Now that my daughter is a cheerleader, instead of hearing me say:
Uh, yah, right, cheerleading is a sport. A sport where you cheer for others playing a different, better sport.
Cheerleaders? A bunch of uck-stay up-ay iches-bay.
God, their skirts are way too short, inappropriate for thirteen-year-olds.
I’ll be saying:
Oh, cheerleading is very athletic. As the cheerleaders say: “In football a whole team tries to catch one ball. In cheerleading two girls try to catch a person!”
Cheerleaders aren’t mean. My daughter is friends with some MUCH less popular girls. (The cheerleader version of “I have a black friend.”)
The skirts aren’t too short. They cover more than what most people wear to go swimming! (Yes, because cheerleading takes place on a beach?)
Obviously I have my concerns about cheerleading but am attempting to be supportive. They just have so many
dumbass picky rules, such as: “You must be wearing white no-show socks; any other type or color of sock will cause you to be pulled from cheering at the game or event.”
WTF? Is cheerleading like the miliatary? Is my daugther going to be torn down, only to be built back up, part of a pyramid of pubescent peppiness?
And the drama, oh, the drama has already started. One girl called all the 8th graders to let them know who made the team. Well, “all” meant everyone OTHER than my daughter. Nice.
Plus there’s the inevitable sour grapes of some of those that didn’t make it.
Nevertheless, you can guess where I will be spending my fall… cheering for my cheerleading daughter.