnastics and/or ballet class since they were in diapers.
(Over-achievers … the bunch of them.)
My daughter spent whatever time she wasn’t stretching her
legs and going to dance class (once a month, max) lying on the couch
watching MTV and talking incessantly on the phone. This is a girl who never learned how to ride a bike … how the hell did she manage to wow the judges and make the squad? Beats the shit outta me. But she did. And she’s probably going to be the best cheerleader that school ever had. You know why? Because she has the LOUDEST voice of any human being with vocal chords I’ve ever encountered and she is more exuberant and friendly than a person has a right to be. Naturally, she saves these qualities for her friends and their parents, but I know they exist … I’ve spied on her while she’s interacted with others outside her family. She’s good … she’s got a personality that any of us would kill our own mothers for. God bless her manic-depressive heart.
Considering
I'm a busy lady, in a relatively new relationship, (see Mom
and the Rock Star), I will be needing serious chemical help by
this time next year. Between
home games, away games, daily cheer practice, rallies, dinners, rah
rah meetings and all the other suburban crap that goes along with
being a cheer mom, I'm expecting to be cranky … a lot. How far is a mom supposed to go to support her child's ambitions? I guess to hell and back if that's what it takes. © Reality Mom - 2003
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