If you read last Wednesday's post, you know that my 5-year old started bitty basketball two weeks ago. To date, she has learned how to breakdown into a semi-proper defensive stance and that little boys aren't apt to pass the ball to female teammates unless a coach is standing right behind them saying (repeatedly), "Pass the ball to Brianna." Even then, there are no guarantees.
What I have learned is that I am competitive to a fault. Actually, I already knew that, so bitty ball just brings the knowledge into painfully sharp focus.
While most parents reserve sideline encouragement for positive, team-building missives like, "Pass the ball to your teammates, sweetie!" I found myself, early in the first quarter, shouting, "Go get the ball!" and "Shoot it!" after she finally did get the ball.
I have become one of those parents that I used to observed with a mixture of disdain and bewilderment at my niece and nephews' little league sporting events. One of those poor, frustrated, reliving (or perhaps living for the first time) glory days parents who shouts at their kids during bitty basketball games. Nice.
I'm not living or reliving any former glory because I never played basketball, save for a few summers of overnight ball camp that I attended with my basketball coach dad so I could enjoy a week of junk food in the college cafeteria and swimming in the Olympic-sized pool. The year I accidentally won the cut throat competition for my age division was the last time I attended. As I explained to my mom, I was afraid my dad thought I might actually want to play basketball.
No, my embarrassing behavior is simply an illustration of the uber competitiveness that I typically do a decent job of concealing to most of the world. But bitty ball brings out the worst in me.
Since I want to win, or at least be good, at everything, I expect my kids to follow suit. And while my daughter displays flashes of competitiveness (like when she expressed concern prior to me signing her up for bitty ball that she might not be able to win every time), it's clear that when she's on the court the furthest thing from her mind is competing.
While I want her to perform well, or at least pay attention to what's happening, she seems quite content to skip (literally) around the court and gleefully cheer for her teammates on the rare occasion that one scores.
I hit rock bottom this past Saturday when I blurted out, "Pay attention!" after my daughter trailed off to the sideline to check on a player from the opposing team who'd left the game after taking a tumble onto the hardwood. Instead of beaming that my child was showing compassion and concern for her fellow man, I was ranting like a crazy person for her to get back in the game. Shameful.
What bitty ball unleashes in me is an inexplicable force that makes it impossible, or at least inadvisable, for me to compete against my husband in any sort of contest and compels me to strive and worry and fret about getting credit and "gaining exposure" in a career that I have finally admitted just isn't for me. I hate to lose, and if I'm not good at whatever it is I happen to be doing, then I don't want to "play."
To preserve whatever shred of dignity I may still have after Saturday's display and to avert the potential for a sideline cardiac episode, I have officially deemed my husband household AD. Henceforth, I will handle ballet and swimming lessons, and he can steer the competitive sports ship. At least when I was watching her arabesque and pirouette around the dance studio this past summer, I had the good sense to know that she wouldn't hear my embarrassing admonishments to point her toes and pay attention through the glass window anyway.
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