Rae and I were heading to McDonalds to pick up a Happy Meal. She has spent a few hours with me at work and we knew we were on our own for supper.
As we drove, my child, who is 5-years old, continued her cheering, “Go, Queens! Go, E----!” (see previous post)
She suddenly stopped and looked at me.
“Da-Da,” she said, because that’s what she calls me. “When I get older and when E---- is playing baksetball (that’s how she says basketball), and I’m a cheerleader, can I be a big cheerleader for E----?”
It was then that I had to explain to her that E----, who is a junior in college, only has a few years left to play basketball. Rae pondered this for a moment as a sad, thoughtful look crossed her face.
“But,” I said. “E---- might be a coach. Maybe you could be a cheerleader for the team she is coaching.”
“No,” Rae replied. “I want her to be a baksetball player and I will be her cheerleader..."