Is there a Razzie (Golden Raspberry Award) equivalent to the Mother of The Year Award? If so, I’m your girl! Last Wednesday my husband and I went to my son Nate’s first sophomore Football game at Lone Peak High School in American Fork. When we got there, the other team hadn’t scheduled Herriman High School in their calendar and therefore wasn’t planning on a game. However, an hour later, Lone Peak had gathered a sophomore team to scrimmage against us.
Bry and I sat on the top of the bleachers, next to a Herriman football player out with a broken foot. He was asked to man the camera used to take footage of games and then as a tool to examine moves, procedures, etc. of the team and or individual players. I should have put the two together—me at a game rooting for my son plus a recording.
I did think to move down the bleachers when the camera was brought up to the kid, but then the kid told us that the coaches always mute the video when they show it to the team.
Tonight, Bry and I went to pick Nate up from Football practice. He got into the car smiling. I thought he was proud of how he performed during practice. He was. He was also smiling because of what happened during another part of practice.
The team sat, ready to view the recording of their scrimmage game. The video played. In the background, some woman is yelling and screaming for her kid. No one could see her, but everyone could certainly hear her.
One of the players turned around and smiled at Nate. Then another one did. Then Nate heard what the lunatic Mom was saying, ”Get ‘em, Nate! Get ‘em, Nate! Get ‘em, Nate!”
It was me!!! I’m the weirdo out of control Mom on the video! I asked Nate if anyone knew it was me.
“Not at first, but then Jaron and Wyatt told everyone it was you.”
Brian started laughing. Nate was still smiling. I was horrified. Thoughts of every possible thing I could have said ran in a loop through my mind. On any given day, subjects include how beautiful and talented my Natey is as well as his equally beautiful and talented older sister, Lorrin. I’m sure my crazy- probably has canine autism (would that be dog-augtism?)-dog Zoey came up.
I have no idea how to play football. I don’t know what the positions are called and mix up what their purpose is (when Nate played Flag Football I kept screaming for him to grab that other kid’s sash). I can picture a ninety minute long commentary between my husband and me about who’s doing what and why for the billionth time. But what if it was worse I mean a lot worse?
I’ve been known to swear (often, daily, and predictably—hey, we’ve all got hobbies, right?) and tell dirty jokes (a practiced craft of mine). I’m not a big fan of the big orange monster residing presently in the White House. I can see myself talking politics. How much did I talk about my frustration with the book I’m writing?
What if I said something really, really horrible? What if I said something about someone everyone knew? I don’t think I did because I’m very proud of those football players (they work so hard!) that, and I can’t tell anyone apart and don’t call them by name or number. But what if?
I asked Nate what I said. He said he didn’t know. I’m sure he’s lying, and I appreciate that. I heard Bry ask him what I said, while I was going upstairs. Again, Nate said he didn’t know. The sweet kid is covering for his dim-witted freak show of a Mom—this is why I root for him! This is why I root for each of my kids—they seem to accept me. If they were normal teenagers they’d roll their eyes and pretend not to know me, but then maybe I’m getting a head of myself. Maybe the eye roll and my implied non-existence is coming (especially after tonight’s display)?
I feel so bad about the whole thing! When I apologized to him for the nineteenth time Nate told me it was fine, that he thought it was funny, then he added,
“I would like it to never happen again, though.” Me, too, buddy! Me, too!
For the rest of practice teammates walked up to Nate and ask, “Hey, Nate, did you get ‘em? Did ya get ‘em, Nate?”
When I started this blog, I didn’t set out to write about my constant burs and blisters. I didn’t set out to tell how often I make a fool out of myself, but I seem to do only that. So if there’s a Razzie award out there, I’d like to thank all the normal people out there for making me stand out among them! I accept that I’m your cautionary tale and I guess I’ll see you at the next game!