Competitive cheerleading is what my daughter chose last year. I know, I know. Here’s the thing – these girls are fricking amazeballs. Not only are they serious athletes with Gumby-like limbs, they play a game at a level I didn’t really get at first. These girls breathe a combination of determination, strength, flexibility, agility, synchronization, and trust I never achieved on the soccer field. They are rock stars.
Really, what girl wouldn’t be into a sport that involves dancing, cheering, music, flipping, and sometimes really buff guys lifting you into the air with one hand? I’m in.
When she signed up last year it was the first time she had initiated the research on any activity. She had been a ballerina, a soccer player, a lacrosse goddess and a horseback rider prior to this. I did the legwork each time. Found the place, signed her up, etc… When Danielle found the cheer gym online she pulled me by the arm into the kitchen, sat me down at my laptop and wouldn’t go away until she was signed up.
I smiled. And cried. I knew (kinda) what this meant. It would be a commitment for both of us.
Was I ready for this? I wondered.
From the first moment in the door of the gym, watching her eyes sparkle as she gazed at the jumping, flipping, dancing, and tumbling that was going on, I knew she found what she loved. There was no way in Hell I could say no. To the commitment. To the fee. To the whole deal. She had found a place to shine and I was thrilled.
What I didn’t expect were the tears, the disappointments and the lessons that would come so fast and furiously. Of course I knew they’d come, but my twelve year old was learning things about how to live life, not just how to do a back handspring. Oh my fricking God, who wouldn’t love to be able to do a back handspring?
The life lessons came in moments with her team, her coaches, her performances, her practice and her body. She’s learned what it means to be on a team – but this isn’t just any old teamwork. This kind of team has to sync baby. They have to not only be concerned about their own skills, but the timing and music of the routine, and what everyone else around them is doing at any given moment. They have to be ON, big time, awake and aware and ready…every second.
And they have to do back handsprings. Like, a lot of them.
They have to learn how to communicate. They figure out very quickly that if they don’t talk to their coaches and teammates it might mean they get their face stepped on. They have to be brave! They have to speak up. They have to be clear.
These girls have to feel, understand and know their bodies at a level even I, a second degree black belt, haven’t had to do. If they check out for a millisecond they are doomed to a slip, stumble or worse, a fall from two stories high. And then the routine they’ve practiced for months goes down in a flaming ball of fire.
Except they can’t react to that flaming ball, because another thing they’ve learned is that the show must go on, even if you are on fire.
So they smile inside of their pain. They get up after they fall, and smile some more. They turn their wince into a smile, as their ankle turns sideways…and they keep going. Crap, my daughter is twelve! And she is learning and doing things it took me decades to learn. Attitude. Teamwork. Don’t quit. Persevere. Do your best. It’s not your mistakes that make you who you are, it’s how you keep moving despite them!
I can’t wait to move into this year’s competitions and watch my baby shine. I’ll be doing that with every ounce of mom anxiety you’d expect. Will she fall? Will someone she’s holding fall? Will she forget? Will they place? Will she be proud of herself and her team no matter what? Oh, the stuff that fills my head.
I’ll be screaming bloody murder (oh yeah, I’m a screamer) and jumping up and down for each of those two and a half minute routines. I’ll be smiling as big as I can, especially if someone makes a mistake, and it won’t matter whose kid makes it…I’ll feel it like it’s her. And that right there is the real teamwork of this sport.
The love energy that is pouring from the parents and coaches who stand at the edge of the stage waiting for their babies to come out, all red, black and sparkly from toes to bow… that kind of energy is an amazing thing.
My baby is a rock star in that moment, and so are all her teammates. And we are the rockstar’s moms. Proud. Busting with excitement, anticipation and hope. And for two and a half minutes we forget the hours of driving, snack arranging, hair trauma, outfit dilemmas, and tears that made up the days before this – because for those few moments, we are part of the team.
