The Evil Spawn is growing up in all kinds of ways (and some are starting to make me terribly uncomfortable).
She’s aging (9 going on 27). Her sense of fashion is evolving (heavy on the Bling-Bling). Her sense of humor is getting slightly more sarcastic (must get that from her mother). She taller (she’s grown 97 inches in the last 3 days).
I knew these would be inevitable.
She’s also growing up in regards to sports.
If I’m being honest, I have to say watching little girls play soccer, basketball, and softball can be challenging.
Actually, I don’t mean challenging.
I mean painful.
It’s worse than watching paint dry. It’s like watching paint being spilled. Over and over again (and the girls spilling it don’t seem to understand any of the rules of the game).
She is now at the age where girls are starting to separate themselves. It’s becoming easier to see the difference between the flower-pickers and the girls who really want to play (not that there is anything wrong with picking flowers…).
As a parent, I wasn’t prepared for this quick transition.
In softball, it’s gone from girls not being able to catch, throw, or hit to travel teams, expensive batting helmets, and pitching camps.
It’s all happening way too quickly.
I knew I wouldn’t be prepared for her growing up, but I didn’t realize it would all happen so quickly.
The bad fashion sense and smart aleck comments I can handle (and maybe even trump).
But I had no idea about the Parent Nerves.
This is a concept that I didn’t even know was a concept until this year.
Turns out watching your child compete in sports is much more difficult than playing them yourself.
I thought it would be fun, but I was wrong. It’s less fun and more stressful.
When the Evil Spawn plays, I have this strange feeling overtake me.
If feels like I’m going be sick at my stomach (a nice way of saying I’m about to throw up all over my shoes).
The feeling is a combination of public speaking and riding a roller coaster (or spiders crawling up your nose just as you fall asleep… and good luck dozing off without thinking about this blog).
I really believed watching her would be an enjoyable experience. Maybe even peaceful.
I envisioned myself being the proud parent who just stood on the sidelines and smiled.
It’s nerve-raking and traumatic.
My last words of encouragement before she heads onto the field…
… “Don’t embarrass the family name.”
Maybe it will get easier over time.
Or maybe, I shouldn’t have reproduced.