And I told him about a little girl who wanted to be a princess

I grew up in Portland, Oregon, where a yearly event occurs called the Portland Rose Festival. It's a week filled with parades, amusement park rides, Navy ships, and I can't remember what else--keep in mind, I left Portland when I was 17 and haven't lived there since. One part of this Festival is the selection of a court of princesses, high school girls from around the city, who wear crowns and beautiful gowns and ride on floats and wave a lot. Along with this high school court is a Junior Rose Festival Court, made up of little girls ages seven to ten, who essentially do the same thing as the "big girls."

When I was seven, more than anything, I wanted to be one of those princesses. And I really thought I would be. I couldn't imagine that I wouldn't be selected; the thought never even crossed my mind. Naive? Absolutely. They select only eight little girls from the entire city! The night of the competition, along with dozens of other little girls, I put on my beautiful new dress and shoes. My mom curled my hair in ringlets, and with my parents by my side, I was off to a night that most certainly would end with a crown on my head and the title "Princess Terrianne."

I was wrong.

I didn't win. I got first runner-up, which my parents tried to convince me was "excellent," but of course that is a bunch of crap because at the end of it all, "first runner-up" means absolutely nothing.

I was not a princess.

And my little heart broke.

That was years ago, but I still remember the pain of that night. I remember taking my place as first runner-up, standing stoically beside the newly crowned Junior Rose Princesses, as the audience clapped and cheered. I remember holding it together just long enough to get into the car, then bursting into uncontrollable, breathtaking sobbing all the way home and long into the evening until I finally fell asleep from pure exhaustion. I remember taking off that dress, vowing never to wear it ever again (and I never did) and feeling so horribly, horribly sad.

And I have hated competition ever since.

Now before everyone yells at me all at once, let me say that I understand at least cognitively (if not emotionally) the value of healthy competition. I know about effort and sportsmanship and teamwork and losing with dignity. I get it. I don't enjoy it. But I get it.

Fast forward three decades from that fateful night when I was seven, and I'm the mom to five beautiful children. My only daughter was 14, and her passion was cheer. She had an extensive dance background just like me, but more than anything, she wanted to be a cheerleader. As tryouts for varsity cheer approached, she worked harder than I'd ever seen her work for anything. She spent hours preparing. The day of tryouts, I was so nervous I could barely breathe. My mom and I sat in a little Mexican restaurant across the street from the high school because it felt better to be close to her while she was trying out.

The following day, I stood by her side as she made the phone call to the recorded message that listed the names of the new varsity cheerleaders. She looked at me and whispered quietly, "I didn't make it." I didn't believe her. We all think our kids are perfect, but in this case, with my dance background, I knew this wasn't just my natural mom bias. I knew how good she was, and it made no sense that she wouldn't be selected. I made her call again, so I could listen just to be sure. But sure enough, her name was not on the list.

She cried just a little and was sad for about a day. We left the guys and went out for steak dinner, just the two of us. Then in true Shulamith form, she bounced right back with that incredible optimism that I can only dream about. As a very young boy listening to a talk by former church President Gordon B. Hinckley, Isaiah once remarked, "The only two people as optimistic as President Hinckley are Sponge Bob and Shulamith."Truth! She moved forward with grace and humility, telling all her friends she didn't make the cheer squad.

Monday morning, I received a call from the cheer coach: "Hello, is this Shulamith Webster's mom?" Uh huh. "Another girl came in to ask about her scores, which led us to review all the score cards. It turns out there was a mathematical error on your daughter's card, and she actually made the squad. I'm going to call her out of class right now to inform her, but I wanted you to hear it first from me."

Well great. A mother is only ever as happy as her saddest child. All the hurt in my heart for my daughter's disappointment could have been avoided if somebody had done his math correctly. Or even better, if every girl who wanted to, could be on the cheer squad. Yes, yes, I know; that is highly impractical. Ridiculous. Yes of course, how can I even say such a thing? But dang, I just think kids should get to do the things they want to do.

Fast forward eight years, and Luke has finished his undergrad degree and is just back from his mission. His goal? A PhD in psychology. His second goal? Not to pay for it. So he only applied to six schools, all of which were fully funded programs and hence, extremely competitive. As in only 2-3% of applicants are admitted. No worries, I thought. He's incredible. But one at a time, rejection letters arrived. Why hadn't it occurred to me to suggest he apply to at least one non-funded PhD program as a backup or even a masters program, both of which would be far less competitive?

When the final letter arrived from Indiana University, I was sure it would also be a rejection. It was a thin, regular business envelope, nothing to suggest extra paperwork, etc. that might indicate admission. I texted Luke at work to tell him the letter arrived. But did he rush home? Nope. He drove through Taco Bell first. Then he came home and sat at the dining room table and ate Taco Bell, as that flippin' letter sat unopened on the kitchen counter. I know motherhood is not for wimps, but I was never warned that it involved this kind of torture.

Finally, he decided to open the letter, and of course, the rest is history. He was accepted to Indiana U. and even selected as the one fellowship student from the incoming class, and five years later, became Dr. Luke Erichsen.

Fast forward three years, and my very last baby is a junior in high school. His passion: choir. He has sung in choir all three years, but for his upcoming senior year, he decided to audition for Vocal Ensemble, the select performing group. Auditions involved singing a solo in front of the director and another music teacher, and Seth was so nervous. Me? I do a little better now than I did in my earlier days of parenting, but I still get plenty nervous. Then we had to wait two weeks to find out if he made it, until last night when the senior VE members came around with personal letters to each student who auditioned. Seth made it (whew!), but two of his best friends didn't, and after all this waiting, I felt so sad for them. They just want to sing and dance in this group and make people happy, and I think they should be able to. Once again, don't yell at me.

While Seth and I waited anxiously for the letter to arrive, my memories were close beside us. I told Seth about how competition is hard for me, especially when my kids are involved. I told him about Shulamith's cheer tryouts and about Luke opening his grad school acceptance letter.

And I told him about a little girl who wanted to be a princess.