Apparently we now take both of the children to basketball on Saturday mornings. This is my entree into the world of weekend sport, and you know, I don’t hate it. My Saturdays had become a bit of Me Sitting at My Computer and then a little Me at the Supermarket followed by Me Thinking About But Not Actually Doing Stuff. Now they have an hour of Me Sitting in the Bleachers.
I’ve been surprised by how unshit Georgia is at it. I was a fine basketballer in my time, dribbling the ball with my hands and tossing it into the scoring device. Seriously, I was pretty great. I was like Lauren Jackson, except less people gave me tokenistic roles at Olympic Games. The ex wasn’t a basketballer, but he played state level baseball, which is only a couple of letters different. Even so, I have watched my elder daughter for many years, and she is like an ungraceful dwarf gazelle. She is the kind of child who accidentally kicks herself in the bum when she runs and then falls over.
And yet! She made the ball go up and down while she ran alongside it, ponytail swinging. She came third in DONKEY. She accidentally did a layup! I was the proudest mother in the stands. Well, the only mother. The rest of the kids had been escorted by their dads, who talked to each other about how hot the 16-year-old taking the class was, how much beer they planned to drink later, and why there was a mother in the stands when she should have been home making lunch.
Lily, on the other hand, has all the sophistication and poise of a roast chicken footlong. She had the worst time of anybody doing anything in all of history. “I’m injured!” she cried, and when I called her a filthy stinking liar she tried to throw the ball at my face but didn’t even make it half way. So it came as a great shock to me when, at game end, she told me how excited she was to go back.
And now we are Saturday morning sportspeople. And I kind of like it.
If they decide to become rowers, though, they are going on the first adoption list I can find.