As a child, I was the definition of geek a highly competitive little girl. Perhaps it was because I suffered from middle child syndrome, over shadowed by my big brother Stretch’s fantastic farting skills or my little sister, Mouse’s wholesome demeanor or perhaps it was because I didn’t have much else going for me other than the knobby knees, flat chest and stringy blonde hair. I had to do something to stand out and be seen in my family.
Everything I did I turned into a competition. Whether it was just washing the dishes, doing my homework or participating in sports, I was out to kill it and do it the very best.
My mother often tried to remind me that it wasn’t possible for me to be the very best in everything I did.
Horse shit, I’d think to myself as I rolled my eyes at her and strenghtened my resolve to be the world’s greatest citizen ever.
Sadly, my mother apparently knew what she was talking about (oh how it still hurts to admit that) and time ended up bruising my ego over and over again as I learned the harsh reality of the world: There is always someone more talented in the world than you are.
(Except when it comes to talking about dead kids and dildos and the ability to put ones feet behind their ears and walk across the kitchen floor using only their arse cheeks. I still rock that one like no one’s betch. Heh.)
I soon grew up and having swallowed my pride more times than a person can count, was delighted to realize that while I may have failed at being the best at everything, I could concentrate my laser beam like talents on honing the next generation into being a better version of myself.
I mean, as a parent, is there anything better than molding your child into the person you wanted to be but failed at miserably, therefore be able to capture and RELIVE your glory days through the accomplishments of your child?
I think not.
If ever there was a reason to breed this would be it, I thought to myself as I tossed caution to the wind and convinced my husband that contraception was for sissies.
(Okay, maybe I didn’t think that at the exact moment of conception. I may have been too busy moaning and telling him to hurry up. Ahem.)
Still, ten months later I birthed Tanis 2.o. A daughter destined to be the best mini-me EVAH.
*Rubs hands with glee.*
With the luck of some mighty fine genetics and years of constant indoctrination, my daughter has quite literally not fallen far from this tree. She is, like her mother, a pitbull of determination and the consumate competitor.
Praise the lawd for screwing up the first born. Can we say Type A personality anyone?
Fric loves competition. She (and this is where I bust out my mad maternal pride skills and brag her up as though she will be soley responsible for world peace, global gay rights and the cure for cancer,) is at the top of her class scholastically and one of the best athletes of her generation, er class of thirty kids.
In other words, she is just like me.
*Holds hand up for the high fives that are sure to follow.*
However, unlike myself at that age, Fric has something I never did. (Besides actual talent. Heh.) She has a mother who is has too much time on her hands and can thereby make sure she is at every basketball, volleyball and soccer game cheering her on to higher success.
Loosely translated: I pretend I’m her and drive her crazy while shaking my pompoms and acting like a possessed woman.
I had the opportunity to attend young Fric’s first junior high track competition recently. Even better, I was elevated from the spectator’s bench when one of the volunteers neglected to show up and the organizers needed someone to step up and grab a stop watch.
(Picture me jumping up and down, waving my hand while shouting, “Pick MEEEE!”)
The day was fantastic, the weather perfect and my mind filled with long lost memories of my own track and field glory days. Visions of medals and ribbons danced through my mind as I held the coveted stop watch and puffed my chest with the power of one who timed the winner of all the field races.
Then, with little pomp and circumstance, it was my daughter’s turn to chase her tail in circles all over the field. While she lined up quietly at the start line, concentrating on the task before her, I stood beside her with pride shooting out of every pore for I was sure, like me, my child would rock this 1500 meter race.
“Mom, stop, you are embarrassing me,” she whined when I shouted “TEAM FRIC!!!” as the other runners lined up and waited for the gun to crack.
“Tough nuts, sugar bear, MOMMY LOVES YOU,” I heckled as a group of thirteen year old boys sniggered behind my back.
Then it was business time, and hush fell over the runners and spectators, everyone braced for the starter pistol to shoot it’s blank.
And with a loud crack, they were off and my thumb eagerly pressed the start button to time what was sure to be my daughter’s victory.
It was a 400 meter race track which meant almost four rotations for the runners. My daughter was in third position as they rounded the first lap.
“Smile for the camera honey,” I cheered as she huffed and puffed past me, concentrating on both ignoring her mother and putting one foot in front of the other.
She smiled and then rolled her eyes at me as I looked at the stop watch in my hands and yelled at her as she passed, “HURRY UP KIDDO! CLOCK’S A-RACING.”
As the other girls raced around the track, I cheered them on, each by name, offering encouragement and snapping pictures of their red faces as they passed me. I am nothing if not an equal opportunity cheerer.
One of the the boys behind me, waiting for his race to start after the girls were done, whispered to his friend, “Sheesh. That lady is LOUD.”
(Oh, you little runt. Your turn is a coming, I thought to myself as I yelled even louder.)
Before I knew it, Fric was finishing up her second lap and she was now in second place and holding steady. Grabbing my camera I yelled, “Smile for your MOMMA!”
She didn’t smile.
In fact, she kinda snarled as she went past.
I attributed it to her losing steam. I mean, it couldn’t have anything to do with me shouting, “HURRY UP HONEY! TAKE HER! WHAT IS THERE A PIANO TIED TO YOUR ARSE???”
(I’m available for motivational speaking anytime, anywhere. Just email your requests.)
As she rounded the far corner on her third lap I glanced at the stop watch that was bouncing around my neck.
“Come on HURRICANE! YOU CAN DO THIS. SMILE FOR THE CAMERA!!!”
I am nothing if not supportive.
As she huffed and puffed past me, her face getting redder with every lap, my vision blurred and for a moment I relived every track meet I ever raced in. I no longer saw Fric, but the fragile competitive little blonde I once was.
“SMILE FOR MOMMY!” I cried as I tried to get an action shot to put in her scrap book.
“Shut UP MOM!” she hissed at me, out of breath.
“Go FRIC! GO! YOU CAN RUN FASTER THAN THIS! JUST PRETEND THERE IS AN ARMY OF ANGRY ZOMBIES ON YOUR HEELS,” I yelled as she passed me.
She gave me the stink eye.
“GO FRIC GO!” I cried loudly as my daughter sprung into high gear and went for the kill.
I all but exploded with glee as she over took the lead rounding the final corner of the track and charged toward the finish line.
“GO DOODLEBUG GOOOO! THAT’S MY BABY! FASTER FASTER! DON’T MAKE ME CHASE YOU UP TO THE FINISH LINE! PUT SOME PEP IN THAT STEP! DON’T SLOW DOWN! GO! GO! YOU’RE ALMOST DONE!!!!”
With the stop watch in hand I watched as my daughter crossed the finish line first and ran straight into next week’s regional competition.
“You did it!” I jumped with joy as I ran to record the winning time, abandoning my post, not caring about any of the other competitors who were still running their little preteen legs off.
“I’m so proud of you honey pie!” I said as I patted her on her sweaty back and leaned down to kiss the top of her sweat soaked hair.
She slowly looked up at me, shielding her hand from the bright summer sun.
“I kinda hate you right now.”
“Ah honey. Those are words every mother loves to hear when her daughter is the WINNER,” I smiled down and ignored the boys totally laughing at Fric and me.
“You are never coming to another track meet again.”
“Face it Fric, I’m the wind beneath your wings. I inspired you,” I laughed.
She may or may not have muttered ‘Bite me,’ under her breath.
“I can’t wait till next week. I’m gonna lead you to victory. I’m gonna be the cattle prod that you never knew you needed. I’m gonna-”
She interrupted and said, “I’m getting some water. Don’t follow me. I don’t know you.” And she stalked off with her friends while totally bragging about how awesome her mother was.
“Stick with me kid,” I yelled. “I’ll have you in the Olympics before you know it,” I called after her.
Funny, she acted like she couldn’t hear me.
That’s okay though.
I’m totally planning on buying a bull horn for next weeks meet.
This reliving my youth bit is da bomb.
