My husband and I have a new woman in our lives. We call her “The Cheerleading Lady”. The V.P. of Cheer at the local football and cheerleading league for grade school and middle school-aged children. She is part of the fabric of our existence now because our eight-year-old daughter suddenly decided that she wanted to be a cheerleader. This may be due to the influence of the babysitters that we have employed who were all members of the pom-pom squad at the local high school as well as that of the other friends her age who have cheered in past seasons. Whatever the reason, we have often told her that we would support her efforts to be a part of a team or a musical ensemble, as long as she really wants to do it and does her best. We honestly thought she would try soccer, ice-skating, softball or choir. Cheerleading it is.
If you know me, you probably know that I would personally rather sing the National Anthem at a sporting event and then head for home before I would want to stand on the sidelines and shout “Wash ‘em in the river, hang ‘em on a line, our team can beat your team any old time”. But when my little girl came up to me one day in June and said “Please, can I be a cheerleader, Mommy, puh-LEASE”, I snapped into research mode and told her I would check it out.
It is worth noting that, of all the parents I have met during my sojourn into suburbia, none of them has ever offered up a glowing recommendation of youth team activities. Frequently, I hear “Don’t do soccer, it has TWO seasons!”, “Hockey has way TOO much equipment.”, or “Do NOT let your kid try out for a traveling team!”. The cheerleading families warned me about “LOTS of practice and conditioning because cheerleading is a SPORT.” It appears that even young cheerleaders have a chip on their shoulders about the way that they are portrayed as mean girls in books and movies. Ergo, they jog up and down the sledding hill in the park even though it is 85 degrees Fahrenheit outside. My sweetie-pie is eager to join them and to obtain their color-coordinated hair bows.
Research mode suffered an immediate setback due to a thunderstorm that knocked out the power on my side of the street. For hours, long enough to send me across the avenue with pajama-ed kids and sleeping bags, I could not get online to view the cheerleading information. The next day, back in my own air-conditioned domicile, I visit the cheer website only to find that the day before was the last day one could register on line and without paying a late fee. I find a phone number, I plead my case, “Please let my daughter be on the squad without the late fee.” All the while, my munchkin is bouncing around and asking “Am I in? Did you do it? Can I be a cheerleader??? Puh-LEASE, Mommy!” I am transferred via email to the treasurer, I arrange a payment plan, I fill out forms, codes of conduct, I make an appointment for a sports physical, and I am ready to bring my daughter to the last uniform fitting before the season begins.
Tragically, the uniform fitting is cancelled due to a death of the sister of someone high up in the cheer chain of command. I assure my girl that she will get a uniform and she should stop worrying. As I am not about to badger people who are grieving, I wait to hear about a new fitting date. It is announced a few weeks later but falls during the week of our family vacation. I send a message to my daughter’s coach, asking for permission to come some other time. The coach passes on my request and thus, I am about to have my first run-in with The Cheerleading Lady.
It is a beautiful, hot sunny day, and I am with my family in a cabin in the woods, by a stunning sand dune beach on Lake Michigan. A pause to check my cell phone reveals a voice mail message. A nasal, pointed voice is saying, “HELLO, Mrs. Baumann, this is The CHEERLEADING Lady, and, I am DENYING your request to have YOUR daughter fitted at a different time and if YOU don’t FIGURE out a WAY to get her THERE, you child will NOT be allowed to PARTICIPATE in the PROGRAM. Sorry, it is just our POLICY”. The force with which she leaves this message is amazing, as if our inability to attend personally offends her. I do not even know how to return such a call.
At the same time, my husband tells me that “some woman” has left a message about the cheerleading uniform on our home answering machine. He, too, is surprised by the vitriolic tone. For a split second, I am afraid of The Cheerleading Lady, and I see myself jumping into the car with my daughter and driving the three hours home for the fitting, turning around and driving back to my vacation. That is crazy, isn’t it? It really cannot be done.
Fortunately for The Cheerleading Lady, my phone battery is running low and I have to go out to my car to charge it up. I also get more bars of signal if I drive down the road a bit. Off I go, wondering what words to offer up to the head of Cheer that will allow my daughter to PARTICIPATE in the PROGRAM. Since The Cheerleading Lady may be the one who recently lost a sister, I decide to cut her some slack. I call upon all the “I sing for a not-for-profit-performing-arts-company – and- hey- I work-for-a-CHURCH-charm” that I can muster and I grovel, “I’m so sorry, we are out of town, is there any way, I know you are a volunteer, how can I make this happen, I understand you have a lot of girls to deal with, please keep her in the program….”
The Cheerleading Lady changes her mind about kicking my child out and decides that she can have a fitting when we return home. Problem solved.
Until the next day, as we are strolling through the tourist town looking for espresso and at over-priced summer clothes, we check our phones and my husband groans, “There’s another message from The Cheerleading Lady.” “HELLO, Mrs. Baumann, this is The CHEERLEADING Lady, and, I have been told that you have NOT paid the entire fee yet and if YOU don’t FIGURE out a WAY to PAY the balance due, you child will NOT be allowed to PARTICIPATE in the PROGRAM. Sorry, it is just our POLICY”.
Aghast, and wondering why every message from her has to end with her expellling my kid from cheerleading, I take a deep breath, pray for patience, and return the call, explaining that I have contacted the Treasurer of the organization and he agreed to my proposed payment plan.
The Cheerleading Lady changes her mind about kicking my child out and decides that I can make my payments as planned. Problem solved.
Until the next day, about to walk through the woods to the arts and crafts porch to make shrinky dinks, I make the mistake of checking my messages. “HELLO, Mrs. Baumann, this is The CHEERLEADING Lady, and, I have TALKED to the TREASURER and HE says YOU have NOT made the payments yet and if YOU don’t FIGURE out a WAY to PAY the balance due, by AUGUST 1, you child will NOT be allowed to PARTICIPATE in the PROGRAM. Sorry, it is just our POLICY, really, it’s THE POLICY.”
For a moment, I contemplate the consequences of telling The Cheerleading Lady where I think she should stick the POLICY. As my children create shrinky dink designs with their daddy (who turns out to be very good at making trinkets by cooking plastic), my future pep rally leader looks up and says “Cheerleading is going to be GREAT, isn’t it mom?”
My husband wonders aloud about the exclusive attitude of The Cheerleading Lady, she’s giving cheerleaders a bad name. Time for another ride in the car so I can call and explain to her that the point of the payment plan, is that I make payments. I also email the treasurer. Once again, The Cheerleading Lady changes her mind about kicking my child out and decides that I can continue to make payments, at great inconvenience to the organization. Problem solved.
Back home and in the midst of washing the sand and bug spray out of our belongings, cheerleading practice finally begins. The Cheerleading Lady is actually rather nice to me in person. She is blonde, petite, and athletic. I am certain that if there were a middle-aged men’s football league, she would be on their cheer squad. In a park field filled with dozens of girls gathering with their squads and coaches, her voice cuts through it all. We shake hands and say our “Nice to meet yous” and she thanks me for my “patience and understanding” of the situation. The happiest eight-year-old in town goes skipping across the grass towards a group of her cart-wheeling pals.
After practice and trying on a uniform, my exhausted but beaming babe tells me about how much running she did. “I LOVED it! Thanks Mom. It would really mean a lot to me if you come to Sunday games and watch me. You know, cheerleading is a SPORT.” Thank goodness for The Cheerleading Lady.
