Yesterday, Acquired Daughter asked me to look at the personal statement she is sending to the university she hopes to attend next year. Eldest Daughter, who wrote her own personal statement last year, helped her compose it and the two of them felt I might be able to make some useful suggestions about the writing.
No sooner had I read the third paragraph than I snorted in amazement. I enjoy playing sports, in particular, tennis and rugby.
Now, Acquired Daughter has a good build and, unlike me, perfectly good coordination, and I have no doubt that if she wanted to play rugby and tennis, she could. But the fact is, she doesn't want to play either, so she doesn't.
I pointed an incredulous finger at the offending sentence. "Excuse me, what is this about you enjoying rugby and tennis?"
Acquired Daughter had the goodness to look embarrassed. She told me that Eldest Daughter felt she should 'have a sport'. And really, I could not agree more.
When it came about that Acquired Daughter would be joining us for our year abroad, my hope was that she and Eldest would inspire each other to be more active. Although they are strong, capable girls, they also have strong couch potato tendencies and, given the choice of whether to spend a day hiking in the hills or sitting on the sofa watching Korean dramas on their laptops, there is no contest. I find this so sad. At their age, I was skinny and even more uncoordinated than I am now, and my parents did not push me to be more athletic. When I realized our daughters had inherited my husband's physical grace and coordination, my relief was huge. I should have realized that adolescence was just around the corner: even our youngest daughter now elects to stay inside instead of joining us for a walk. The joys of the internet combined with inertia and sheer teenage rebellion have given us three pommes de terre de divan.
Acquired Daughter won't go near water and she has no head for heights. That takes out hill walking and swimming, two activities that could easily be pursued here. Whenever my husband and I ask if anyone wants to accompany us on a walk, one or the other them will invariably come back with the following: I'll go if they go. 'They' -- needless to say -- never go.
Smart, huh?
"Listen," I told Acquired Daughter, "you can't write on your personal statement that you play tennis and rugby unless you actually do."
"Yeah, I know," Acquired Daughter admitted sheepishly.
Eldest, when cornered, bristled. "But she played it last year!"
"Come on, she played it only a couple of times and you know it."
"Well, we had to put something! She needs a sport!"
"Oh, I agree," I snapped. "You both need a sport."
"You know what I mean!"
"Yes I do, but you still can't lie about something like that."
"Why not?"
"Because a lie like that will come back and bite you on the butt."
"So how are they even going to know?" she sniffed.
"They'll meet her, eventually. And they'll see right away that she isn't a tennis or a rugby player. And then they'll wonder what else on her statement might not be true."
"Hmph."
"What sports did you put on your own personal statement?" I asked with some trepidation.
"Same thing really."
I swallowed a sigh. Way back when our kids were small, we did everything we could to ensure that they would have active lifestyles. We took them swimming every weekend. We played ball and Frisbee in the park with them and we cycled miles together every Sunday; we watched them do ballet and gymnastics and jump rope for hours on end. They weren't exactly athletic, but they were very good. I was so sure they would grow up to be sporty, active teenagers, but how very wrong I was.
"Okay, so we'll take the rugby and tennis out then," Eldest conceded.
"There is an alternative, you know," I said, aiming for a nonchalant tone.
"What?"
"You two could go out and find yourselves a tennis court. Rent a couple of rackets. Play some tennis." Please oh please oh please!
Dead silence.
"That way," I continued, "it wouldn't be a lie. And it would be great for both of you..."
Eldest looked up at me, appalled. I might as well have suggested setting fire to her hair and parading through the town backwards on a donkey.
Well, you can't blame me for trying. I suppose I can't blame them for trying either.
