The Cool Factor

Here I am—sitting in the car outside of the orthodontist office helping my daughter blot away her tears before her appointment.  I had scheduled Hanna’s appointment to immediately follow soccer tryouts—completely forgetting they would be posting the results which turned out to be a devastating blow to her middle school ego. 

“It’s not fair,” she said.  “The girls that were on the team last year got to help pick the new girls.  They picked a lot of their friends—not necessarily the ones that were really good.”  I really stopped myself from saying the old parent stand-by “life’s not fair” and instead opted for something a little more supportive and empathetic. 

“I know your feelings are hurt and you have every right to be disappointed,” I started.  “When you work hard for something and then you don’t get it…well, it sucks.”  I think Hanna was both shocked and impressed that I had thrown out such a “never-say-around-parents” word and I thought we just might be turning the corner with our emotions.

“It does suck,” she said.  "I'm never trying out for a team again."

“You don’t really mean that.  It’s just hard for you to see through your disappointment.”  By the look on Hanna’s face that final statement caused us to come to a complete standstill on the emotional corner we were in the process of turning.

“What do you know?” Hanna questioned.  “You don’t know those girls.  You don’t know the coach.  You don’t know anything.” 

Ah, there it is.  The phrase I love the most as a Mom:  “You don’t know anything.”  As my children have gotten older I am beginning to hear that phrase a bit more often.  Sometimes I feel as if my children are looking at me in wonder thinking, “She is a complete moron.  How did she ever become a functioning adult with a job and a family.”

“You’re right, Hanna,” I begin.  “I don’t know the girls or the coach, but I definitely know how you feel.  When I was in the eighth grade I tried out for cheerleader and made it all the way to the very end.  There were only 10 girls left and I was so certain I would make the cut—I had practiced so hard.  Well, I didn’t make it and I was crushed."

Hanna is now staring at me through her tears as if my story of cheerleading woe has absolutely nothing to do with her situation or feelings.  “Nice story, Mom. 

“All I’m saying is that not being an eighth grade cheerleader had very little affect on my future success in school—or in life overall—and this little blip in your middle school career will seem like nothing one day.”

“I know, I know, I know,” Hanna says as she begins to dry her eyes.  “You’re right.  Life will go on.”  Then she adds with a laugh, “And even though I didn’t make seventh grade soccer, I could still become prom queen.”  

I realize she is referencing my only real high school claim to fame and although I detect the sarcasm in her voice there is a part of me that thinks the prom queen status just might make me cool in the eyes of my daughter.

“You can do anything you set your mind to, Hanna.  You know what I loved—student government.  Maybe you could be class president.  I always wanted to be class president.” 

“Mom, you’re a geek.”  So much for the cool factor.