That Sunday was gorgeous — blowing leaves spinning in a warm wind. I had the early-morning carpool shift. I drove my 14-year-old daughter and three chattering friends from Boulder to the Denver Coliseum for their first cheerleading competition.
I even agreed to listen to their radio station, the one with music that always sounds like someone is just yelling at someone else.
Each girl had makeup and hair bows perfectly placed atop slick red and blue spandex outfits. Their white shoes were pristine.
My job was to get them to the competition two hours before they were scheduled to perform. Their coach had announced that there would be “serious consequences” for any athlete who arrived late.
No need to worry: My performance was perfect as they piled out of the car seven minutes early, matching backpacks bumping their knees.
I had tried to explain to a friend about this new cheerleading sport. “You mean they don’t cheer for anyone?” she asked. “Oh, no,” I explained. “That’s a thing of the past. We now go and cheer for them!”
My husband and I have always tried to introduce our kids to lots of sports, in the hopes that one would fit. After ski lessons, tennis lessons, swim lessons, basketball camps, soccer teams, gymnastics and running groups, my daughter fell in love with cheerleading.
My husband and I do our best to be supportive and shield her from our clandestine conversations, where we whisper about her strict coaches and are skeptical about her newfound passion. There are so many rules about attendance, lateness, fees, uniforms. I’m always scared I’ll be reprimanded and sent to the “principal’s office,” even though her cheerleading gym is not affiliated with any school.
That Sunday morning, after dropping the girls off, I had some time to cherish my freedom before being initiated into my first competition. I found the nearest Starbucks, something familiar in this new cheerleading land. And when I paid for my tea next to a man ordering “a half-caf-venti-three- pump-vanilla-soy-extra-hot-no-foam latte,” I smiled at also being exposed to a new language during my excursion.
I happily sat back with The New York Times, indulging in some rare “me” time before making my way back to the Coliseum. I was in unfamiliar territory, so made a few tourist mistakes — U-turns, driving the wrong way on a one-way street. I eventually had to ask for directions.
Finally, I sat in the stands along with the other parents, who agreed that it felt like we’d just crossed the border into a new land.
When it was their turn, the girls danced in unison, did back handsprings, landed in each other’s arms, did the splits, smiled widely, shot their hands in their air — and I was proud. My snobbiness toward the sport was softening, my respect growing for their sweat and rigid discipline displayed over the last few months.
But it wasn’t until that evening, when I logged onto my computer, that I was once again humbled by the teachings of my children. My daughter’s coaches had forwarded a recent NBC broadcast about another cheerleading team at her gym, this one made up of special-needs girls.
I was moved by the clip of these young girls smiling in glory, as they performed in their own matching uniforms and bows. And right then, my skepticism disappeared. This may not have been the sport I imagined for my daughter. But it had been a day that reminded me it is our job as parents to never disable the dreams of our children by confusing our dreams with their own.
My daughter is part of an organization that teaches young girls how to cheer for themselves.
Priscilla Dann-Courtney of Boulder is a clinical psychologist.
