May you drop your curling iron into a kitty-scented pom
In high school, I was friendly with a guy who played trumpet in the marching band, which in itself isn’t at all remarkable.
But his father was one of the football coaches.
And while the football team and the marching band occupied the same grassy expanse on Friday evenings each fall, they were still miles apart in many respects.
I have no idea what sorts of conversations took place between father and son at home, but I vowed that I would not let my high school extracurricular activities of choice affect my outlook on my daughters’ interests.
That vow lasted until Tacy brought home a flyer advertising a mini-poms clinic, sponsored by the high school varsity poms team.
(Apparently “poms” is the newfangled term for drill team.)
I had coveted a spot on my high school’s drill team since I was in elementary school, with my nose pressed to the chain-link fence surrounding the football stadium that backed up to my grandparents’ house. These girls were called Coeds, and I longed to be one of them. They were the height of glamour in their cowboy hats, ponytails, short skirts, and knee-high boots. They swished their poms and leaped off stools, landing in the splits.
It took my two years of tryouts to make the reserve squad, and a year on reserves before I scored a varsity position my senior year. I worked my ass off to be mediocre, and it was worth every tube of Ben-Gay.
So I had to restrain myself from leaping up and performing the routine to my high school fight song when I saw that flyer.
I asked Tacy if she wanted to participate. She said yes.
I waited a week and asked again. She said yes.
I waited one more week and asked once more. She said yes.
I wrote the check and mailed the form.
The clinic entailed two afternoons of practice at the high school and a basketball half-time performance on Friday night. Kyle took her to practice on Wednesday; I got Thursday. She wanted us to stay throughout the practices, so we did.
I beamed the entire practice. I couldn’t help it. If I hadn’t been so hugely pregnant, I’d have gotten to my feet and shown her how to hook up and do jump kicks myself.
But she was frustrated. She wasn’t picking up the steps as quickly as she wanted to, and I could tell that she felt lost. And I recalled all the times that I felt the same way while learning a new routine.
I had to break down steps as minutely as possible, following along behind my squad leader, mirroring what she did until I got it. Then I had to practice it about 100 times more before I felt as if I knew it well enough to add the music. I tortured myself in this way because I wanted to be a Coed more than anything else – sore muscles, shin splints, a bruised ego were small prices to pay for attaining that goal.
Tacy wasn’t feeling that same internal drive. When she came over to me during a break, she looked defeated. She told me she was frustrated because she kept messing up.
“Sweetie, I messed up ALL the time. Not just in practice either. I messed up on the football field and in competition, when we were performing.”
“Really? What did you do?”
“Oh, I forgot steps. I missed kicks. I hit my splits late. Stuff like that.”
“What happened?”
“I just kept smiling and caught up with everyone around me. If you keep smiling and keep moving, nobody really notices when you mess up.”
I didn’t know if my words helped – until she came home from the basketball game. She’d brought Kyle along “because he likes basketball better than you do, Mommy.”
She was wearing the poms tee she’d performed in, and her hair was perched on top of her head in a ponytail, tied with a striped ribbon. According to Kyle, the poms team director had personally attended to Tacy’s hair. She beamed as she told me about the performance. Apparently she’d had a marvelous time, which was really all that mattered to me all along.
Maybe this will be the end of her involvement in poms, or maybe she’ll ask to do it again the next time a flyer comes home. Either way, I’m glad that she gave it a shot, and I’m glad that I was able to be enthusiastic and supportive without being overbearing.
This time.
January 29th, 2008 at 7:25 am
Just keep smiling.
Look at this way, that’s an awesome LIFE lesson too.
January 29th, 2008 at 8:33 am
Good for her (and you)!
January 29th, 2008 at 9:10 am
I think that’s one of the biggest parenting challenges – letting kids explore “their” interests and not pushing your own on them whether directly or indirectly.
So far, our kids are musically and artistically gifted. And hubby and I encourage those arenas but he and I were both also high school athletes. While I don’t mind it, it does seem odd that we don’t seem destined to be riding the bleachers on game night, considering our own school lives.
But, at the end the day, the best thing is your kid doing stuff that they enjoy. Your barely contained glee at a daughter following in your “pom” footsteps turned out to be lovely for both of you. WTG!
January 29th, 2008 at 10:02 am
Yeah. What Sonia said.
Here’s hoping Q is interested in Fine Art and cooking.
January 29th, 2008 at 2:48 pm
Way to go, Tacy! Chris and I were both in marching band and when it was time for Ryan to sign up for fifth grade music, we both rallied hard for band, but he chose orchestra. I’ll admit it, I was disappointed. I told him stories about all the fun I had in band, but he wanted to play the violin and that was it. So we signed the form, and now he plays the violin, and he loves it. And I will be the most supportive orchestra Mom I can be!
January 29th, 2008 at 3:12 pm
I’m going through something similar right now. The Princess brought home the flier, said she wanted to join “Cheer Squad”, we went, paid for uniform and practice wear, and now we have to buy pro-basketball team tickets for an upcoming performance. So far, she’s still into it, but I fear her interest will wane for some reason. I think it’s because she preferred her dance class; but I picked cheer because it’s closer to home.
We’ll see.
January 29th, 2008 at 3:12 pm
I am impressed, because this is one of my biggest fears in raising our son. My husband and I were both NCAA Division I athletes, and my husband is no a professional. We live in the same city as our University. Needless to say, the local fans are already trying to “predict” that our son will be a super-star athlete. Thanks for the inspiration and hope that I will be able to step back and allow him to become who he wants to be.
January 29th, 2008 at 5:45 pm
I’m trying not to push my kid into sports but it’s so darn hard. It’s what I know. What will I do if she wants to cheer?
I know. I’ll call you.
January 29th, 2008 at 7:11 pm
Remind me to re-read this when track and field starts and I’m asked to volunteer as a timer and my daughter is signed up for the long distance runs…the same runs I won gold medals in.
Last year she told me she hated me as she wheezed past me. I told her to channel that anger and get moving.
Not my finest moment. Nor was it a great parental moment when I yelled “Booyah! In yer face!” as she took first place.
Sigh.
Guess I have some growing up to do. And savings to start for that HUGE therapy bill for her in the future…
January 29th, 2008 at 8:53 pm
Aw, what a great post!! I think that if Mr. Riley and I have kids, they will be of the band geek persuasion, which may bring an entirely new set of challenges (though I too harbored a secret desire to be on our school dance team….*sigh*).
January 30th, 2008 at 12:52 am
That was a surprise ending for me – I thought you were going to say that either you wanted her to play sports instead of do poms or vice versa! Glad she had a good time.
January 30th, 2008 at 8:37 am
Ooooh, Drill team! I always wanted to do that, but it would have interfered with softball & volleyball & cheerleading.
We watched “Drumline” one night & Maggie fell in love with the knee-high boots with the tassle. We’ll see if she goes in that direction or not. She got her “Athleticism Gene” from her father. The only athletic thing Joe did as a child was swim team. Granted, he can swim like a fish, but Maggie doesn’t like to get her face wet.
January 30th, 2008 at 10:08 am
I can’t wait to see where Beatrice goes — My husband and I are so different — and even though we share our alma mater – we were very different even back then. Great post. great blog! I had a fun visit! oh, and I love your header. It is so cute, and well, so ME!
January 30th, 2008 at 9:33 pm
I’ve got a little of that going on here: when Splig showed an interest (and aptitude) for gymnastics, I beamed. It was hard to contain my excitement, especially when my mom said something along the lines of, “you pushed him into this, didn’t you?” (But I didn’t: I had him do soccer, too, until he told me he’d prefer a second day of ‘nastics to soccer.)
Yes, I’ll be very happy if he becomes the gymnast that I never did (I started too late, but had talent.) But, I know I have to be supportive of him if he decides he no longer wants to do it!
But for now, I am giddy when he explains that his SuperHero name is “‘Nastics Boy!”
January 31st, 2008 at 7:12 am
I was the same way – wanted to be on the drill team. But? I’m about as coordinated as … well, I’m not.
I tried out with my friends, worked 3x as hard, practiced in my backyard in front of my parents’ huge bathroom window.
It was hard, but I finally got the routine down – the routine other girls got down in 2.4 minutes.
I didn’t make it.
So I sang. I could do that – and well.
I sang the Star Spangled Banner and then the game began – whether it was football or basketball or baseball.
When Em signed up for Choir I beamed. So thrilled.
When Meredith danced circles around everyone Emelie and I looked at each other and rolled our eyes – because we knew WE COULDN’T DO THAT. heh heh