I love my daughter.
No, I seriously do LOVE my daughter. Never mind the 14-year-old hormones. When it comes right down to it, she is my most vocal fan. My personal cheerleader, if you will.
At the end of last school year -- in fact, closing in on exactly a year ago -- I described the first meeting of the cheer moms and girls. The one where I felt the return of my geeky childhood persona.
And, while I hate to do this, that post really is required reading to understand the rest of this story, so go. Please? I'll wait.
*cue "Final Jeopardy" theme music*
Ok, we all on the same page now? Sally Smith. Got it? Good. Fast-forward to the here and now.
A season of dealing with the moms, some of whom are very very nice, and others who really truly are my junior high nightmare brought back from the dead.
Anyway, the Roo-girl and I have discussed the Sally Smith syndrome and my inner 8-year-old geek endlessly, but most recently during this cryfest Friday night when I basically told her that her behavior gave me a case of the Sally Smiths all over again.
She was HORRIFIED and cried all the harder, wailing in my ear that it breaks her heart to hear me talk about that.
Two days later, she was looking through my high school yearbooks and stopped dead in her tracks.
"THAT???" she howled. "THAT is Sally Smith??????"
"She's HIDEOUS!!!!!! How can you say she's pretty? She's not pretty!!!!!"
Ok, well, maybe it wasn't her best photo, and maybe standards of drop-dead gorgeous have changed in the past ... uh ... many many years.
But to say that Roo was outraged is putting it mildly.
A couple hours later, as I was playing a nasty game of Scrabble online, my cell phone rang.
"Mom? You are MUCH prettier than Sally Smith. MUCH."
I love my kid.