|Perhaps these people need to get more intense about their spelling skills.|
I went to that pageant last weekend, where I assure you, everyone was more intense than I was. Then, last night, I took the Bonus Child to her cheer competition center for practice, and again, EVERYONE was more intense than I was. There were people in the room--more than one family--who drove two hours one way for their child to train with So-n-So, the Yoda Jedi Master of All Things Cheer. Two hours in the car ONE WAY for CHEER practice. THREE TO FOUR TIMES A WEEK. That kind of intense.
(I'm thinking to myself, who are these people, and how can I learn to identify them from a distance so that I don't accidentally sit by them anymore?)
Everyone who knows me for more than five seconds knows that I adore my children. I'm on the outskirts flirting with worshiping them, but I'm also a complete realist about my babies. They are talented. Smart. Funny. Precocious. Clever. Witty. Bright. Beautiful. Handsome. And I could go on and on about their brilliance. But I hold one truth dear in my heart--they are only viewed this way by me, their father, and God. This viewpoint is completely and totally based on one thing--how much I love them.
|The Number One Son--football star.|
Okay, I'm a big girl. I have no trouble at all with this. It didn't just happen to me, I was this size when The Husband married me, and I'm all good with that. But these two parents next to me were...were...in need of a full-length mirror and a Moment of Serious Life Evaluation. They were HUGE. And the woman was drinking an extra large milk shake. Like 40 ounces of milk shake. I'm sitting there listening to them down grade their child's accomplishment (I'd like to see some of you try a back handspring from a dead stand still without a bobble), and they both clearly needed to do something as simple as take a walk and eat a salad or just back away from the gargantuan shake. Hello?
If you are living vicariously through your children, you should at least make some sort of attempt to join them in their endeavours. I couldn't discuss my child's activity level if I also didn't walk and do aerobics. I couldn't encourage them to try new foods if I turned my nose up at everything offered to me. I would feel like the worst possible kind of role model and example. The very definition of hypocrite. We need a serious priority check in this culture. This is sort of brutal and direct, but perhaps you need to work on you instead of living through your children.
Oh, and Shorties? I'm not ever, for any reason, driving you two hours each way four times a week so that you can practice anything temporal. Ever. Because, quite frankly, I'm all good with you being average, so long as you excel in the things that matter; the things that last.
|The Fasionista about to put one over the net.|
|Wonder Twins on the Spirit Squad|