Not being picked

I’ve been thinking about writing this post since yesterday, but I knew to write it I’d have to reveal a part of me I long ago (and very gladly) left behind. And I didn’t want to do that. I argued and argued with myself about this post, but I’m going to go ahead and write it anyway and hope that no one judges me for it.

You see, in school I was always picked last in gym class.

Just writing that out gives me a little twitch. I hated gym class. For starters, I am not athletic or coordinated, and I really don’t care that I’m not athletic or coordinated. I’m also not fast. Tahd can walk as fast as I can run. Handily. Sometimes I try to work on my speed, but for the most part I’m just content to go at my own speed. I’m also not particularly competitive, at least when it comes to organized sports. I think they’re dumb and pointless. Who cares if you can put a ball in a hoop or a net or a hole or a glove? When is that *ever* relevant to everyday life? Finally, I was “smart.” “Smart” doesn’t bode well in gym class.

So to recap, nonathletic, uncoordinated, slow, uncompetitive slow people get picked last in gym class. Go figure.

I distinctly recall my 10th grade gym teacher. Mr. P. As a side note, Mr. P later became a coworker and is a really great person. But as a student, the girls all knew that if you were nice to Mr. P he’d let you out of gym class. So what did my friend and I do? We offered to clean his office. In lieu of gym class. We changed up and everything, but instead of doing the gym class stuff, we cleaned his nasty man office. We always had quite a giggle over the compartment of random screws in his desk. We had our theories as to why he kept so many of them around. As a single man with a bit of a reputation as a ladies’ man, you can imagine where our minds went.

Good times.

Well, the giggling. Not the getting picked last.

I feel like I’m back in gym class. Granted, I don’t have to change up or tap into any of my nonathletic nature, but I do have to endure being picked last. Or not at all. By Gabe.

Over the last few months, I’ve noticed that when we read Gabe books at night, we pick his books and then he picks the order in which we read them. After a few weeks of this reading routine, I realized he picked the order based on which books he liked the best. His favorite books got read first, and they gradually went down the line. It has been fun to see which books he prefers. Sometimes I am right in my prediction and other times I am completely off. I like getting those little glimpses into his mind.

You can imagine the sting, however, when I realized I was repeatedly getting picked last. When asked who he wants to take him to bed, he always picks Daddy. If we’re all up there together, Daddy reads first and Mommy second. Last night, my inlaws were visiting and Gabe assigned us each a book to read. Then he told us who would be reading. First, it was Grandma. Second, Daddy. Third, Grandpa.

Then me.

On his birthday, even. I sort of feel an extra special bond to him on his birthday. I remember all I went through – willingly – to bring him into the world, and I remember all the feelings – the complete and utter love – I felt for him the moment Dr. Heitman put him on my chest.

He clearly doesn’t remember.

I know all children go through stages where they prefer different parents. I know I’m the “regular” parent because I’m around all the time. I know I’m a girl who doesn’t like wrestling and snot and doesn’t have a clue when it comes to combines or trains. But, damnit! It hurts.

Tahd spent quite a while last night trying to convince me that I wasn’t his least favorite. But it was no use. I can say it because it is an observable fact. Why he feels that way or how I react to it are all subjective, but there is no denying the fact that nine times out of ten he doesn’t like to pick me. Maybe later, but not now.

I’m not okay with it but I’m not not okay with it. I just hope it will eventually pass.