The first time I dressed my daughter for a ballet folklorico presentation, I knew I was in over my head.
I braided a wobbly yarn crown with flowers precariously hot-glued on. I clipped large earrings onto her earlobes and streaked her cheeks with blush, but put my foot down at the idea of false eyelashes. “I don’t care if the other girls are wearing them. She’s 4 years old.”
I was relieved when she abandoned ballet folklorico for hip-hop, which only required a mish-mash of clothing, culled from all of the closets in the house, and artistically layered.
I was an adequate dance mom — I couldn’t sew but I could staple hems in place. I couldn’t help with makeup, but I could braid or curl a dozen girls’ hair before I’d even had coffee on competition mornings. I learned tricks for keeping tendrils of hair shellacked down, for applying lipstick to highlight the hip-hop scowl and for keeping her costumes edgy but modest.
Then I had a son.
From the time he could walk, he played sports: tee-ball, soccer, gymnastics, competitive hip-hop, basketball, football, wrestling, baseball. He falls deeply in love with every sport he plays and dedicates himself to it wholeheartedly … until the next sport catches his attention.
I do my best to support him, but I’m not a great sports mom.
It should be easier to be a sports mom than a dance mom. After all, there are no hairstyles, no makeup and no wardrobe changes mid-competition.
Still I had a lot to learn. Every sport has its own language. After a decade, I can yell, “Go, D!” when defense has the ball, I know “Blue” refers to the umpire, I know where the three-point line is and I have a general idea what offsides means.
I learned that each sport needs horrendous amounts of equipment. I’ve bought innumerable shin guards, pairs of cleats, pads, bats, rollerskates, lacrosse sticks, hockey sticks, skateboards, surf boards and every kind of ball imaginable.
Still, my child is the kid with the cheapest gear on the team and the boy least likely to have private lessons, time with a batting coach or video footage of his swing. He’s tried out for more than one sport in hand-me-down gear.
I often have to bite my tongue at games. Baseball teams generally have one kid who keeps up a constant rapid-fire patter of encouragement, a tiny auctioneer selling self-esteem. He calls all the other kids “kid,” even if they are older than him. It’s endearing at first, but after a few innings it takes every ounce of self-control I possess not to snap, “Be quiet!”
Most teams have a parent who coaches from the sidelines, shouting such helpful advice as “Catch the ball!”
I’m certain the players know they’re supposed to catch the ball, and when they can, they do.
Slightly worse is, “You should have caught that!” Nine times out of 10, the child is telling himself that already; he doesn’t need an adult to rub it in.
It’s common for a team to have at least one player who throws tantrums. He’s the kid who throws his batting helmet down in disgust after striking out, who yanks the jersey of an opponent and then argues with the referee when he gets a yellow card, who refuses to fist-pound or high-five the opponents at the end of a game.
As a teacher and a mom, it’s hard to quietly watch that child pout without muttering to myself about what I would do if that was my son.
I dread my turn to bring snacks for the team because the juice boxes and orange slices in sandwich bags can’t compare to the elaborate goodie bags assembled by moms with more time, money and creativity than I possess.
I don’t buy adult-sized versions of team shirts to wear on game days. It never occurs to me to bring cushions or blankets to the stadium, so I shiver on hard benches in the wind, hoping that either victory or defeat will come quickly and wondering if it would be rude to read a book if my own child isn’t on the field.
What I lack in knowledge, patience or team spirit, I make up for in volume. When my son makes a good play, I cheer enthusiastically, leaving no doubt whose child he is. Even when he fumbles, I cheer for his effort. When his team wins, I jump and holler. When they lose, I console him gently and help him shrug it off.
I’m probably not paving the way for him to play professional sports, but I hope the lessons sports teach about teamwork, perseverance and courage pave the way to adulthood. I’m willing to trade in my “Best Team Mom” trophy for that.
