I'm competitive.
I can't help it. It runs in the family. We like to win. We like to be the best. It doesn't matter if we're playing cards, doing flips, walking into stores, or holding yoga poses, there has to be a winner.
I have another confession to make...
I'm an annoying cheer'er when it comes to rootin' for my family.
When Steven races, I'm the wife who's yelling for him to 'pick it up' and 'push harder'. I know he really appreciates it. You know, me standing on the sidelines watching him run his heart out, yelling. It's motivational for him. At least I tell myself that. He probably wishes I would shut my pie-hole.
Back in the old football days before Steven had to report to summer training camps, we would hit the track and I would time him. I wasn't nice. I think the words 'pansies' and 'softy' might have come out of my mouth when I thought he could do better.
I'm not sure what possesses me to talk to my husband in that manner other than I know he's had much worse in high school wrestling coaches and much, much worse in his college football coaches. After all, I wasn't dropping F-bombs. Just a few minor words that I know really get to him...like pansy.
I've never really seen this as a problem (other than embarrassing myself at sporting events), until now. Tomorrow Little Man starts his first real organized sport. Basketball. I'm not real sure how this is going to go. I have concerns about containing myself and my mouth. Hopefully, I won't be as hard on Little Man as I am on his daddy.
Honestly, I don't know what I'm stressing about. I won't need to yell insulting remarks at my child because he will be the best. As far as I'm concerned he's going to smoke folks. He's no pansy. He's stinkin' awesome. Just look at this kid and his guns...
He's one tough cookie. He must get it from his mother!
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