(said in my best Llug from Willow, "Not a woman???" voice)
At my children's sporting events, I feel a keen sense of discomfort, not unlike sitting in the dentist office reception area. (Please no root canal...)
I've been married to the very sporty Brian for twenty years next month and had a number of sporty children. Thankfully, some are more like me than like him, or I'd feel completely outnumbered in this land of mud and sweaty uniforms and insane frantic yelling parents. These people must surely come from another planet, or at least bleed a different color.
Normally I am OK with feeling so out of every sports loop. Today I can't shake it, so it's off to the self analysis room for me. What's my problem?
For one thing: Dude, I don't care which team wins. They should all have fun and be polite to each other. This is basketball, not brain surgery.
Two: I love my boy. He is cute and I like watching him play basketball. However, I'd be just as fine watching him do a funny dance, weed the garden, tell me what happened at school today, and pretty much anything else that doesn't require sitting on hard bleachers in a freezing gym with no cell phone service or access to food.
Three: Unless I know them, the other parents run the gamut from weird to odious to bad-smelling. Sometimes all three, and almost always loud and obnoxious. What's more, I'm pretty sure I put off a severe "I hate sports and I'm not that enthralled with you, either" vibe so again, unless we know each other, they keep their distance. It's a little lonely but it's probably for the best, given all the above reasons.
Fourth: The darling husband, whose knowledge, skill, and interest in all things sporty leave me feeling practically crippled as a spectator. "How do they look as a team?" he just texted, on his way to our daughter's soccer tournament. Um, well... color-coordinated?
I might as well ask him how many generations ago his ancestors came from England - then we could have matching blank stares.
Fifth: I have no clue what's going on, so any sanctions the referees may foist on my child or his team seem completely unfair, bringing out my Mama Bear response. "HOW DARE THEY. Oh, my kid fouled another kid? Oh. Oops."
Sixth: Taking my youngest along. She is normally well-behaved, but today not so much, which probably heightened my "Why do I hate doing this so much?" anxiety.
It hits me today, again, that when you're a parent, you sometimes do things for your children for the sole reason that you love them. It's not enjoyable (I wish I felt differently). It seems like a gigantic waste of time (ditto). You can think of thirteen hundred different situations you'd rather be in than sitting behind some smelly shouting grandmother with your butt in pain (ditto again).
I miss whatever gene I was supposed to inherit that would somehow help me love sports. The Sports Force, sadly, is not with me.