Tuesday, September 30, 2014

The Woes of a Sports Mom

Tonight, The Girl's volleyball team plays in the semi-finals of the district volleyball tournament. We're all really excited, here at the Tatted Mom house...

Except... well... there's that one... no, I can't say it.

Wait. I can. It's my blog. I'm here to talk about the good, the bad, and the ugly of parenting. So, (deep breath)...

There's a small part of me that hopes they lose.

(Breathe out) OMG, I can't believe I just said that.

When you become a Sports Mom, you sign on for everything sports-related; morning practices, weekend practices, chauffeur to places in the county (or state if it goes that far) that you didn't even know existed (I'm sure the section of town the school was in for the quarter-finals last night used to be amazing...). Your schedule revolves around the sport's schedule, and for the last few months, we have ate/slept/breathed volleyball.

I love volleyball. I played in high school. And now I know how my mom felt.

Touche, Karma, touche.

Of course I want my child and her team to succeed. They only lost 1 game during the regular season,
and I've watched my daughter excel and blossom as a volleyball player; it's caused many a tearful game from me, remembering my volleyball days and seeing my daughter walk in my footsteps.

But as the season wears on, and the playoffs approach, that little, evil, gravel-throated voice pops up in the deep, dark recesses of your mind, as a Sports Mom... I hope they lose so the season will be over. 

You fight that voice. You push it down, say 50 Hail Marys because you are sure it's the voice of a demon that has possessed you (and I'm not even remotely Catholic), and have instant Mom Guilt set in for thinking such a horrible thought.

But it's there. And I'm here to tell you that the thought crosses each and every Sports Mom's mind out there, I promise you. It crosses, then we drown it in a sea of "I want my child and their team to succeed" and "Of course I LOVE _____ (insert sport here)". We blame the wretched thought on lack of sleep due to early morning practices and late-night games, and on the amount of fast food we eat while on the road during the playoffs.

Then we see our child take the court (field, pool, track, etc), and that thought gets instantly washed away.

Take last night for instance; The Girl's quarter-final game. Hubby and I sat there, contemplating how life would be different if, by chance, The Girl's team lost. Sleeping in the next morning, eating dinner at a "normal" time, relaxation- things we, as a family, haven't really known since the volleyball season started. Then, the first game was a slam dunk; we won, something like 20-7. The Girl plays the second game (best 2 out of 3), and that one was a nail-biter. The other team took the lead, then The Girl's team stole it back, then a mistake happened and the other team was in the lead again. Each time the volleyball soared over the net, my passion for a W grew, and when we lost the 2nd game, and geared up for a 3rd, decisive game, there was no ounce of LOSE inside of me. My competitive side took over, and I clamored (from the bleachers, of course) for a WIN!!

We won.

I cheered.

Then it hit me: Morning practice tomorrow, Semi-Final game tomorrow night... Son of a...

Yeah, that little, evil, gravel-throated voice popped up again. 50 more Hail Marys and down some Holy Water.

On the way home (after the obligatory stop at a fast-food restaurant because it was so late), The Girl piped up from the back seat...

"So, I'm happy we won and all, but I have to admit, part of me wished we lost. I'm really tired of morning and weekend practices, and of my whole life revolving around volleyball. I'm kinda ready for the season to be over." 

HOLY SHIT!! My child has the sports woes, too!!

50 Hail Marys and Holy Water. Demons, be gone!!

I just played the "Honey, you should want to succeed and your team to win and go as far as you possibly can. It's not nice to wish for your team to lose" card, and snickered to myself.

Like mother, like daughter, I guess.

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