Orange and Grey

It's orange Against grey. The gym resounds with the thump, thump, thump of the rubber ball. Refs blow whistles, stopping and redirecting the team. Two points, missed baskets, girls guarding opposing team. It's just another Sunday afternoon for fifth grade little ladies basketball. I am sure all the other parents are thrilled when their girl hits the basket and the small crowd roars! Yay!! One team will win and the other will lose. But I don't get nearly as excited about the two pointers. I Mean, they are great. But mostly, for the last hour, my heart swells just watching my fifth grader on the floor. I love how the coaches respect her, encourage her and let her play. I hear the new friends call her name out. She's the third tallest on the team, slender, spry and fairly quick. I give her a thumbs up whenever I catch her eye. But I swallow the lump in my throat with every tennis shoe that hits the floor. One, two, three- guarding her opponent as if her very life depended On this one minute in time. Her shirt is too long, her bangs almost cover her eyes. She is guarded and not very interactive. But she is playing the game, and she's doing a great job at it, too. Of course she has played on several elementary school teams, so it's not really new to her. She has the rules down and she goes for a shot, shaking her head to get the too-long bangs out of her vision. She misses the shot, but sidesteps to guard the opposition, just like a pro. She takes the ball to the other end of the court, effortlessly bouncing the prized ball with every beat of my heart. She shoots the golden egg. It's in!!! I yell, fighting the urge to stand on the tallest bleacher, "YAY!!" I scream her name. I am so proud. I really couldn't care about this game. Or any other. What fuels my pride is seeing her determined to play on a team, at a new school where she has just begun learning names of other kids. She walks into the gym, tenuous when she can't remember what her coach looked like from practice this week. She spotted someone she recognized, although she can't remember her name, and walks toward her team. She takes her place, throws some practice balls: game on! Her spunk and determination have carried her this far. The trauma of her past has stopped at the doorway, she has overcome her damaged brain from fetal alcohol syndrome, at least in this way, at this time. She has become an important part of a whole. She is a winner. Yeah, it's not the points she scores. It's not just the hour we spend together on days like this. She is an overcomer, a treasure in the rough that is easy to forget on the "dark" and hard days . That's why I want to shout from the bleachers, yep, that's my girl. That cute blonde that looks just like every other girl on her team. Because, I know her struggle. I know her heart. I know that smile is as genuine as it gets. She succeeds above all others because it was determined at her conception that no matter what bad she inherited, her future can look wonderful. Yes, today is her future and she makes me extremely proud to call her my girl. My determined, obsessive/compulsive, hyper vigilant daughter. The one who was delivered to us a day after my birthday one warm summer day. Sprite like in appearance, a worried ticking timebomb of emotional issues that could swallow her whole. A mere baby at 17 months, in a car seat that didn't fit her frame. A whole lot of pain wrapped around her from her family of origin that NO ONE should ever have to deal with. Today I see hope. It's a long journey to go. But I am so very proud of just how far she has already come! Way to go, girl!! That's my girl!