The other night at dinner, sucking on an apple slice, Bobbie casually tapped into my biggest insecurities, laid bare my primal squishy center self, who is approx 10-13 years old and chubby and trying to be cool and play sports while also being extremely bad at playing sports.
Bobbie (LITERALLY COMPLETELY UNPROMPTED AND OUT OF NOWHERE): Mama, you’re not good at basketball.
(Morrison starts silently shaking with laughter, knowing that he is, in fact, very good at basketball, and even Joe who is more like me is sort of good at basketball, and Bobbie will of course be very good at basketball, if not all sports.)
Me (LITERALLY OFFENDED AND HURT BY A TWO YEAR OLD): …Why would you think that?
Joe: (SO SWEET AND EMPATHETIC AND JUST TRYING TO HELP): …maybe it’s because you don’t run that fast!
The squishy little girl inside me turned red, then went inside to write a story. Some 30 years later, it’s these stories that feed her family. She is not good at basketball, and she never will be, and thank God she isn’t.
