Today was the second day of school, Mavis’ second game of the season, and the mercury was the highest it’s been yet, for a game night.
There was a bit of time between her last class and the time the game started, which we spent at the big W, (Wal Mart), searching for what she wanted to wear for tomorrow night’s 90’s theme dance. We got home with just a few minutes to hydrate and eat. Two baby bell cheeses and the finest honey crisp apple were on tap.
Last week, I noticed that Mavis’ uniform top, which has basically been untouched since basketball was over last year, was about a quarter-inch shorter this year. Not a huge deal, you really only notice if she puts her hands all the way above her head. I thought hmmm. I bet I could just get one of those dance leotards, in black, and she could wear it underneath, and then she wouldn’t even have to worry about it!
After the cheese and apple fiesta, she got dressed and came to me.
“Mom, I’m not really thrilled about this thing, I’m not wearing it again, just to let you know. 😬”
I had visions of bathroom breaks going terribly awry, and told her she didn’t have to wear it, just take it off.
“Mom, I’m not taking all of this stuff BACK off. I’m just not wearing it again.”
Tony and I got to the game, about 20 minutes in. She was flushed, and a tad angry looking. As we sat, and watched, and got the ever lovely stink eye, I was sweating just being a spectator. I kept thinking about the yard of extra black spandex I put her in. My mind kept going to the Ramona Quimby story when she wore her new pajamas under her clothes, to school, thinking that it would be so cozy and amazing, when she spent her day all sweaty, self-conscious, and uncomfortable. Except, in the story, Ramona picked that. In this situation, I was Beverly Cleary. I wrote this hot and sweaty miserable-ness into my daughter’s story.
At half time I walked a cold drink down to her, and asked her to come to the bathroom with me. I so wanted to free her from the cumbersome-great-idea-in-theory new “pajamas”. She was not having any of it. (She did take the cold drink though, probably more about survival than anything). She refused to go to the bathroom with me, and I couldn’t very well yell out, “Please, come with me, I will help you out of that hot get-up!!”
So, the night went on. Her baby bells were wearing off, she was hot, and she was now hangry. Some very lovely gentleman behind us made mention of the angry-looking one. I wanted to say, “Look, buddy, much to her so clearly effervescent chagrin, she’s wearing spandex under spandex, under spandex, she’s tired, she’s hungry, and frankly, she’s doing a helluva job!” But I refrained, and so, I write….