Let me make one thing clear from the start.
I hate sports.
I hate some more than others. Soccer, meh. Baseball, blech. Football, hurling on the floor.
The Superbowl sends me into a full on fit, complete with foaming and seizures because people act like absolute morons about a game.
My brother, nephew, and husband will talk about nothing else. Get them together and the football talk starts within five minutes. And it continues long past the point of logic, sense, or their continued survival.
One day I will go Michael Myers on their asses. (Minus the clown costume which would make my butt look big.)
Having boys, I realized I would eventually have to slither into the world of sports.
I prayed for band nerds, or drama dorks, or even nonconformists kids.
I got my boys, who at four and five are entering the world of wee sports.
Boo is playing Wee Ball and Bug will be playing soccer.
All starting in LESS THAN ONE MONTH.
I find my stomach turning at the knowledge that I will be on the sidelines cheering for my kids and pretending to like the game because it's important to them.
I am having moments where it's like being pregnant again. I think I'll be riding the porcelain throne if I have to hear another word about any of it.
For me, this is parental torture.
And I haven't even seriously contemplated how bad they will smell afterward. Riding in my car. In an enclosed vehicle. With me.
But I will swallow my bile, plaster a clenched teeth smile on my face, and try my best to be encouraging, while, slowly, on the inside, I am dying a painful, agonizing death.
Because, I know, from here, it is a small step into them joining into those damned conversations about sports and plays and stats and all the other things that almost make me wish I had three girls.
*gag*
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